The Translation of Father Torturo

by Connell, Brendan

  “800-SNM-XXXX,” he read.

  “I am afraid so Summus Pontifex,” Di Quaglio sighed.

  “800-FOT-TERE.”

  “Quite shocking.”

  “And this other number: 57-555-12. It has been called dozens of times. Is there a reason that it is on the list?”

  “Unfortunately yes. It is – I looked into it personally. It is the number of a kind of escort service.”

  “Escort service?”

  “Yes Your Eminency. An escort service is a variety of business, most improper, in which a lonely man, or sometimes woman, may, for monetary compensation—”

  “Yes yes yes,” the Pope said impatiently, with a wave of his hand. “I know what an escort service is. I require details, not definition.”

  “Certainly Your Eminency, details: This establishment, run by one Signora Gemma Lombardo, is, from what information I can glean, quite notorious amongst a certain breed of Romans. It specialises in renting out women – Renting out women for a man’s most base deeds.”

  “You are referring to the act of human coitus?”

  “I do not dare give it such a tame appellation.”

  “So?”

  “So . . .”

  “It is not merely sex?”

  “No. Not merely sex Summus Pontifex. Perversions.”

  “I see. Very troubling.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “Do tell.”

  “These creatures, these slinking harlots from the house of Lombardo; – Oh, but excuse my language!”

  “No, please, do not apologise. It adds the necessary colouring to your discourse. Feel free to use what adjectives you will.”

  “Thank you. As I was saying: These nasty, slinking harlots from the house of Lombardo have been seen entering the Holy residence, in the dark of night, sometimes singularly, but often enough in droves. They gain admittance through the private door near the Sala del Trono.”

  “Through my private door? In droves? Who has seen them?”

  “Both L’Osservatore Romano and Il Giornale have had anonymous reports sent to them. Each paper was kind enough to refrain from printing them, since their existences largely depend on Your Holiness’s will, and simply forwarded the information to me. However, should such reports continue to get abroad, I cannot guarantee that they will be contained. As you know, we have many enemies, and many newspapers would not only be willing to print such information, but would pay for the privilege.”

  “This is ridiculous,” the Pope cried, crushing the half smoked cigarette violently in an ash tray. “What are my Swiss guards there for? Cannot they keep out the whores?”

  “As it stands they are under instruction to obey the orders of Zuccarelli, him being the Secretary of State. The Swiss guards, the Guardia d’Onore, the Papal Gendarmes and the Guardia Nobile are all under his jurisdiction. Only with specific orders to the contrary, coming from yourself alone, can they bar that gentleman’s guests from entering.”

  “At least their silence, the silence of the guards who witnessed these harlots can be depended upon?”

  “Implicitly Summus Pontifex. Every person of the one-hundred Swiss guards has been handpicked from the cream of Swiss Catholic youth and, aside from being nearly physically perfect, come with extraordinary testimonies of character.”

  The Primate of Italy, after donning his vestments, put a fresh cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and puffed thoughtfully.

  “Then who did these anonymous reports come from?” he asked.

  “The quartermaster of the guards, who is absolutely devoted to you, told me that, on one occasion, his men saw Cardinal Gonzales parading the zone of the Sala del Trono around the same time that the slinking harlots were admitted.”

  “Gonzales is not a friend.”

  “I am afraid not Summus Pontifex.”

  “He is not loyal. Given the opportunity, he might act in a base fashion.”

  “I am afraid so Summus Pontifex.”

  The Pope stood silent, gazing at Michelangelo’s fresco of The Last Judgment, ranged over his desk; of devils dramatically dragging the souls of the damned down to hell – an infernal and painful hell, where naked men suffered and, together with their partners in sin, burned.

  “A most disheartening situation,” Di Quaglio ventured.

  “Yes; thank you,” the Pope said curtly, and began striding around the room. “Worry yourself no more. Mention this to no one. I will take care of the problem.”

  Di Quaglio, knowing himself to be dismissed, bowed deeply and departed silently.

  During the next four hours no one was admitted to see the Pope accept Lucio, who was continually delivering cups of espresso, and the Swiss guard Betschart, who was instructed to bring in a fresh carton of cigarettes. Clouds of smoke rolled out from the throat of the successor of Saint Peter, curled out from his lips and nose, rising to the frescoed ceiling, and polluting, undermining the work of Ludwig Seitz and all his successors in restoration. It was apparent that the indecorous information the Pope had received troubled him to no small degree.

  “This Zuccarelli seems to think we are living in the time of the Borgia,” Pope Lando murmured to himself. “He fancies himself to be in the entourage of Alexander VI, and dancing in the Ballet of the Chestnuts, when the city’s whores and the personnel of the Vatican competed for orgasms while crawling amongst the candles, effeminate servants crying out their scores to my lecherous predecessor. But in these days of literacy, when newspapers and words are more dangerous than poison or daggers, discretion is the key – A discretion I recommended – A recommendation that has been ignored.”

  He gazed up at Botticelli’s fresco of Sixtus II and took a long drag at his cigarette.

  “What a stupid expression the painter gave to this fellow,” he said to himself. “Compared to The Punishment of Korah, over yonder, this bit of work is really ridiculous. Botticelli obviously did not respect Sixtus II. Yet Zuccarelli respects me infinitely less!”

  He turned quickly and strode towards the door. “I will reach my method while walking in the garden,” he murmured. “The circulation in this room is not quite what I would wish for.”

  With an air of incontestable grandeur he walked through the Capella di San Pio V and along the lavishly decorated halls, his legs moving beneath his soutane with their accustomed long, virile strides. He walked along the edge of the Cortile del Belvedere, and stopped briefly to watch a group of Swiss Guards as they played football. The finely built men, thoroughly keen on the game, shouted with joy. The ball was kicked in the vicinity of the Pope. He picked it up and kicked it back, into the centre of the court. The men cheered and threw their fists into the air. Lando smiled benevolently and then departed. Their Swiss-German accents appalled him.

  He made his way to his private gardens, the Boscareccio, situated between the zecca and the Viale del Museo, which was the only place in the Vatican he could walk undisturbed. He blinked his eyes as he stepped into the full light of day and breathed in the heavy Roman air. He lit a cigarette and made his way through the vegetable gardens and grape vines, which were lush and green with summer growth. At the Leonine tower he stopped and, from the terrace, gazed out over the Valle dell’ Inferno whose historic brickworks once provided the building material for the whole of Rome. These walks, these places, had been the scenes of a thousand glories and tragedies. The earth of these gardens was fertilised with the blood of ages.

  Turning to his left he moved on, to the cool shade of the oak grove, with its marble blocks and pillars, the remains of the bygone empire placed tastefully about. The coloration of the flowers, the purple queen and Chinese foxglove, combined with the ancient spirit of the oaks, soothed him somewhat; but it was with decided aversion that, upon turning a bend, he saw the back of a young man who was seated on a fallen doric pillar.

  “Can I not have any privacy, even in my own garden,” he muttered, approaching the figure with every intention of sending him out of his sanctuary.

  “Ex
cuse me,” he began.

  The young man turned. It was Dario, one of Vivan’s playmates, his eyes red and his countenance especially pale. He looked distraught and unwell.

  “Oh, excuse me,” he said, rising in embarrassment. “I was told by the Cardinal – Excuse me Your Excellency – I was told by the Cardinal, Cardinal Vivan, that I might sit in the garden from time to time.”

  “He told you an untruth,” the Pope said.

  “I was just leaving, Your Eminency – I will leave then.” Dario wiped his eyes.

  “You have been shedding tears?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit back down. I grant you leave to remain in my presence.”

  “Thank you; – it is so peaceful here.” Dario regained his seat.

  “May I offer you a cigarette?”

  The young man bit his lip, and remained silent, simply staring at the ground.

  “What troubles you my son?”

  Dario wiped a fresh tear from one eye. “It is Walter – It is Walter Holy Father.”

  “Walter?”

  “Yes, you remember. The red-headed boy who was dining with us the other day – the one wearing the fur cape?”

  “Ah yes, I remember. An especially shy young man. Vivan seemed to have a particular fancy for him.”

  “Precisely,” Dario pouted.

  “Are you jealous of Walter? Is that the problem? ”

  “No, I am not jealous; not in the least,” Dario cried. “If Walter was happy and safe, then I myself would be happy. But as it is, I don’t know that he is happy – or safe. I don’t know where he is.”

  “He has disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  The Bishop of Rome sat down near the young man and lit a fresh Parisienne “And why would he not be safe?” he asked with some concern.

  Dario looked up with sad, pleading eyes. “Because,” he said softly, pushing his black locks away from his eyes. “Because, Your Eminency —” He faltered and looked back at the ground.

  “Please,” the Pope said gravely, “be straight forward with me. I am of the age of understanding and by unburdening your heart you will do more help than harm.”

  Dario looked up. His eyes flashed. “Because, Your Eminency,” he said. And then in one breath: “Terisio, Filippo and Vittorio are dead and I cannot help but think the same has happened to Walter!”

  “Please, take a cigarette.” The Pope shook a cigarette out of his pack and repeated his offer. “Please, take a cigarette and be calm.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Light it from mine.”

  “You are too kind Holy Father.”

  “Not at all. Now tell me about it. Tell me about Terisio, Filippo and Vittorio. If you can trust anyone Dario, it is me.”

  “I feel this Your Eminency. I feel this.”

  “Proceed.”

  “It is the cardinal; Cardinal Vivan,” Dario said, sighing out a plume of smoke which slowly and smoothly drifted off, up into the old oak branches. “We, all of us boys, knew each other before we came here you know. We were the greatest of friends, and usually sympathised with one another. Walter and myself were particularly close.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Yes, well: When the cardinal discovered us; – it was at Club Plastic . . . On a Wednesday night; – Wednesday is their night for – Well, I will skip over the details of our introduction, if you don’t mind. They are not really so delicate as I would like them to be.”

  “Certainly. Speak as you wish. After all, this is not a confession.”

  “Yes, well: When the cardinal discovered us, we all thought it the greatest stroke of luck. His gifts and attentions flattered us. He gave Terisio a beautiful watch, bought Vittorio a purple Vespa, Walter a two-seater and fed and clothed us all lavishly. He was certainly the most generous man any of us had ever met, and by no means ugly.”

  “One would never know him to be forty-two,” the Pope grinned.

  “Forty-two!” Dario said with some surprise. “Why, I never imagined him to be much over thirty!”

  “I believe he dies his hair.”

  “Most likely,” Dario said, putting one leg over the next and taking a drag of his cigarette. “As I was saying though: he is by no means ugly and, with the grandeur of his office and style of living, he fascinated each and every one of us. I am not from a wealthy family,” (looking up, speaking apologetically). “Wealth has the power of overwhelming me, making me go against my better judgement.”

  “But the deaths: Terisio, Filippo and Vittorio. What of their deaths?”

  “Yes. Filippo was first. His body was found floating in the Tiber. He was stabbed thirty-six times. I saw him – I saw him afterwards. He used to have a beautiful figure, but now . . . Ravaged . . . Bloated . . .”

  “It is certainly a cruel shame. Generally speaking, it is an unpleasant thing to see ones friends ravaged and bloated. But what makes you connect this gruesome incident to Vivan?”

  “I would never have suspected him to be sure, if it was not for what followed: Three days after Filippo had been buried (Walter, Terisio, Vittorio and I all helped to carry the coffin) – Three days after Filippo had been laid to rest, I went up to the cardinal’s chamber. I was scheduled to meet him for tea. Us being on terms of such, well, familiarity, I did not wait to be asked to come in after knocking. I simply knocked and walked in. I did not see him. I walked to the bedroom, letting my hands run over the cool bronze of Hercules’ chest, while passing through the office. There was a peculiar smell in the room. The velvet coverings to the bed were scattered on the floor. I called out. The cardinal came rushing out of the bathroom, wiping his hands. He looked embarrassed. The towel was red with blood. He closed the bathroom door behind him. I asked what had happened and he said he had cut himself shaving; but for the life of me I could see no wound, and the towel was quite drenched. Vittorio’s scarf was laying amongst the scattered bed clothes – I know it was his because I gave it to him for his nineteenth birthday, which had just passed.”

  Dario’s cigarette had burnt down to the filter; a long cylinder of ash still clung to it. The young man’s gaze was glassy, distant. A breeze licked through the trees and shepherded him out of his reverie.

  “That is the story,” he said quietly, looking the Pope in the eyes.

  “You did not go to the police?”

  “No. My family is from the South of Italy. We don’t trust the police.”

  “But you would like revenge?”

  “Yes,” Dario said, nodding his head, his black curls springing over his forehead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Vivan walked through the large main doors and into the vast hall. The Pope was standing near the window, smoking a cigarette and looking out towards the Vatican hill and over the gardens. He did not immediately turn around and Vivan, thinking his own presence was not known, coughed.

  “Ah, there you are,” the Pope said, turning and flicking the ashes of his cigarette on the floor. “I was just admiring the view. The sight of boxwood and ilex trees I find particularly conducive to meditation. But come,” he said, gesturing towards a grand table set in the centre of the room, “please sit down. Between us, such old friends as we are, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”

  Vivan was quick to express his admiration for the table arrangements. The English crockery was in excellent taste, adorned with a marigold pattern which was elegant rather than ostentatious and, though thoroughly antique, conformed to the requirements of modern aesthetics. The numerous vases of flowers decorating the table were arranged to the best possible advantage, filling the air with an intricate perfume, the perfume of rare blooms admixed with a particular striking beauty of blossom. There were magnificent fritillaria interspersed with jasmine and willow branches; alstroemerias in dazzling yellow and chaste white, spiked lobelia and mop-headed, pink hydrangea; water lilies floating in Mesopotamic bowls and Ming dynasty urns stuffed with sheaves of green wheat.

  The two men sat acros
s from each other. The Pope lit another cigarette, at the same time expressing his apologies for doing so.

  “Please excuse the smoke,” he said to his guest. “It makes the wheels of my mind turn so much more smoothly. It is a pleasure I can scarcely do without.”

  “No need to apologise,” Vivan coughed. “I have grown more used to it since coming to Rome. It seems that all the young men I know are great smokers: Walter, Dario, Terisio: I believe none of them can be happy without a cylinder sticking in their mouths.”

  The Pope smiled tightly.

  “Would you like some refreshments?”

  “Oh, please.”

  The successor of Saint Peter rang a small golden bell which sat on the table. Four thin lads, identical in dress and appearance, with round faces and close-cropped black hair, walked silently in. Two carried between them an enormous bread basket, filled with loaves in the shape of sunflowers, pumpkins and sparrows which they set on the table. Another set down a pitcher of water and a bottle of olive oil in the centre of the table, and a small plate of Parmigiano Reggiano near the Pope. The fourth held a large Celtic bronze pitcher in his arms and, approaching the guest first, filled his glass with wine.

  “Its delicious,” Vivan cried, tasting the beverage while watching the lad saunter around the enormous table in order to serve the Pope.

  “I thought you would like it,” the Archbishop of the Roman Province said, watching his own glass fill with the aromatic liquid. “It is a an old Bordeaux, an 1893 Lafite Rothschild, mixed with pulverised pinecones, as well as small amounts of mastich and pennyroyal.”

  “I did not realise you were such a decadent!”

  “When occasion presents itself, I am many things.”

  “Such delightful bread; still warm from the oven! And the taste!” Here Vivan could only express himself adequately by use of that typically Italian gesture: pressing the pinched fingers to the lips and kissing them.

  “A simple breaking of fast,” the Pope said coolly, pouring a little olive oil on his plate and mopping it up with the wheaten head of a sparrow.

  “Oh, but I feel quite honoured you know.”