Working his way through the multitude of travellers, he crawled to the track designated on the board. He clambered up the steps and onto the train. No one offered him help and, with nothing to facilitate communication but a mouth full of croaking pain, he could ask for none. The train itself was full and no seats were available for those without reservations. People filled the isles and even stood in the luggage section and in front of the restrooms – the section which was for Torturo most convenient to access.
“With the train so crowded, they will most likely neglect asking for tickets,” he thought.
It was true that people stared at him, but the train nonetheless pulled out of the station without anyone questioning him. Soon he saw the grey sky flashing by through the windows and felt the tracks bouncing beneath him. The train, which was an intercity, began to make its stops, each one accompanied by a staticky announcement made over the speakers: Stimigliano, Orte, Attigliano.
As he sat in the corner, the evil smell of the latrine assailing his nose, his mind wandered back to that first lone train ride, when he was still a boy. He remembered saying goodbye to his cousin and uncle and how he afterwards took up his old-fashioned grip and boarded the iron beast. How exultant, how high-spirited he had been, flying over rivers and past lakes, with the snow-capped blue mountains behind them, and the words and teachings of Father Falzon as a foundation to live by.
Now he felt the throbbing pain of his tortured body and inhaled the stench of the toilet. Few beings had seen such highs and lows, experienced a stroke so severe. It was as bad as the hanging of Nuncomar; it was comparable to the downfall of Richard II. Huddled in his corner, sneered at by every being that passed him by, he suffered like an eagle fallen into a pit.
When the train pulled out of Montevarchi, he felt some relief. He was almost as far as Florence, which was halfway to Milan. From Milan he would make his way to Padua, where his cousin was installed in the role of bishop. Mentally and physically exhausted, he closed his eyes and tried to think of better things.
“You have a ticket?”
He felt something prodding him and looked. A man was nudging him with his boot; another looming menacingly behind him.
“A ticket? You have a ticket?”
He was silent.
“Ticket? Where is your ticket?”
He opened his mouth and croaked, the sound deep, resonant and disturbing.
“Basta!” the man cried. “Luigi! Give me a hand. This cripple doesn’t have a ticket!”
“Disgusting fellow – But damn he’s heavy!”
Torturo, the cripple, was hurled off the train as it pulled into Florence, his wooden apertures clattering against the stone platform. He looked up. A number of people were staring at him (overfed Northerners, their bellies protruding; solemn Florentines who gazed at him as if he were less than nothing). Others, in a rush, stepped hastily over him, almost on him. Cursing internally, he rallied himself and made his way through the station, to the exit. Outside it was raining: a fall rain, humid and heavy that left the streets deserted of pedestrians; the streets rushed with bubbling fluid that gathered swirling at the gutters. He stared out through the glass window, oppressed and undecided in what course to take.
“There is no loitering in here.”
This time it was a policeman – a young, fascist looking fellow with a closely trimmed beard and dispassionate black eyes.
“There is no loitering in here,” in a curt, authoritative voice. And then, opening the door and ushering the cripple outside: “Move on; the rain will clear up soon if you are lucky.”
Torturo obeyed, hobbling, crawling forward on his sticks, into the downpour. The liquid ran over his head, into his eyes, and down the back of his neck. It seemed that there was a certain breed of man who asked nothing better than to be able to push around, to harry weaker beings, revenge their stupidity on those without fists to fight. – The cripple spit into the rain. The bells of the city rang gloomily through the wet sky, tolling the hour of six. He was not lucky; the rain, instead of abating, increased dramatically in strength. By the time he had found shelter beneath an alcove, he was soaked through. He looked up at the grey, impenetrable heavens overhead and running street before him, heard his own stomach moaning with hunger and drank hard from misery’s cup. In these moments alone, stripped of more than his grandeur and title, stripped of his very limbs and features, his very tongue with which to articulate, the thoughts came – not with rapidity or precision, but as a haunting nightmare. His recollections and feelings were black, and more painful than any festering wound. He thought of his mentor, Father Falzon, and wondered whether the man were in heaven or hell, reborn as scavenging dog or roving demi-god. He had always considered himself to be in some way the avenger of that man’s neglected life; but from where he now grovelled, in the state of a limbless, creeping creature, he knew that his ambitions had miscarried and he was but little more than a despicable abortion. He recalled his own youth, spent in wicked trivialities and the pursuit of arcane knowledge. He had climbed to the top of the pinnacle of the Church and had fallen – fallen with shattering briskness, in a horrible, lightening-like flash. To have toppled from such a staggering height was devastating. His life was blasted; he did not repent; yet he was sorely disappointed. He thought of those whom he had healed and considered the irony of his situation. Others he had healed, but now had not the power to heal himself.
That night he spent without a roof over his head and without food in his belly, crawling around the wet city of Florence. He passed the sham house of Dante, and tasted hell on his palate. He crawled along the via Dei Calzaiuoli to the Piazza della Signora and saw the sculptures, those reproductions of Donatello and Michelangelo and the incomparable original of Cellini, mock him with their grandeur while a policeman eyed him with suspicion. Scurrying off, he found himself at the banks of the Arno. He crawled under the Ponte San Niccolo in the hope of finding there a dry place to sleep, but a group of young men were there drinking beer and smoking marijuana. They laughed, made obscene, cruel jokes and threw bottles at him. He fled and disappeared into the night like a wounded dog. He had no blanket but the late October drizzle.
The next morning he crawled through the central market, crowded with people and food on all sides: breads, cheeses, green and black olives, stacks of plums, apples and pears, prosciutto crudo and cooked ham, almonds, cashews, raisins and dates. The butchers sat behind counters well stocked with pink rabbits, joints of beef and pork and mounds of raw and roasted chickens, while the fish sellers dived their fists into barrels of muscles and oysters, trays of squids, prawns and fresh sardines glistening on all sides. At Nerbone, the famous market kitchen, the cripple saw workers sit down with great bowls of chick-pea soup, plates of macaroni and pitchers of the cheap but delicious house wine. He was starved and the sights and aromas made him feel faint. A woman, seeing his hungry eyes and thinking him a beggar, threw him a roll. It was warm and delicious and he ate it, in desperate haste, like a savage.
His existence was degraded, and he spent his days scrounging. Humbled by hunger, he felt as if he had a yoke of iron around his neck. He begged in front of the Santa Maria del Fiore. The tourists, ever ready to spend ten euros on a museum, one-hundred on a restaurant meal or a two-hundred on a hotel room, simply could not find it in their hearts to bestow a few coins on the cripple. His appearance disgusted people and they chose to stay as far away from him as possible, lest they catch whatever it was he had. Thus, for him, to even find basic sustenance seemed impossible.
He was lucky to get a piece of bread or an old bit of vegetable. Meat never crossed his lips. In dire need of nutrition, warmth and care, he had only hunger, the open sky and the yellow spit of obnoxious young men. After weeks of this, of begging, of sleeping on any dry patch he could manage to appropriate for an hour, he looked at the drizzling heavens, thought on God and considered his cruel divinity. Presently the rain stopped and he crawled along the sober cold bricks, his head spinning, fil
led with the pangs and darkness of sorrow. Crucified by sheer bodily weakness, he collapsed and let his eyes close against that chilly surface which had once been baked by fire.
Two figures approached him, their heads covered with black hoods, which had round holes cut out for the eyes, and their bodies draped with black robes of course cloth. They inspected the cripple, lying before them as one dead, a stinking heap of debased humanity, murmured to each other, and then hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him away. A quarter of an hour later he was set down in front of the outer precinct of the Sette Santi convent.
A nun bent over him and pressed a glass of water coloured with wine to his lips. He sucked at the liquid and swallowed gratefully.
“The brothers of the Confraternita della Misericordia placed you here,” she said. “They asked us to see that you are fed.”
Apparently she read the questioning gaze in his eyes, for she continued: “They are a particular order, their members come from all stations of life. Many are rich and aristocratic, while others are simply artisans. They take it as their sworn duty to help the miserable and destitute. You must be thankful for their attention.”
Torturo was thankful. He was starving, and the nuns gave him bread and soup. Though they were unable to offer him lodging beyond that necessary in order to bring him out of immediate danger, they procured him sleeping tickets for one of the local hostels. He was allowed a bed from eight every night until six in the morning. The sisters told him that for as long as he pleased he could return to Sette Santi every afternoon for their charity lunch, which he did.
One young nun, Sister Justina, who had particularly gentle manners, took it upon herself to feed the wretch. Her face was round and her figure slight and, though she was not by any means handsome, her quiet voice was full of warmth and her gaze radiant with compassion. When she could, she took him to a private place and washed him; she scrubbed his torso with a stiff sponge and lathered his scanty hair, wilfully overcoming her disgust. She pitied him, for he was the most appalling man she had ever seen, and wished she could do more to relieve his suffering. His eyes were strong and intelligent, and she could not help but believe his thoughts were in like accord. Occasionally, after the meal, she read to him for a quarter of an hour from the Holy Bible. He blinked and sighed in obvious appreciation. She was pleased that he responded to the teachings of Jesus Christ and was sorrowful that her time and position forbade her from further charity.
“Might I not read to him for five more minutes?” she would ask the abbess, Mother Barbara, when called away.
“I am afraid not,” was the recurring answer. “It is admirable that you find joy in such charitable endeavours, but forming a particular attachment to a needy individual is not to be borne. Your attention must be turned towards your other duties, for you are more than just this solitary cripple’s helpmate. It is obviously the Lord’s will that he suffer so – undoubtedly for some unspeakable sin; – The proper course for you my dear is not to do more than you are asked . . . In any case, the gout in my feet is especially bad right now, and your spare moments should rightly be spent massaging them.”
Sister Justina was Mother Barbara’s favourite. The latter enjoyed her, guarded her with a jealous eye and never tired of having the young woman’s small, soft hands running over her own sore joints. Though Justina did not take pleasure in the hungry passion of the abbess, she tolerated it, such being the ways of the convent.
One day, after feeding the cripple his soup and reading him an excerpt from The Gospel According to Mark, Sister Justina gave him a gift. He had been particularly solemn and thoughtful that day, and she thought her surprise might cheer him up.
“It is a nice wool cap,” she said, putting it on his head. “I made it – To keep you warm up top.”
He looked at her sadly.
“Don’t you like it?”
He nodded his head.
“You do?”
He nodded his head. “Yes.”
He moved slowly through the old, open hallway, towards the exit, the new cap, which was a sky blue, bright on his head. The nun walked by his side, chattering lightly as she went. They came to the door and she opened it.
“Ciao,” she said smiling. “See you tomorrow.”
The cripple shook his head.
“I will not see you tomorrow?”
The cripple shook his head. “No.”
“You have something to do tomorrow? Then I will see you the next day?”
He shook his head.
“Not then either?”
“No.”
“Well, when will I see you?”
He looked at her gravely, almost sternly.
“Won’t you come back? Won’t I see you again?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“You will leave Florence?”
He nodded, his eyes still stern and penetrating.
“You are going on a voyage?” she asked with concern.
The cripple nodded his head. “Yes.”
The bells of the city began to strike three o’clock, their tintinnabulation echoing out sonorous, petulant, demanding.
“It is the time when I must attend Mother Barbara,” the nun said. “But wait here, let me get you something before you go.”
Before the cripple could respond, she was dashing away, her habit fluttering around her ankles and collecting around her young figure. In less than ten minutes she returned, carrying a purse in which were two loaves of bread, some olives, a hunk of Parmesan cheese and a twenty euro note.
She kneeled down and hung the purse around his neck.
“This is for your trip,” she said. “Some food for your trip,” she blushed. “And a little money, – It is almost nothing, but it might help.”
He looked at her: firmly, sadly.
Just then Mother Barbara appeared, her stout figure filling the passage behind them. Her tremendous, sensual second chin hung palpitating with emotion and the black hair on her pale upper lip stood out with frightening clarity.
“Come girl!” she cried. “Enough dawdling with that cursed cripple. It is the time for you to massage my feet. I have been walking on them all day, involved in labour upon labour, and they are in sore need of your caresses. Come – Hurry, before you put me completely out of temper!”
“I have to go,” the nun said sadly. Then, when Mother Barbara’s back was turned, the young woman quickly kissed Torturo on the forehead, got up and darted off, with a broken goodbye, one hand straying to her eyes as she retreated.
“Goodbye,” he thought, as he turned and crawled away.
He made his way along the Lungamo Generale Diaz. The shops were just beginning to open. The weather was overcast and streets damp, but it was not raining. He crawled along the Loggiato degli Uffizi, past the gallery, past the busts of Dante, Leonardo da Vinci and Galileo. At the Piazza della Signora, in front of Bandinello’s Hercules, looking more like a sack of melons leaning against a wall than a demi-god, a crowd of Japanese tourists parted for him, with comments of joint interest and disgust. A number took pictures of the twisted chopped up monster, the sub-beast, thinking him about as interesting as anything they had yet seen in Florence.
He crawled past the Church of San Michele, past Verrocchio’s Incredulity of St. Thomas, a bronze masterpiece of Christ urging the sceptical apostle to shove his hand in his pierced side. Pleasure seekers were just starting to appear along the street, taking advantage of the break in the weather, eager to search out a glass of wine or cappuccino and to be amongst people; the people who were, for Torturo, no more than ghosts.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Over the months the nubs of his shoulders and butts of his thighs, all that remained of his limbs, had grown especially strong, taking up as they were the entire burden of his person in all its shifting about. When he set off on the road from town he moved slowly, but much less slowly than might be expected from one in his condition, without either arms or legs. He made his way along the narrow
strip of gravel and dirt that sat between the road and the ditch to one side, moving steady and resolute, despite the never-ending stream of traffic that roared by him. Cars sounded their horns, trucks and buses splashed him with mud. The day wore away in this monotonous struggle for distance, darkness fell and he was forced to crawl completely off the road, to avoid being run over. He travelled the fields, his crutches sinking in the mud, his body often getting caught up in barbed-wire fences, dogs occasionally coming upon him, barking and trying to make a meal of his burly stumps. He fought them off, roaring inarticulately, jabbing with his stalks of wood.
By the time he reached the village of Vaglia it was half-past two in the morning and he was thoroughly spent. Using his jaws as a tool, he worked a hunk of bread from his pouch. He swallowed a few mouthfuls, washing it down with water sipped from a puddle and then fell asleep in a stand of weeds. The next morning he was awoken by a slug crawling across his face. He shouldered it away, rinsed his face in the puddle, relieved himself in the weeds, and resumed his northward journey.
The second day was harder than the first. The sky was dark with clouds and, at nine in the morning, began to scatter fresh rain, which gradually increased in strength into a downpour that lasted throughout the day. The cripple crawled along the gravel, through the mud, wet and dismal. When he passed through villages people stared at him in amazement. No one had ever seen such a down-trodden creature. He was like a leper from another age and people felt an instinctive inclination to avoid him as if he were a sack of diseased flesh. He travelled through Ponte Ghieretto, over the Passo della Futa, through Firenzuola and Pietramala, and after exhausting himself on the Passo della Raticosa, fell asleep beneath a pine tree, the rain still falling with vigour. Awaking in the middle of the night, he shivered with the first phases of influenza. As hearty as his constitution was, it was being taxed to the extreme. Not able to fall back asleep, he vomited and then crawled towards the road. The rain had stopped, but the moonless sky was black. Tremors shook his body as he crawled; the wood strapped to his thighs scraped along the asphalt. Though the traffic was extremely light, every car that passed him nearly ran him over. With thoughts unclear he began to hallucinate, fancying he saw the roadway marked with pools of blood and the majestic pines that shot up from the hillsides as never ending crucifixion scenes. The earth swung beneath him. He himself was a monstrous toad, bloated with wriggling worms of flame which scrambled for escape through the orifices of his head. – And he prayed. In a continuous moan he prayed for some simple time without horror and pain.
The Translation of Father Torturo Page 18