When daylight came, grey and mournful, his feverish state somewhat subsided. He ate a mouthful of Parmesan cheese, rallied himself, and continued forward. Though he knew he was ill, he did his best not to slacken his pace. Light blended into darkness and reality was infused with faint hallucinations, halls hung with skins and familiar joints, the seemingly endless roadway scattered with sharp thorns. There was blackness and an occasional hour of sleep procured in some dry patch of ground, beneath a tree or hedge, occasionally in an old barn. Then there was again aching and travel and fever. The clouds blew in over the hills and seemed puffed full of wrath. In the distance there were scars of yellow light. The storm was electric. Wind and rain shook through the branches of the trees, screamed in the air, and, attacking in horizontal sheets, flailed his tortured body, as if wanting to pound the very life out of him. He could scarcely breath. The rain pricked like needles. Wet to the kidneys, his nose ran with mucous and throat swelled with pain. He collapsed, his face sunk in the mud. He felt as if he could not move another inch, but, with a supreme effort of will, he propped himself on his crutches and moved another mile.
At dawn the weather broke. The countryside shone, glossy green. Half dead, he climbed over a hill. Down below he saw the city of Padua, in the midst of which glittered the seven cupolas of the Basilica del Santo. Travelling on average nineteen hours a day, the entire journey had taken him twenty-three days.
Chapter Twenty-Three
At the base of the steps, a being struggled. About knee-high, with wooden crutches strapped on in place of his four limbs, like an image of Breughel’s, the man was trying desperately to mount the steps. The people around him stood back a respectable distance, though more from fear than the desire to accommodate. With beggarly rags hanging about him, and an unearthly stench rising, permeating his vicinity, this glob of human suffering was truly grotesque. His features were swollen and indistinguishable. A woollen cap, which sat perched atop his skull, fell off as he struggled, revealing a glossy red scalp with thick, wiry hairs clinging to it. The man swivelled his neck and looked back imploringly.
“Ewww!” a young woman said, upon seeing his face.
But, in every group of cowards there are inevitably a few heroes. Two stout men, young, generous and beef-fed, ran up from the back of the line.
“Yes, good, help the poor fellow up the steps,” a woman said.
One perched the cap on the glossy scalp and then together they heaved the limbless being up by the armpits and ascended the steps, the queue moving aside for them with murmurs of admiration for their effort and a mixture of contempt and pity for their burden.
“Ecco,” one of the men said as they shoved their burden up against the glass case.
The tongue, red and ripe as a strawberry sat enclosed within, resting atop a gold pin and highlighted against a background of gold brocade. Torturo felt the stump of his own organ, bereft of branch, unable to speak or even properly taste, quiver at the back of his throat. A croak, hoarse and awful, escaped his distended lips.
“He is telling us to let him down.”
“That’s fine. He has looked long enough.”
“Ckhhhaaggghh!” Torturo croaked.
“Prego, prego,” the men said, hoisting him back down the stairs and setting him on the floor.
The cripple moaned, inarticulate and frightful. His bottom jaw was nearly toothless and those on the top glistened like fangs in the maw of some blood-thirsty animal. His eyes flashed scorn. He turned and, with the utmost difficulty, made his way from the chapel, his crutches clicking and scraping against the marble floor.
Outside the weather was cool but clear. He pushed himself up against the wall near the church entrance. He gazed up at the great equestrian statue to his right, The Gattamelata of Donatello, and his wool cap fell off again. The cripple buried his chin in his chest and thought of her who had given him the gift; he felt the difficulty of loss. Through half-open, slightly moist eyes he stared at the woven, blue, soft hair of sheep. He was weak with hunger and fatigue and nearly drowned in disappointment. A coloured slip of paper came down. A five euro note floated into his cap. He glanced up.
“Kgau!” he croaked.
There were those features, soft and gentle, glowing above him; the garments ecclesiastic; the entire figure familiar.
“Ehhgg! Mmmmmmaaaa!”
“Pardon?”
“Mmmmmmaaaa!”
“Is that not enough? You want more you say?” Marco asked, raising his eyebrows. “Well, here poor fellow, here is another five; – and may God bless you.”
“Ehhgg! Ckhhhaaggghh!”
“Prego, prego.”
“Mmmmmmaaaa! Mmmmmmaaaarrr!”
“What is it he is trying to tell me? He is quite exasperated!”
“Mmmmmmaaaa! Ehhgghhhaaggghh. Mmmmmmaaaarrrkgha – kgha – kgha.”
“Why, it sounds like he is trying to pronounce my name!” Marco said with astonishment. “Are you trying to say Marco?”
The cripple nodded his head, his eyes glowing with excitement.
“Do you know me?”
Again, he nodded his head.
Marco kneeled down near him and looked closely at his dismantled features and then eyes. He was silent. He bit his bottom lip.
“Mmmmmmaaaarrrkgha – kghau.”
“My God!”
“Mmmmaaarrkghau!” the cripple cried, opening his hideous mouth wide.
“Your eyes!”
“Mmarrkghau!”
Marco looked aghast. “Cousin!” he murmured.
Marco did not know how it was that this devastated cripple was the same man, the same Xaverio Torturo, who he had grown up with, the same Lando the Second who was the rightful Pope, but he knew it was so. Marco’s was a sensitive nature. Though he did not recognise the body before him, he recognised the soul that spoke from behind that pair of harrowed, suffering, and yet unbeaten eyes.
He brought the cripple back to his chambers, where he fed him with hot broth, wine and water. He bathed him, scrubbing his body with a stiff sponge and lathering it with a pleasant smelling avocado soap. Afterwards he shaved the wiry tangles of hair from Torturo’s chin and upper lip and clipped short the straggling hairs on his head.
“Now, here, lie down in my bed. You need some rest.”
He hoisted the cripple atop the soft mattress and tucked him in. Torturo, submerged in a mass of clean sheets and blankets, let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was fast asleep.
***
“Ahh, there you are,” Marco said gently, when he saw his cousin emerge from the bedroom nearly thirty-six hours later. “You look much better now. How do you feel?”
Torturo nodded his head and gave his cousin a grateful look.
“Now, what else do you need?”
“Ckhhheeggghh; Ckhheeggghhaur.”
“What is it you want?”
“Ckhheeggghhaur.”
Marco divined. “You want a cigarette?” said he.
Torturo nodded.
“Yes, you always were a great smoker. Wait here – I will go buy you a pack of Parisiennes. – That is your brand.”
In the days that followed Torturo’s health improved. Though he was still far from robust, he seemed to be out of immediate danger. Marco cared for him with true affection, feeding and dressing him with his own hands and, at the breakfast table, turning the pages of the newspaper for Torturo to read. Marco’s was a compassionate nature, and he wanted his cousin to prosper.
“Well, one thing is certain,” said Marco. “We must prove to the world who you are and install you once again in your rightful place as the Vicar of Christ upon earth. Since you were declared dead a new conclave has taken place. Gonzales got his way. They elected Hojeda. He took the name of Pope Clement the Fifteenth. But of course he is not anything of the sort. You are the Pope, not him. We must prove to the world who you are!”
Torturo smiled sourly. He shook his head, “No.”
“You don’t think
we would be able to prove your case?”
Torturo looked at him gravely.
“Do you not want to be Pope?”
The cripple did not stir.
Marco repeated the question: “Do you want to be Pope, the Vicar of Christ upon earth?”
Torturo shook his head, “No.”
***
It was one of the first days of spring. Marco wheeled his cousin through the Orto Botanico, the botanical gardens of Padua, which, dating back to 1545, is one of the oldest botanical gardens in the world. They went over the beautiful walks, which were just beginning to burst with greenery and scented flowers. Marco talked little, only now and again reading the names and histories of the various plants. They stopped beneath the shade of the beautiful magnolias which, dating from the 1700’s, are the oldest in Europe. Afterwards, they saw the four-hundred year old Göethe palm, by which the famous German poet formed his theory of evolution. There were beautiful creepers, succulents, a greenhouse full of orchids and ferns, and a pond carpeted with water lilies and other aquatic plants. Torturo gazed fondly over the poisonous plant garden, the Veratrum nigrum and Aconitum napellus, the Gelsemium, or false jasmine, with its lanceolate leaves and its gorgeous and fragrant funnel shaped flowers. In the three rooms of the orangery, aside from philodendron, Japanese pepper and scented pelargonium, numerous carnivorous plants sat with open maws: cobra lilies, Drosophylla with their coiling tentacles and the staghorn sundew, with its giant twenty-three inch leaves.
The air was heavy with perfume. The cripple breathed in deeply through his nostrils and then smiled sadly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Marco said.
Torturo nodded his head, “Yes.”
There was a pause. Marco felt deeply for his cousin. The man, just months before, had been in the highest position in the Catholic world; he had been incredibly fit, charismatic, and energetic. It had seemed as if his destiny was to do great things. But here he was now, a croaking, obscure cripple, raped of the powers to properly function, with eyes growing dim of exultation. If he lacked the will to live it was no wonder.
“Would you like a cigarette?”
“Yes.”
Marco took the pack from Torturo’s pocket, knocked one out and stuck it in the latter’s mouth. Torturo took a long drag, held it momentarily in his lungs and then exhaled through his nose, the grey plume rising up and slowly melting into the sky.
“I need to buy some panbiscotto and cheese,” Marco said “Shall we go to the shop now?”
Torturo agreed and the two men leisurely made their way out of the garden, the cripple wheeled along, gazing at the plants and blooms around him with a sort of sad satisfaction. While going along the Vicolo Santonini, a youngish priest, probably in his late twenties, overtook them.
“Ah, Father Massimo!” Marco cried. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you. I am out for my afternoon constitutional. And how are you?” (He looked down at Torturo and smiled pityingly.) “How are you and your friend?”
Torturo nodded.
“Very well, thank you,” Marco replied. “Simply out enjoying this beautiful spring weather. Please join us.”
The two priests and the cripple moved along, the former engaged in pleasant conversation, the latter slowly puffing at the cigarette which dangled from his lips. The young priest was lively and his bright, handsome face shone as he talked, telling the bishop a humorous antidote concerning Dante, the Seventh Circle of Hell, and the father of Enrico Scrovegni. Gradually the three men came to the Ponte Molino and, crossing it, stopped half way. The sun struck them in full and the Bachiglione River ran beneath, a beautiful gurgling brownish green. Father Massimo continued to talk. The cripple surveyed the surrounding area, the spinning river and its banks, an old woman hanging clothes out to dry from her window, a boy by the water’s edge playing with a dog.
“Un piccolo piccolo Lassie, un pi-co-lo Lassie!” the boy sang.
Though neither of the two men, standing and conversing, took any notice of the boy, Torturo’s eyes were firmly set in that direction. While singing, the boy tied a large stone to the end of the leash.
Marco touched his own head with the palm of his hand. “Ah, I forgot!” he exclaimed. “I still need to buy the groceries. Do you mind watching my friend while I run quickly into the shop?”
“Certainly not,” Father Massimo replied. “I would be delighted to stay here with him.”
Marco ran across the street. The young priest, leaning with his back against the parapet of the bridge and humming to himself, stayed with Torturo.
Torturo watched as the boy picked up the dog.
“Un piccolo piccolo Lassie, un pi-co-lo Lassie!” the boy sang, and then lifting the dog over his head, flung it into the river. “Un piccolo piccolo Lassie, un pi-co-lo Lassie!” The boy stood on the bank of the river dancing and laughing. The dog struggled briefly and then, pulled down by the weight of the rock, sank.
The young priest had turned and witnessed the finale of this cruel act. In a flash, he threw off his cassock, revealing a well-fashioned, masculine body, jumped upon the parapet of the bridge and dived off. The water at this part of the river was deceptive. It looked tolerably deep, but was not. Sharp rocks lurked beneath the dark green water. Father Massimo plowed heavily into the river, struck his head against such a rock and fell, rolling unconscious into the water. The boy screamed. A few pedestrians had seen the priest jump. They gathered at the edge of the bridge, but none ventured into the river in which the young ecclesiastic was sinking, unconscious. The people discussed the matter, almost calmly, while the minutes passed.
Finally a gaunt gentleman in a leisure suit approached and, upon being informed what the problem was, proceeded to take action. He peeled off his jacket and shirt and slid off the bank, into the water. With great effort he recovered the body and brought it to shore, just as Marco was returning, carrying a bag of groceries. Torturo’s cousin, who was the Bishop of Padua, gave a cry of alarm when he saw the body laid out on the grassy bank of the Bachiglione. Throwing the groceries to one side, he hurried across the bridge and down to the shaded bank. The face and lips of Father Massimo were white and he did not breathe. Presently a doctor appeared on the scene. He examined the priest minutely and attempted mouth to mouth resuscitation, followed by the Hiemlich manoeuvre.
“How is he?” Marco asked anxiously, seeing the exasperated expression on the doctor’s face.
“He’s dead,” the man said. “He has drowned.”
“By God, he is dead!” someone in the gathering crowd shouted.
Marco ran a finger over the young man’s cheek.
“Yes,” he said. “His soul has flown to heaven.”
The body trembled slightly.
“He is trembling,” Marco observed.
“So he is,” the doctor said. “It is a muscle spasm I suppose. Not uncommon.”
Marco looked at the trembling corpse and held his breath.
Of a sudden, a rippling, snake-like surge ran through the young priest’s body. He quaked violently; his left arm lashed the ground; his head whipped forward and he coughed, his tongue lunging from his mouth. After spitting out a mouthful of bilious fluid, Father Massimo sat up with eyes wide and bloodshot.
Marco’s heart danced in his breast. “He’s alive,” he murmured. “He has returned to the land of the living!”
“I . . . I must have been mistaken,” the doctor mumbled. “Sometimes the vital signs are impossible to perceive.”
The young priest smiled awkwardly and gasped for air. His skin was still ashen white. An ambulance appeared on the scene and he was rushed off to the hospital amidst the applause of the onlookers.
“Ah, cousin Torturo!” Marco said to himself as the ambulance sped away. He turned and walked quickly back over the bridge, where the cripple had been left unattended for the past half hour.
The creature was there, slumped in his wheel chair, chin pressed against chest.
“He has nodd
ed off to sleep.”
Marco gathered up the groceries which he had cast aside and sat them on the lap of the cripple. Only then did he notice the parted lips and pallid stillness.
“Cousin?”
He took hold of a shoulder and shook it.
“Cousin!”
He bent over and stared at the ravaged, torment-tempered face. The cripple breathed no more. Tears filled the Bishop of Padua’s eyes, rolled down his cheeks and fell on his cousin’s neck; – the neck of one who had suffered much and had fallen from the staggering heights of glory. Xaverio Torturo was dead; he had died in the spring sun, his body wasted.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marco sat in his office, the same which had once belonged to Bishop Vivan, his gentle features infused with an infinite sadness. He mulled over paperwork, occasionally taking a sip from a glass of ginger ale which was by his side. His cousin was dead, and he mourned. He had had the body cremated and, just that morning, scattered the ashes in the Bachiglione River. He considered this to be more noble than a grave which could never be marked.
What sorrowed him most however, was not so much the death, but the mystery of the departed soul. In the state that Torturo had been, death was an alternative not to be altogether despised – That is, if his soul managed to escape eternal perdition. On this score however Marco was far from certain. He had no exact knowledge of Torturo’s relationship with the Supreme Being, but feared it was not all that it should have been. That he, Marco, was a grievous sinner, he well knew. He must repent, and struggle for cleanliness of life, purify himself by fulfilling his duties in a seamless manner. But his cousin? Had Torturo had time to clear up any uncertainties regarding his own destiny prior to death?
The Translation of Father Torturo Page 19