God's Dog

by Diego Marani

  PRAISE FOR DIEGO MARANI AND NEW FINNISH GRAMMAR

  ‘This is an extraordinary book, as good as Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient and with a similar mystery at its heart.’ Spectator

  ‘Beautifully written and translated, and beautifully original.’ The Times

  ‘Who is Sampo? This identity thriller delivers plot, bodies and clues—as well as poetic musings on national and individual identity. Marani is obsessed by language and how it defines us.’ Independent

  ‘Marani’s miraculous novel is profound, moving, elusive and tragic.’ Irish Times

  ‘This is a desperately sad book. It takes its place beside Romantic stories of Kaspar Hauser and the Wolf Boy of Aveyron, which have haunted the European imagination for two centuries…Judith Landry is to be congratulated on her seamless translation from the Italian.’ New Statesman

  ‘We soon forget we are reading an English translation of an Italian novel. Sheer narrative vim is one reason for this…What gives New Finnish Grammar its true interest, however, is its evocation of a place and language foreign to the author yet, to all appearances, intimately familiar.’ Times Literary Supplement

  ‘I wish I had the time and the energy to learn by heart some of the many passages in this excellent book in which the Finnish language is evoked as an entity more strange and compelling than even the characters who speak it or write letters in it or struggle to comprehend its power and mystery.’ Gerald Murnane

  ‘A thoroughly European sensibility: intellectual, melancholy, mysterious, imbued with a sense of tragedy and history.’

  Independent on Sunday

  PRAISE FOR THE LAST OF THE VOSTYACHS

  ‘Diego Marani’s second novel to appear in English, in a dazzling translation from the Italian by Judith Landry, is a riot of comic unpredictability…The Last of the Vostyachs cleverly explores notions of freedom, possession and imprisonment—erudition keeping pace with a rollicking plot. Marani’s sentences are controlled explosions of impressionism, his narrative structure a thematic echo chamber.’ Times Literary Supplement

  ‘So, we have: 1. An intellectual puzzle. 2. A wild man of nature adrift in a big city. 3. A policier set near the Arctic Circle. (If that alone doesn’t make you put down your copies of Fifty Shades of Whatever then I despair. It has that Killingesque atmosphere.) 4. Magic, and a sense of the immensity of the primeval universe. 5. An unmistakable dash of humour, even when your nerves are being shredded. 6. Wolves, and a Siberian tiger, let loose from a zoo. 7. A happy ending against all odds. And 8. All hanging together. When I reviewed New Finnish Grammar, I edged towards using the word “genius” to describe Marani. I’m doing so again now.’ Guardian

  ‘For Italian fiction in translation, there is nobody more important being published today. This is a beautiful, intelligently funny novel.’ Italia Magazine

  ‘Marani’s fascination with languages, and with the silencing of language in particular, permeates this captivating work.’

  Sydney Morning Herald / Age

  ‘A roller-coaster ride whisking the reader alternatively through zones of darkness, hilarity, cruelty, tenderness, the near-lubricious…There’s something for almost everyone.’ PEN

  DIEGO MARANI was born in Ferrara in 1959. He has worked as a translator and policy officer for the European Commission and has written several other novels, collections of essays and short stories. Marani has been awarded the Campiello Prize, the Stresa Prize for The Last of the Vostyachs, as well as winning the Bruno Cavallini Prize. New Finnish Grammar has received the Grinzane-Cavour Prize, was shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Award, and the Best Translated Book Award, and longlisted for the European Book Prize. Marani invented the mock language Europanto, in which he has written columns for European newspapers. He lives in Brussels with his wife and two children.

  JUDITH LANDRY is a translator of works of fiction, art and architecture. Her translations include The Last of the Vostyachs by Diego Marani, The House by the Medlar Tree by Giovanni Verga, The Devil in Love by Jacques Cazotte, A Bag of Marbles by Joseph Joffo, and Smarra & Trilby by Charles Nodier. In 2012, she was awarded the Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize for Marani’s New Finnish Grammar.

  TRANSLATED BY JUDITH LANDRY

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Il Cane di Dio © copyright Diego Marani 2012

  English translation copyright © Judith Landry 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in Italian as Il Cane di Dio, Bompiani, 2012

  First published in the UK by Dedalus, 2014

  This edition published by The Text Publishing Company, 2014

  Cover design by WH Chong

  Page design by Imogen Stubbs

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Author: Marani, Diego.

  Title: God’s Dog/ by Diego Marani, translated by Judith Landry.

  ISBN: 9781922147714 (pbk.)

  ISBN: 9781921148711 (ebook)

  Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.

  Other Authors/Contributors: Landry, Judith.

  Dewey Number: 853.914

  I

  ‘My name is Domingo Salazar, I was born on the feast of Saint Dominic and brought up by the Dominican Fathers. I am a policeman, I see to it that the laws of our Holy Mother Church are respected and I work for the worldwide spread of that same Church. I never knew my parents, but from the colour of my skin I think they must have been Caribbean, or at least of mixed race. The Fathers found me beneath the rubble of the orphanage of the Holy Cross, in Haiti, in 2010, and brought me to Italy. I grew up in the boarding-school run by the Dominican sisters of Saint Imelda, I studied at the patriarchal monastery in Bologna and then at the Papal Police Academy in Rome, which I left with the rank of inspector in the fifth year of the reign of Pope Benedict XVIII.’

  He had developed this mania for diary-keeping as a result of the time he had spent with the nuns. ‘Time to get writing!’ the mother superior would say after tea, throwing open the grey door to the wood-panelled main hall. You still wrote with pen and paper in those days, in an exercise-book backed with black cloth which was chained to the desk, and which the sisters would read through later. So this diary had become a detailed account of his life, divided up into years. But Domingo Salazar would always copy out those first same sentences in every new exercise-book he began, as though to remind himself of who he was.

  It was almost time for his appointment. Outside it was already dark. He had slept much of the afternoon; he had thrown himself on to the bed the moment he’d arrived, without even opening his suitcase. His flight had left at dawn, and he’d spent the whole previous night writing, as he always did. He washed himself in cold water, then shaved and dressed slowly in front of the mirror in the bathroom. He picked up his pistol-case from the chair and strapped it on under his arm. He didn’t like the sound of this new mission. He didn’t yet know much about it, but hunting down angels of death was a job for an ordinary municipal policeman, not an inspector like himself. Those Free Death Brigades struck him as amateurs, hot-heads with few means and even less experience. For all he knew, they might not even be organised into a proper group; they were stray dogs embarking on wild-goose chases. But orders were orders, and at seven o’clock he would learn further details abou
t his assignment from the Vicar.

  He arrived at Sant’Andrea della Valle just as evening mass was ending. The priest gave the blessing and the faithful started trooping out. Salazar went up to the confessional to the right of the nave. The curtain was half-open, but the priest’s seat was empty, as was the one in the other confessional to the left. He walked up and down, pretending to examine the frescoes, then went back into the apse. By now the church was empty, except for an altar-boy who was putting out the candles. Salazar decided to go and kneel before one of the two confessionals at random, imagining that the Vicar, were he in the church, would come and join him. An agent and his Vicar must never see or know each other; they were not to use mobiles or e-mail; communication between them had to be exclusively oral. This was the number one safety rule for the secret agents of the papal police. The meeting-place was a confessional in the church referred to in the mission order, itself the only written document – unsigned – which would remain in the registers of the barracks to which the agent in question belonged. When an agent on a mission lost contact with his Vicar, he had to present himself at the nearest Swiss Guards post for an identity check. That was the only way he could be reinstated in the corps. Otherwise he himself became an outlaw, and might be eliminated. Salazar went back into the nave and up to the nearest confessional, the one on the left. Coming from the chapel, he couldn’t see the seat but, as he approached, he saw two black shoes on the footstool. Well, he thought, the Vicar’s here at last. He was about to kneel down when the purple curtain was nudged aside by an elbow; for one brief instant, Salazar saw the fingertips of two white hands holding a glass bulb, witnessed the delicate gesture made by a one-eyed man slipping his prosthesis into an empty socket. Then the curtain was almost closed again, and the man’s face was sunk in shadow. Embarrassed by his unintentional intrusion, Salazar took a few steps backwards before going to kneel down, hoping that the Vicar had not noticed anything. He could hear breathing through the openwork grille. As agreed, he recited the Credo, gave his registration number and then waited, in silence.

  ‘Inspector Salazar, I know you to be a faithful soldier in the service of our Holy Mother Church. I know your superiors, and they have confirmed your gifts in this regard. Furthermore I know you to have an excellent record, a decoration and various recommendations. I also know about your activities in Beirut and I congratulate you on them. We could do with more agents with such initiative! If I have called you here from Amsterdam, it is because I have a delicate task to entrust to you. You see, of all the dangers threatening our Holy Mother Church, none is more terrible than the practice of free death, which is becoming ever more widespread in this depraved world of ours. Euthanasia, as miscreants and scientists refer to it, destroys what God holds dearest, namely, the life He has given us. Euthanasia does away with the mystery of pain, which should be so revered. It’s not just a question of dogma, Salazar. Our hold on people’s consciences is also at stake. If men cease to fear death, or begin to regard it as something run-of-the-mill, our sway over them is seriously threatened. We are already conducting an active campaign of propaganda and dissuasion, but it’s no longer enough. What is called for is repression, carefully handled, and above all covert. People must not be aware of the restraints which bind them. The first part of your mission will be this, Salazar. You will inspect the hospitals in the fourth zone and keep an eye on such terminally ill patients as might be seeking death. You will need to know everything about them, every last detail of their lives. You will have to glean information about their relatives, their friends, their intimate ties. You will have to delve into their past and know their every ambition and achievement. And also what they own: because, as you well know, inspector, the law authorises the Church to seize the goods of those who die an unnatural death, and this is a powerful weapon in our armoury. Even the most ardent euthanasiast thinks twice before seeing his own children disinherited. You will also keep a close eye on the medical staff. As we know, despite the purges, many abortionists are still active within their ranks. Even the smallest detail should be taken into account, Salazar. You will have to keep the closest watch on every dying man. You will have to be able to tell from their expressions if theirs is willing suffering, or if they are rebelling against their fate. That is when they fall under the spell of the fanatics. We know that euthanasiasts make converts in hospitals. There they have a captive audience, and it is easy to convince sick people that they might wish to hasten their own end. But if you succeed in breaking this vicious circle, then we shall deprive them of their main sources of financial support. Because – and it is important to remember this – the sick actually pay to have themselves disposed of! It is only by thwarting their hold over sick people that we shall ultimately succeed in routing the angels of death!’

  The Vicar was gripping the handrail of the confessional with such force that it positively creaked. Even through the brass grating, Salazar felt the priest’s breath on his face. It was that smell of musty material and mouthwash which were subsequently to inform him of the Vicar’s presence.

  ‘Now for the second part of your mission, inspector, the more tricky part: a manhunt. For years we’ve been trying to track down Ivan Zago, an abortionist doctor who works underground. We know that he has fled abroad; he’s currently living in Switzerland, where we are powerless to lay hands on him. We’ve had his parents under surveillance for some time, hoping to intercept him; they are the only members of his family who have stayed on in Italy. But some time ago we lost track of them. His mother is probably dead. We’re not certain, but she seems to have been buried in a common grave in the Flaminio Cemetery. We didn’t know anything about his father, either, until various clues led us to the Hospital of San Filippo Neri, where it seems that a certain Davide Zago was admitted with a brain tumour three months ago, and then discharged, according to the hospital register. But the address on his hospital file is false, as is the name of the doctor who was caring for him. In a word, we suspect that Davide Zago is still in that hospital, probably dying, hidden among the terminal patients. His son Ivan will be ready to do anything to spare him a lingering death. He will try to reach him in hospital to help him die, with the help of the accomplices who had him hidden there. And that’s where we must set our trap, inspector! The bait of the father will lead us to the son!’

  ‘But if we don’t know what name Zago is going under, how can we be certain that he’s still in San Filippo Neri and not another hospital?’

  ‘We can’t. That’s why we’ve installed agents in the other Roman hospitals. But everything points to San Filippo Neri. Davide Zago was recognised by two nurses at the time he was admitted, so we’re sure that it was him. After the operation we lost track of him. Someone falsified his hospital files. But in the oncology ward there turns out to have been one less patient than there are beds. And in the last three months no terminally ill patient has been transferred from San Filippo Neri.’

  ‘I see. Does anyone at the hospital know of my mission?’

  ‘Only the Medical Guarantor of Faith. He’ll be expecting you. You are to introduce yourself to the department as an assistant pilgrim priest. Thousands of pilgrim priests are arriving in Rome for the canonisation of Benedict XVI. No one will be surprised by your presence in the hospital.’

  The Vicar fell silent. Salazar heard a rustling of cloth from behind the grille and couldn’t help thinking about the glass eye he’d just seen.

  ‘One more thing, inspector. Leaflets issued by the Free Death Brigade have been found around the city. These people are dangerous terrorists who will stop at nothing. They are financed by foreign powers and other enemies of the Church. There is a risk that they may be preparing to strike on Easter Day, when Benedict XVI is to be canonised. The security services are on red alert. In the past we’ve discovered some of their hiding-places and seized various pieces of propaganda material. But this time something more serious is afoot. What we fear even more than the threat of a massacre itself is the specta
cular nature of the possible attack. The whole world would be abuzz, and that is something we can never countenance. That is why the arrest of some abortionist or other enemy of the faith would serve our purpose. They might lead us to the Free Death Brigades. We must make them feel that we are on their heels! You may go now, inspector. Leave the church and do not linger. I’ll be waiting for you here every Friday after evening mass, so call by if you have anything to report.’ The priest fell silent and withdrew into the darkness. Salazar stayed there motionless for a few moments and smelt a slight whiff of scent coming from the other side of the grille; a pleasant smell of strawberries spread through the air.

  Even without seeing his interlocutor, the inspector knew instinctively what kind of man the Vicar was: one of the old guard, a man who had lived through troubled times and then witnessed the birth of the Catholic Republic. In a word, an old zealot who saw enemies of the faith at every turn. Number 2354 of the Catholic Catechism, as redrafted by His Holiness Benedict XVI in 2005, runs as follows: The citizen is conscience-bound to ignore the orders of the civil authorities when these run counter to the demands of the moral order, to fundamental rights or the teachings of the Gospel. It was this that led many Catholics to rebel against the godless laws of the Italian Republic. When parliament rejected the first proposal for a law which, in accordance with paragraph 2354, made offences against chastity a crime, together with homosexuality, masturbation and fornication, there were outbursts of protest all over Italy, and a state of emergency was declared. Salazar was still a pupil at the patriarchal monastery at the time, but he had clear memories of the atmosphere of frenzy and alarm which marked the months preceding the New Concordat.

  That autumn, the prior began delivering solemn lectures which talked of invisible enemies. The pupils listened without understanding and, as they came out of the refectory where the priest would have them gather to hear his sermons, they were too scared to discuss them. For some months, lessons were given in the cramped classrooms which overlooked the courtyard rather than in the airy rooms overlooking the street. The Saturday walk was now a thing of the past. Pupils were allowed out only when accompanied by a guardian, in small groups and always in civilian clothes. Canons and novices alike spent a gloomy winter staring out of the refectory window watching the snow piling up on the roofs and then melting away. That was their only glimpse of the outside world. But Salazar also remembered that Sunday the following spring when the pope paid a visit to Bologna. That had been a memorable day. The bells rang out as they had never rung before. The fathers had received the news of the visit with trepidation. As time went by, relief was visible on their faces, as though some impending danger had been averted. As the event approached, they looked increasingly self-confident, and positively triumphant when the papal procession arrived at San Petronio. The square was heaving with little white and yellow flags. Salazar was in the first row of novices, lined up on the flight of steps in their splendid uniforms. Of all their number, it was he upon whom the pope had chosen to bestow his blessing.