Pepito, apparently sensing the presence, lifted and turned his head. It was at that moment that the first blow fell, with manic force. The skull cracked and resounded throughout the church, like a pitcher of wine falling on a parquet floor. Pepito did not so much as let out a cry. He collapsed to one side; his eyes swam toward the frescoed ceiling. The attacker leapt agilely over the pew and proceeded to rain blows on the boy, who instinctively lifted his arm to his face, but in no other way defended himself. His neck, ribs and sides were beaten mercilessly, while a foot pressed in on his stomach, making him vomit a series of pale pink bubbles. The attacker kicked the acolyte’s chin. A sudden resonance, booming, ringing, shot through the church.
The matins bells began to sound, and all Padua groan, forced to awake, forced away from simple sins and love making by these majestic cast iron contrivances.
The robed figure stepped backward out of the pew, dropped the club and, turning, hastily made its way through the side doors of the vestry. Pepito laboriously crawled the few feet it was from the nave to the isle. His right hand caressed his own round face and, feeling the blood course down, over his left eye and cheek, traced the stream to its source: a giant fissure stretching from his forehead back. He looked at his vermilion hand, raised himself slightly and, trembling, traced a few letters on the floor before hiccoughing his final gore filled breath.
Seconds later a new figure emerged from behind a stone pillar, by the transept, and approached the body. It bent over; a hand felt the pulse, eyes gazed at the five letters written in blood. Spitting on a handkerchief, he wiped away the word.
***
Bishop Sebastiano Vivan sat at his desk, a magazine spread before him, with a dish chocolate mousse to one side, which he was sensually spooning into his mouth as he read, a look of blissful ease on his face. There was a knock at the door.
“Avanti!” he said, looking up.
Father Torturo entered. His look was bold. His eyes were ringed with black.
“Do you have a spare moment?” he asked.
“Certainly, certainly,” the bishop replied, licking mousse from his lips. “Please, have a seat.”
The priest moved forward and sat down. His walk was noticeably lamed.
“What have you done Torturo? You have hurt yourself!”
“Oh, it is nothing – I over-exerted myself while exercising, that is all.”
“Poor man!” cried Vivan. “You take this bodily training too far.”
“And you – you eat far too many dainties.”
Vivan blushed. He sucked his bottom lip.
“I see you are enjoying further literature,” the father said presently.
“Yes,” Vivan replied, closing the copy of Boy’s Life magazine and turning the cover in Torturo’s direction. “I have a subscription from America. The English is very difficult, but the pictures are, er; – let us say the pictures inspire me. They speak about modes of a pure life: A child’s life with nature. They tell of lads, innocent fellows, and their adventures – their humid adventures in forests, and on the rocky shores of North American lakes . . . To see a young man vigorously clasping a rod, a fishing rod; or bending over and thrusting a stake into the earth, a tent stake: Really, it is one of the most beautiful things.”
“Children are unquestionably interesting.”
“They are fascinating.”
“Particularly the boys of the species.”
“Absolutely the boys.”
“Did the police come and question you?”
“Question me? Well, naturally. I saw Pepito on an almost daily basis. It was a tragedy. I sent his mother a pot of orchids (charming flowers). I hope you will be there for the services father. Your presence would be appreciated.”
“Of course I will go. He was, as you say, a charming boy.”
“Charming in the extreme.”
“And do the police have any suspects?”
“None that they have indicated – though they say there might be a connection between this and the other murder – the one that happened a month or two back.”
“I suspect that there is such a connection.”
“There could be,” Vivan said with a sigh, his eyes straying heavenward; and then, bringing them down and steadily fixing them on father Torturo. “There are unfortunately a great many evils in this world.”
“True. It is some consolation that Pepito died like a saint.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” Vivan said with a gentle, consolidating smile.
“Like Saint Peter of Verona to be exact,” Torturo grinned. “Remember the words ‘Credo in Deem’?”
Vivan raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“As you know,” Torturo continued, “good Peter was walked from Como to Milan one evening, the sixth of April 1252 to be exact. In the forest around Cesano a Manichæan named Carino jumped him and split his head open with an axe. Peter, half dead, rose to his knees and recited the first article of the Symbol of the Apostles. Dipping his fingers in his own blood, he offered it as a sacrifice to God. Using it as ink, he wrote on the ground ‘Credo in Deem.’ Carino then jammed a blade into his heart.”
“Yes, yes yes,” Vivan said with a wave of his hand. “And the body was carried to Milan where it was entombed in an ark at Sant’ Eustorgio, where it remained until the tragic event three weeks ago. I understand all this, but what connection does it bare to our dear departed Pepito?”
“Why, it is apparent that Pepito, in his last moments was inspired by Peter, the martyr of Verona.”
“Inspired? How?”
“Pepito also managed to jot down a few letters.”
“Pardon?”
“Before he died, he wrote a name on the floor. In his own blood.”
Bishop Vivan’s boyish face flushed bright scarlet. He pursed and then licked his lips and then swallowed. His clear green eyes became extraordinarily wide as he looked at the father and asked, “And . . . And whose name was it that was written?”
“Why, the murderer’s of course.”
“The murderer?” Vivan gasped.
“Yes. Why look so shocked? The murderer; – the same man I saw clobber poor Pepito with a fuller’s club as I stood hidden in the transept. It was a remarkably cruel act. I knew you had certain vicious instincts in you bishop, but I must admit that, until I saw you at work I never suspected you of such absolute heinousness. I suppose, until then, I took you for an ordinary pervert . . . But honestly, the look in your eyes as you slew him was beyond nasty.”
The bishop rose from his seat, his countenance glowing with guilty indignation. “How dare you say such things,” he shouted. And then, lowering his voice, “How can you say I did it? I didn’t. I didn’t I tell you. I loved Pepito!”
“I do not have a doubt in the world that you loved the lad,” Father Torturo said calmly, taking a pack of cigarettes and matches from his pocket. “You loved him, not as Jesus loved his enemies and blessed those who cursed him, but as Othello loved, your love voluptuous and mixed with a zest for blood. You loved him as you loved young Baldasari Sorrissi. That’s right; don’t think I never saw Baldo entering your office at odd hours – Or, for that matter, leaving it in a state of disarray. I fancy you had been seeing him since he was a boy?”
“Well, I used to be his confessor, years ago, – But that is no reason to imply—”
“I am implying nothing,” the father said, raising his voice. “I am saying that you are a swine and a criminal of the lowest order; the stereotypical Catholic degenerate!” Resuming his calm demeanour, he put a cigarette between his lips and proceeded to light it.
“I . . . I don’t allow smoking in my chambers,” Vivan stuttered.
“Be quiet,” Father Torturo said brusquely. “You work for me now. You will do as I say or pay the consequences.”
“You would turn me in to the authorities?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, there are worse things than being despised in the eyes of men.”
&
nbsp; “Are there?”
“I . . . I have heard it said that there are.”
“And your mother? Your dear old mother? What will she think when I tell her, with a pitying look on my face, of her son’s morbid homosexuality, of his stabbing a boy with a knife nineteen times (along with the psychosexual implications), of the other lad, your office boy, and how you cracked open his skull in the very house of the Lord? Do you fancy she will be proud of the disgrace you have brought upon the church?”
“Mother!” Vivan cried, collapsing in his seat, tears bursting from his shy green eyes. “She thinks I am such a good boy. I would rather have a red hot iron shoved down my throat than have her find out.”
“Then I am your iron,” Father Torturo said, taking a long and forceful drag of his cigarette, as if he were drinking thirst quenching liquid instead of inhaling a slow acting poison. “You will do what I ask of you and, in the end, find yourself in a better position than ever – Your mother will be given but further reason to be proud of you, her loyal and dulcet son.”
Vivan took out a handkerchief and began to dab at his eyes. “So,” he said. “So, you will not tell on me?”
“No. Not if you do as I say.”
“Well . . . Well, then I will,” Vivan murmured, his face taking on a set, businesslike expression. And then, smiling, “But please; treat me well. I am rather sensitive, as you can see, and damage under rough handling.”
Chapter Nine
It was a grey day in Venice. The man peered through his sunglasses as the boat passed St. Mark’s and the Palazzo Ducale, with its knots of pigeon feeding fools and pairs of floundering tourists out front, inebriated by the foul lagoon air. He got off the boat at San Zaccaria, being careful, as he stepped, not to soil his white linen suit. His legs set off in rigid, determined strides down the Calle Albenesi, past the Prigioni. By his dress and his rather severe countenance, an onlooker would have taken him for some well-to-do German tourist or art collector – possibly an author; certainly not a plebeian. He looked at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past four in the afternoon, and doubled his pace. It was obvious that he had an appointment which he was eager to keep. He moved rapidly along the Calle Sagresita, in three sweeping steps crossed the Rio di San Giovanni Novo, turned up Ruga Giuffa, and, after negotiating a few minute back lanes, strode down an alley that came to a dead end at the Rio di San Formosa, the dark water splashing against the stone embankment where a small motor boat was moored. There was an undersized wooden door to his left, worn and patched, with a few flakes of green paint still adhering to it, the original coat of which must have been added to the antique portal at least fifty years previous. One of his long bony fingers stretched out and pressed against an electric bell with the name ‘Sig. C. Della Casa’ written beneath it. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped his forehead and waited, gently stroking a mouse that crawled out from the cave of his sleeve.
Twenty minutes later the man was stripped to his socks and underwear, on his hands and knees in the interior of the apartment. A woman, Signora Clara Della Casa, stood over him, wearing knee-high leather boots, red lace panties, and a black latex top, which was cut low enough to reveal the majority of a swelling balcony. The windowless room was lit by a single phosphorescent bulb enwrapped in a red Chinese lantern which hung overhead. The steady surge of house music, a four-on-the-floor beat, pulsed from the stereo, adding a sense of youthful urgency to the scene.
Clara cracked a three-tasselled whip over his buttocks.
“Now,” she said, standing hip shot, arms akimbo, her large cellulose thighs swelling majestically; “will you be obedient, slave?”
“Yes, yes,” he whimpered gleefully.
She cracked the whip dangerously near his left ear.
“Yes, what?” she cried.
“Yes Mistress. I will do anything you say Mistress.”
“Kneel! You hear me doggy; – kneel!”
He sat back on his haunches, revealing a thin, bird-like chest thickly covered with grey hair. He posed his hands like a puppy and looked up at her, his eyes glassy with subservient lust.
“Stick out your tongue.”
He complied, letting the wet red organ hang from his mouth. His head was hot and glands well stoked. He crawled forward.
“Lick me; – Lick me here!” she demanded.
***
“I think we have enough now Clara, thank you.”
“What the hell,” the cardinal cried, wheeling around.
“You were magnificent,” Bishop Vivan smiled, capping the lense on the video camera.
Both himself and Father Torturo were dressed in civilian clothes, Vivan looking particularly spry in close-fitting black pants and shirt by Max Mara, and a pair of brown leather loafers which he wore without socks.
“Vivan, is that you? My God—”
“With Father Torturo. You remember him, right?”
The cardinal rose to his feet, his face beginning to take on the colours of an egg plant. “I . . . I . . . I am,” he stuttered incoherently. And then, his lips quivering: “I am confessing her,” he gasped.
“Yes,” Torturo said suavely. “I can see you are dressed appropriately for the occasion. Do you like his vestments?” he asked, turning to Vivan.
“Oh, very much! Very much indeed! And really, for his age, his figure is not half bad.”
“Fava della Madonna!” the cardinal screamed, white with rage, and clenched his fists. “Vivan, what the devil are you doing here?”
“I might just as easily ask you the same question,” the bishop replied coolly with one hand on his hip.
“And, so I would guess, your answer would be less than satisfactory,” Torturo added, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“May I have one?” Clara asked, setting down her whip and stepping towards the priest.
“Certainly; but please put something on over those hips and latex. They are liable to distract the cardinal and we have business to discuss.”
“Would you rather I leave for a while?”
“That might be better,” he said, handing her a cigarette and a hundred euro note. “Go down to the bar and get something to drink, on me. Come back in half an hour or forty-five minutes. We should be all settled up here by then. And cardinal,” he continued, lighting a match for Clara and then applying the flame to his own cigarette, “you might slip something on as well. Our good bishop is rather too generous with his compliments. Take it from me, a few weeks unsheathed in the sun and a regular program of callisthenics would do you a world of good. As it is, I feel like I am looking at the thin wedge of fat around a joint of prosciutto.”
“Listen priest,” the cardinal said, showing the very gums of his teeth. “I don’t know what your game is, but you will surely suffer for crossing me.”
“As I have already indicated,” Torturo said, exhaling a jet of smoke, “seeing you thus I take to be a rather trying punishment. Please be so kind as to put on your trousers.”
“You can’t blackmail me!”
“I can.”
“It won’t stick.”
“It will.”
“And if I don’t comply? If I don’t care about my reputation?”
Father Torturo’s lips became set. The cigarette dropped from his fingers. “Then,” he said in a menacing voice that rose into a violent crescendo. “Then,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Then I will make you suffer twice what you deserve – And, like this damn mouse, dash the life out of your tedious, bloodless carcass!” He raised the white, squirming handful over his head and flung it brutally to the floor, where it let out a horrible squeak and then lay, quite broken, its little mouth agape, showing minuscule teeth set in pink lips.
“Picolito!” the cardinal cried, throwing himself down beside the mouse. He took it in his hands and pressed it, a lifeless rodent, to his face. He looked up at the priest with a horrified expression on his face, crying, “You are a madman; a scoundrel; a cruel maniac!”
/> Torturo stood, powerful, immobile, unsympathetic. Vivan simpered, though his face showed signs of emotion.
“Ciao,” Clara called, walking out the front door, dressed in leather slacks and a turtle neck sweater. “You boys have fun!”
“Vivan, lock the door behind her,” Father Torturo said. And, looking coldly at the cardinal: “Put on your clothes.”
Zuccarelli was visibly shaken. Alone, in a locked apartment with two men whose program seemed to be so diametrically apposed to his own left his mouth empty of the demands and cutting remarks he was habituated to spill forth. He lifted his shirt and white linen suit from the chair upon which they had been flung and, without a word more of opposition, stepped into the bathroom to dress.
“Would you like wine, coffee, tea?” Vivan asked, sliding towards the kitchen, the front door key bouncing in his hand.
“Coffee,” Torturo replied
A quarter of an hour later all three men were seated in the living room, sipping the espresso which Vivan had prepared.
“Today is your lucky day,” Torturo said to Zuccarelli. “I am sure that my methods have led you to believe that I intend you harm, when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. My intentions are to better your situation, by a rather broad margin. Don’t look so disgusted signore, I am being sincere.”
“And I am sincere in my disgust. Do you think I could be otherwise after your intrusion into my private affairs with a video camera? Do you think I could trust a man whose aim is so obviously the destruction of my pleasures?”
“A certain English authoress once wrote that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety. Now, that you find pleasure from paying Clara to let you suck her toes and feel the point of her heel, I feel no doubt. But, for a man in your position such a thing is certainly viewed as an impropriety. Now I personally,” (with a carefree gesture of his hand). “I personally have nothing against such hobbies, and am willing to give you full indulgence. Is all I ask for in return is your co-operation.”
The Translation of Father Torturo Page 6