The Translation of Father Torturo

by Connell, Brendan

  He flicked away his cigarette butt and watched it arch up, trail through the air and expire in a damp gutter. He licked his lips. A whisper met his ears that made his breath stop.

  He wheeled around.

  “Baldo.”

  “Oh,” Baldo said with some relief. “It’s only you.”

  “Do you love me? You don’t act like you love me any more.”

  “I do babbo, but—”

  The blade ran easily through the synthetic material of his jacket, pierced his belly and tickled the inside of his spine. It was rapidly withdrawn, and then continued its eager, blood spilling explorations, rising and falling again and again into the young man, pricking out his life. At first Baldo struggled feebly and let out a few low but horrific screams. Then, fallen to the wet pavement, he consigned himself to the rest of death and let the blade rape away his life . . . The rustle of a robe, the rapid, decided footsteps withdrew, leaving the body twisted in the centre of the street, the rain admixing its fluid with fierce history.

  Chapter Six

  After doing fifty knee bends, twenty-five on each leg, hams lowered until they pressed firmly just above the heel, Father Torturo proceeded to do a set of one-hundred push-ups, an amount he reiterated three times daily. His thick, muscular brown body jack-knifed up and down on the floor, his chin and pectorals just barely gracing the ground before being thrust upward once more. An oily sweat added shine to his skin. An equal number of sit-ups followed, and he then poised himself in a shoulder stand for a quarter of an hour before advancing to a neck stand, a position he maintained unflinching for a full ten minutes. Arising, he bathed his hands and face in a basin of water, wiped his body with a moist towel, rubbed it down with Carapelli olive oil, and then proceeded to invest himself with cassock, his bearing maintaining an almost religious solemnity.

  His room was furnished simply: A single, spring bed with a wooden cross nailed over it; a wooden table, which acted as desk; a small dresser whereon sat a rosary and an oval mirror the size of his hand; and a book shelf, filled with a number of volumes, many of them with their spines torn off.

  Father Torturo looked at himself in the mirror, combed his hair with a hard rubber comb and, taking up the rosary which sat on the dresser, left the room.

  ***

  Bishop Vivan sat at his desk, silently absorbed in a book. Every now and again he would reach down into the slightly open drawer and remove a brown chip of kinder-surprise, letting it drift into the open pink of his mouth, to melt upon the soft surface of his tongue. A smile crossed his lips every time he read some particularly delightful passage in his literature, and an occasional agitated frown, when the drama became awful.

  There was a knock at the large oaken door.

  “Come in,” the bishop said with a sigh, placing a floral patterned bookmark between the leaves of his volume.

  Father Torturo entered. His face was grave and his piercing eyes quickly scanned the room and took in the bishop opposite, a last piece of chocolate flitting between his lips.

  “You requested my presence Your Eminency,” Torturo said thickly.

  “Yes, I did,” Vivan replied, laying down the book on the desk. “First of all, I would like to commend you on your vow of silence. Though it was only for a short while, it was a noble thing, and, in my opinion, marks you out among your fellows.” He cleared his throat and licked his lips. “But, I must say that I was disappointed at your lack of courtesy the other day when Cardinal Zuccarelli and myself passed you on the Prato della Valle. He was a bit upset. I defended you of course. – But, in all truth, a slight lack of breeding was displayed on your part. I need not point out that being in the Cardinal’s good graces can do you no harm, but could do you all the good in the world.”

  “I thank Your Eminency for your interest,” Torturo said solemnly. And then, without in the least changing his expression: “You yourself are a perfect model of manners and, in the future, I would without doubt be wise to imitate you.”

  “Well then, enough said,” the bishop replied with a magnificent flourish of his hand. “I don’t like to be a prig you know; – but I figured a little advice was in order – But please, sit down. I have been dying for a sympathetic man to talk to. You look flushed Torturo. Let me order us some tea. The refreshment will do you wonders.”

  The father seated himself on an uncushioned wooden chair, the most uncomfortable in the room, crossed one leg over the next and glared down, almost contemptuously at the bishop’s small, effeminate form. Vivan looked up with his watery-blue, innocent boy’s gaze.

  “Your eyes are quite red,” he said, in a hushed voice.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I did not sleep much last night.”

  “Perusing some quaint, curious tome no doubt,” the bishop giggled. He picked up the telephone, rang the outer office and ordered tea. “I myself,” he continued. “I myself have been reading this marvellous little book.” He lay his hand reverently on the cover. “There is a whole series, of literally hundreds of volumes, all dealing with these two delightful young men, Frank and Joe Hardy – brothers. They are honest, clean, god-fearing American boys of the sweetest water. The book we have before us, titled Slip, Slide and Slapshot, which, mind you, I am reading for the third time over, has a most fabulous plot. There is a girl named Jamie, a most atrocious little heretical wench, full of the folly of pride: Pride in being the star figure skater. – Naturally you can imagine this young woman, entrapped in the sin of narcissism and unjustly outraged at Joe because he accidentally chucks a shot right into her precious little ankle! So, imagine, she tries to get Joe excommunicated from the team! Thank God Frank and Chet – Chet is a magnificent young man (I imagine him an out-and-out blonde) – intercede. Then, inspired by the very Devil himself, Jamie accuses Joe of stealing her fuzzy white seal. – Oh, but I see I’m saying too much! Of course you want to read the book yourself and make your own discoveries. You will be enchanted. I will lend it to you when I am done. It might not be in Latin, but it none the less abounds in merit. Indeed,” he concluded seriously, as if he was stating the most profound truth, “when it comes to simple God-honest purity of heart, we have much to learn from these Americans.”

  “Yes,” Father Torturo said ironically, “they have many of the qualities of children.”

  Vivan smiled, obviously quite pleased with the conversation.

  There was a soft tapping on the door.

  “Ah, here is Pepito with the tea.”

  A young, handsome acolyte walked in carrying a tray on which sat tea for two and a plate of biscuits and crackers. Father Torturo scanned him from tip to toe: the rich black hair, corral lips, the slim, fit figure apparent even beneath ecclesiastic garments.

  “You can set it down here, on my desk Pepito,” the bishop smiled.

  “Yes, Your Eminency,” the young man said quietly, slightly bowing, his eyes shining with an inward fire. He set the tray down gently, poured the tea and, with noiseless gait, departed.

  “A beautiful, Catholic example of Christianity,” the bishop sighed, dropping two lumps of sugar into his cup.

  “A pleasant young man,” Torturo murmured into his own unsweetened beverage.

  “My dear priest,” said Vivan presently. “Do you like fine things?”

  “Fine things? I do not approve of jewellery or ostentatious show of wealth if that is what you are referring to.”

  “No silly! I mean food.”

  “Well, as you know, I enjoy a glass of good wine, or a slice of quality cheese as much as the next man. But I am not one to much indulge my appetite.”

  “Oh! Wine; cheese! Well – I have something for you anyhow!”

  The bishop fished around in the drawer of his desk.

  “Here, for the crackers,” he said, producing a jar of caviar. “This one is quite splendid. I purchased it just this morning. Delicious Russian salmon roe!”

  Thirty seconds later:

  “And here: A pâté; a pâté de foie gras from France! With
plenty of truffles I assure you.”

  “Bishop Vivan,” Torturo said with mock-archness, “are you by any chance a gourmand?”

  “Oh, Torturo! But you know I like fine things to taste! – Do you think we have enough crackers, or should I call Pepito for some more?”

  There was a low knock on the door.

  “What can it be now,” the bishop pouted. “Are my duties never done? Cannot I enjoy a peaceful cup of tea with one of my brethren? Come in,” he called out, leaning back in his chair with the air of a Caesar.

  An old woman of minute stature, crowned with a net of frosty white hair crept into the room. Her glazed eyes sought out Vivan.

  “Mother!” he shouted, rising from his seat, cheeks flushed like coddling apples.

  The woman muttered some words of apology for her intrusion, advanced to the bishop and, as he bent over and clasped her, planted a kiss on each glossy cheek.

  “What a nice boy he is,” she said, turning to Father Torturo, who had also risen and stood like a pillar several feet from the others, his cup still in his hand.

  “The nicest,” he said, with complete composure, softening his features with a staid and understanding smile.

  The mother and son began to talk on subjects near and dear to themselves. Torturo swallowed his tea and, after giving a few well turned compliments to Vivan’s mother, took his leave.

  “What a wonderful speaking voice your friend has,” Signora Vivan remarked to her son when Torturo had left.

  “Yes, I noticed it myself for the first time today. It is rather odd, I have known the man for a great while, but not until today did I realise what a luxurious voice he has. It is so handsome! I put it down to a blessing received from a vow a silence he recently took.”

  “He is a holy man,” Signora Vivan smiled. “This morning, on my way to the market I saw him preaching to the fishes.”

  “Oh, mother!” Vivan laughed, kissing her on the forehead. “You do get such outlandish ideas!”

  “That may be – but I am certain it was him I saw standing on the bank of the Bachiglione River and preaching to the fishes. He must have been preaching on Matthew, because he said something about the land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim. Your friend has quite a distinctive appearance, and as you yourself admitted, his speaking voice is something special; – He is a nice friend for you to have Sebastianino – He is like a regular saint.”

  Chapter Seven

  The man secured the button of his pants, looked down at the filthy receptacle, as unpleasant as any in Italy, ground level porcelain, muddied by the refuse of man, and ejected himself from the closet, onto the open courtyard. His hairline was much too low down on his forehead, and his countenance, if seen at close proximity, bore the unhealthy lustre of face paint. He walked across, through the door opposite and the kitchen area beyond, which was stacked high with sacks of flour and sugar. His half finished cappuccino was still sitting on the table of the mirror lined shop. He picked it up and drained it in a swallow, smacking his lips at the bitter-sweet flavour.

  “How much?” he asked, approaching the counter.

  “One euro, fifty.”

  He handed the shop attendant a five euro bill and received the change.

  “Grazie.”

  “Grazie a lei.”

  He observed the chocolates ranged in the glass showcase below and, as he moved towards the exit, lingered at the freezer near the door, noting the sorbet stuffed lemons and oranges within, as well as the bright ice-cream, sculptured into red roses and small yellow ducklings.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” the shop attendant called.

  “No,” the man answered and pushed open the door onto the street. He adjusted his tie, which strangled as if it had been a snake around his neck, took out a pack of Parisiennes and, lighting one, made his way along the via San Vittore to the via Carducci, which he crossed at a trot, avoiding a scooter which bore down on him with aggressive insistence. With long, virile strides he passed between the twin towers of the Museum of Torture, the perfume of cheap tobacco wafting around him, and proceeded into the courtyard, the walls of which were embedded with plaques and bits of sculptured marble dating back to Roman decadence. Flicking away the half consumed cigarette, he hastened into the left-hand door of the Church of St. Ambrose.

  Half darkness; the indistinct smell of religion; cool as a tomb. He chuckled to himself and listened to his own footsteps click along the tiled floor of the church.

  ***

  The city of Milan was in a state of emergency. Rome quaked. Italy roared. The entire Catholic world seethed with indignation. Television reporters formed an airtight barricade around the points of outrage. Helicopters swept through the sky, growling and marring it with their black profiles. The president of the United States said he was ‘shocked at the inappropriate behaviour’ of the criminals and mispronounced the names of three saints, two countries and his own Chief-of-Staff. The Pope put all his energy into a five minute speech, twelve words of which were articulated clearly enough to be paraphrased by every news agency from New Delhi to New York. The disappearance of St. Anthony’s tongue had been generally regarded as a horrific prank, a grim occurrence, the equal of which would not likely occur again in any Christian’s lifetime. This newest event, the ransacking of both the Basilica of Sant’Eustorgio and Church of St. Ambrose was regarded in all quarters in the light of a conspiracy. Detectives were imported from both France and England and given carte blanche status. Meanwhile the Italian police force enacted measures in and around the city of Milan not seen since the days of Mussolini. At the border of Ponte Chiasso searches were made, though primarily of male youths of non-European origin. A few sachets of marijuana were discovered, as well as a stash of zoophiliac photos, but nothing more.

  In the city itself, detectives mulled over the evidence, which was actually quite sparse:

  The tomb of St. Ambrose had been broken into, the bars severed by means of a simple hack-saw. The fore-arms of the saint had been forcefully removed. The two saints which lay on either side of Ambrose, St. Gervaso and St. Protaso, had each had a their carpals abducted. The precious regalia of the three had been taken and their robes left in disarray, but undamaged. The nearby tomb of s.s. m.m. Naboree and Felice had been pried open, the weighty marble lid let crash to the ground. The ancient remnants of each lay strewn about, fibulas and tibias distinctly missing. The glass tomb of St. Savina was broken, femurs gone, skull pushed to one side and gold mask cast to the ground, slightly dinged. The tombs of St. Satio and St. Marcellina, the brother and sister of St. Ambrose, had been violated in turn, portions of each corpse missing, most items of obvious pecuniary value left behind, aside from the ring which had adorned St. Satio’s finger.

  The only piece of evidence introduced upon the scene by the culprits (for it was assumed to have been the work of a band) was a single cigarette butt, extinguished in front of Bernardino Luini’s painting of the Madonna and Saint Gerolamo.

  The scene at the Basilica of Sant’Eustorgio was similar. The main altar had been raided, the pieces stored therein, those of the saints Eustorgio, Magno and Onorato filched. The bars of the Sarcophagus of the Magi had been sawn away, the venerable remnants of the three wise men sadly abducted. In the Capella Portinari the top of the marble arc constructed by Giovanni di Balducci had been pried open and let fall to the ground, where it had cracked in half, the magnificent sculpting badly damaged. A portion of the legs of San Pietro had been removed. Additionally, the monument of sacred relics just outside the tomb had been ransacked, a number of treasured bones taken.

  ***

  He had caught the 5:25 train that morning from Milan Central Station bound for Venice, his costume consisting of jogging pants, a blue jumper and a New York Yankees baseball cap. His black hair was now a silvery blonde and, aside from his eyes, which had an impenetrable and cold depth, he looked quite jaunty. The only other person in the carriage was a youngish American woman, her hand continually straying
to her long, straight blonde hair to adjust it or thrust it back away from her eyes, and whose ample derriere easily filled the limitations of her seat. She smiled and flashed her slightly orgasmic eyes at the disguised Torturo. He nodded his head and remained impassive.

  The train churned off into the wet, dark morning, the buildings and street lamps looking particularly haunting at that hour, the former but vaguely illumining empty streets, and the latter shuttered up, in the ugly, inhospitable way Italian establishments are at night. The young woman crossed one leg over the next and closed her eyes. Torturo gazed out the window at the flying blackness. Forty minutes later the train squeaked into Brescia, before continuing on, towards Verona. Passengers, many who had boarded the train the evening before, in places as far away as Gemany and Belgium, began to emerge from the sleeping cars, yawning and scratching their backs and heads. The snack cart began to make its way along the side isle, serving biscuits and what the attendant naively referred to (though with a certain degree of pride), as ‘German coffee.’

  “Café?” the attendant asked, poking his head in.

  The young woman yawned and stretched her arms. “Yes – Si, si,” she said.

  She paid the man, took out a book from her purse and, while sipping her coffee, read.

  At Verona Torturo stepped off the train, made his way to the news kiosk in three strides, bought the morning edition of the Corriere della Sera, and was back on the train in less than two minutes. He ran his tongue over his teeth as he read the headlines and, continuing on into the leading article, noted what a poor range of vocabulary the writer, one Giuseppe Brilli, had. The word ‘shocking’ was used five times in the space of two paragraphs, and the phrase ‘the depraved criminals’ over a dozen in the entire article.

  “Literacy is certainly the death of literature,” Torturo thought as he looked up and noticed the book the young woman was reading: King and Straub’s Black House.