The lawyer holds up a cautionary hand. “Va bene, but you’re going to have to stop smiling.”
The dottore tries to tug his face into a frown with his fingers, but once he lets go, his features spring back to a smile.
“Don’t worry,” says the lawyer, “you’ll stop smiling soon enough when the old buzzards start digging their claws into you.”
“Have one of these clementini, Gianozzo, they’re delicious.”
A scraping of chairs, a clearing of throats, the three judges—two Italians and an “Anglo-Saxon,” English or Irish—enter the long room. Dressed in black cassocks—no purple pomp here—they sweep their skirts under them as they take their seats. The Sacra Romana Rota Tribunalis wishes to interrogate Alessandro Antonio Postiglione whose case has been referred to the Rota by the defender of the bond of the diocesan court of the second instance in Turin (whence it had been sent by the defender of the bond of the diocesan court of the first instance in Florence). On the long table behind which the judges are seated the clerk has laid out the folders containing the documents of the case, which are called “judicial acts.” What is not contained in these acts, according to a judicial maxim, does not exist: Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo.
The room is poorly lit and Dottor Postiglione has to quell an impulse to tear open the purple drapes that cover the high windows. He is still smiling, though imperceptibly. The faces of the judges appear neither cordial nor hostile. Their duties—their expressionless faces seem to say—are unpleasant and even, from the point of view of the church, unnecessary: a concession to weaknesses of the flesh and spirit that almost two millennia of discipline have failed to correct. But they are interested, too, for all their feigned indifference. They are professionals, experts in the legal, psychological, theological, metaphysical, and physiological aspects of the mysterious bonds of holy matrimony that make one flesh out of two. Indivisible, except under certain conditions.
The Anglo-Saxon, like Dottor Postiglione, is bald. The dottore tries to catch his eye, succeeds, thinks he detects a faint response.
Also present are a notary and the defensor vinculi—that is, the defender of the bond, tall and thin, almost emaciated. It is his job to defend the bond of marriage against those who would attack it, namely, Dottor and Signora Postiglione. He is the adversary who can never be defeated, but who may be circumvented.
What God has joined together, no man can put asunder, unless there was some flaw in the original joint, in which case there was no true marriage (conjugium ratum) in the first place. Such flaws, called impediments, are (1) insanity, (2) false identity, (3) constraint, (4) conditional consent, and (5) impotentia coeundi.
Dottor Postiglione would have preferred another line of attack, but at the advice of the best lawyers, he has agreed to take advantage of the fact that he and his wife have had no children and plead impotence.
Unfortunately the testimony of the principal parties is never sufficient to establish impotentia coeundi, and it has been necessary to take depositions from Isabella’s brothers (who cooperated without much enthusiasm), from the dottore’s closest friends, from psychoanalysts, and from medical experts, appointed by the court, who specialize in conducting the humiliating visual, digital, and instrumental examinations prescribed by canon law in cases of this sort, who know how to describe to the court’s satisfaction the length, diameter, circumference and other distinguishing features of the penis in question, and the shape, thickness, and elasticity of the hymen, and to note whether the latter has been notched, scarred, or ruptured in any way; and who also know how to encourage the woman they are examining to recount the intimate details of any experiences that may have affected her physical integrity (in order that the court might be in a better position to pass judgment on the case); and who must also be alert to the possibility that physical integrity may be craftily faked by means of new surgical techniques.
It is also necessary in cases of impotentia coeundi to establish the antecedency of the impotence, for impotence that develops after a marriage has been contracted does not constitute a true impediment and the marriage remains valid. Antecedency is presumed only if the complaint is issued shortly after the marriage has been contracted. If a long interval precedes the allegation of impotence, the condition is presumed subsequent. In order to establish antecedency Dottor and Signora Postiglione have submitted as evidence a number of postcards, which Signora Postiglione presumably sent to her husband shortly after their marriage, in which she complains to her husband about his failure to consummate the marriage. Fortunately old postcards, suitably franked (with old stamps) and canceled (with whatever date and location are required) can be purchased for these purposes in any major Italian city, along with the appropriate writing instruments and inks. Modern couples often take the precaution of sending postcards to each other from the time of their engagement, leaving the message space blank so that it can be filled in later if the couple wishes to establish grounds for an annulment. The wife will write, for example: “Dear Giovanni, I’m so glad you’re going to be a lawyer. I could never love a man who is not a lawyer . . .” The stipulation that Johnny is going to be a lawyer becomes a necessary condition for a true marriage. Johnny is a plumber, however, not a lawyer. Ergo his marriage is invalid.
It is about these postcards that the judges of the Rota, always suspicious of collusion in cases of impotence, wish to interrogate Dottor Postiglione.
The interrogation is carried out informally. The officialis, or chief judge, begins by reviewing the pertinent facts:
“According to your initial deposition, Dottor Postiglione, you failed to consummate your marriage on your wedding night.”
“That is correct.”
“And that despite repeated attempts, made in good faith, at no time did the external meatus of your penis permeate beyond your wife’s hymeneal membrane?”
“That is correct.”
“Rendering it impossible for you to deposit even a small amount of seminal fluid in your wife’s vagina?”
“È vero.”
“And that you continued to live together for nineteen—excuse me, twenty—years before separating?”
“È vero.”
“And that a thorough medical examination of both you and your wife revealed no organic impediments to intercourse.”
“È vero.”
“And that in fact the condition of your wife’s vagina indicated that she had experienced intercourse regularly for a number of years?”
“Vero.”
“But that by her own admission she had consorted with other men?”
“Vero.”
“And that you yourself, in fact—though your original testimony on this point was somewhat confused and contradictory—have consorted with other women?”
“Vero.”
The officialis puts down the piece of paper from which he has been reading as he turns from specific evidence to general principles: “In order to stand as an impediment to marriage, Dottor Postiglione, impotence must be (a) antecedent, (b) permanent, and (c) certain. Doubtful impotence, either of law or of fact, is not an impediment.”
“Permit me, Your Reverence”—Dottor Postiglione’s lawyer speaks for the first time—“to say that all three conditions were established to the satisfaction of the diocesan tribunals.”
The defender of the bond is moved to answer: “That is true, Signor Awocato, but in cases of impotentia relativa—that is, impotence experienced with one person only—as opposed to impotentia absoluta, it is always proper for the court to exercise particular caution. The defender of the bond in the diocesan court in Turin was quite right to refer the case to us in spite of the court’s decision.”
“But according to the rule,” the lawyer responds, “laid down by Canon 1979-2, which provides the norms for resolving cases of impotentia relativa, when the independent testimony of two psychoanalysts confir
ms what must be evident to a hypothetical prudent man—”
“Excuse me,” the defender of the bond interrupts, “but it is a point of fact, not of law, that causes the court to . . . ah, wonder. Surely a prudent man will have cause to doubt—reasonable cause—that a man with your clients reputation for virility will be incapable of penetrating his new bride.”
The lawyer stands, adjusts his coat with both hands, tugging at the lapels: “To begin with, my client’s virility is not a matter of record and as far as this court is concerned, does not exist. Secondly, you will recall that at the time of the marriage my client was a young apprentice at the Galleria Colonna. He was new to Rome. He was marrying a wealthy woman against the wishes of her powerful family. She had been brought up in a palace and was accustomed to every luxury. He was a peasant lad from the Abruzzi. It should not be hard for a prudent man to grasp the difficulty of the situation. Nor to understand that the trauma of the first night—the bride’s family waiting outside the bedroom door for an announcement, for the presentation of blood-stained sheets. It’s no easy thing, under the circumstances, to perform that most delicate act, an act requiring trust, grace, tact, and—may I say it?—exceptional courage. Having failed once . . .” Up go the shoulders and the palms, as if the lawyer is being carried upward toward the ceiling, which is lightly frescoed with pink putti in the manner of Bronzino. “And the fact remains, of course, that there has been no issue.”
The officialis, eyes sparkling, intervenes: “No mention was made in any of the depositions of the family standing outside the bedroom door.”
“I was speaking figuratively, Your Reverence.”
And now the court hears from one of the assistant judges, who speaks with a rich Irish singsong that is not in fact uncommon in ecclesiastical courts: “Quantum a rerum turpitudine, tantum te a verborum libertate sejungas.” (“If you want to avoid the corruption of things, you’ve got to avoid corruption of language.” It’s the closest thing you’re likely hear to a joke in the Rota.) The officialis gives his colleague a disapproving look.
“Cicero,” says the Irishman. “Pro Coelio.”
“Let me turn now to the matter of the postcards,” says the officialis, “which are the principal issue. The first is dated 5 August 1937, shortly after the invasion of Ethiopia. It is addressed to you at the military training camp in Lucca.”
Dottor Postiglione’s lawyer interrupts: “These postcards, Your Reverence, express the anguish of the signora’s condition—a wife but not a woman . . . no, not yet a wife. Perhaps I should put it the other way round: a woman but not a wife. Not yet a wife. Married, no . . .” The lawyer, who has confused himself, abandons this line and takes up another. “In the later ones, Your Reverence, we see her losing hope, threatening to take a lover.”
“The court,” says the officialis, “has examined these postcards with some care. The issue is not what they say but whether what they say can be corroborated. It seems odd to the court that a woman would express herself so freely in such a public way, especially when she had ample opportunity to express herself viva voce.”
The lawyer embarks on a lengthy explanation.
“There are others who have seen these cards?”
“Yes, Your Reverence.”
“At the time? Someone who can remember them at the time they were sent?”
“They’re not the sort of thing a man shows to his friends, Your Reverence, but yes, my client did in fact show them to several close friends at the time.”
“We will need depositions from these friends.”
“Of course, Your Reverence.”
“I must remind you that these depositions should have been taken by one of the lower courts, and it is only with the consent of the defender of the bond that the Rota has agreed to proceed with the case instead of sending it back to Florence or Turin.”
“We are very appreciative, Your Reverence.”
“And you must also remember, Signor Avvocato—and Dottor Postiglione, I include you, too—that the presumption of the law favors the validity of the marriage, and for this reason the court suggests that you, Dottor Postiglione, make a further attempt to have intercourse with your wife. It may be that in the twelve years during which you’ve lived apart your disposition will have been altered sufficiently to overcome your incapacity. In the meantime you cannot expect the court to smile indulgently on the habitual adultery of either party.”
“Out of the frying pan into the fire,” says the Irish priest, in English, provoking another disapproving look.
“But that’s quite impossible.” Dottor Postiglione, who has been shaping his own version of the proceedings into a one-act opera buffa in the manner of Pergolesi’s La Serva Padrona, with the old priests taking the parti serie, expresses his incredulity by giving his hand three firm shakes, as if he were trying to detach it from his wrist. “I . . . why . . . our differences are . . . It’s simply out of the question.”
“Out of the question, Dottor Postiglione, that husband and wife, with the blessings of Holy Mother Church, should knit themselves together into one flesh?”
“You’re dealing with human beings, Your Reverence.”
“Precisely.”
“You need to consider the needs of human beings. You need to consider human dignity. You need to consider simple human decency.”
“Dottor Postiglione, that is precisely what the church must ignore if she is to do her work: human needs, human dignity, human decency. What you mean, if I may translate, is that you find the teachings of the church inconvenient. Of course you do, Dottor Postiglione. The church is very inconvenient. She stands in our way—mine as well as yours—and says ‘Turn back, O man, forswear your foolish ways.’ Two souls have been intertwined, Dottor Postiglione, in a most complicated way, like two pieces of string that have been wound up into a tangle. You would like us to cut through the tangle with a pair of scissors, snip, snip, snip”—he makes little snipping motions with his fingers—“but that is precisely what we will not do. It may be that the pieces of string can be untangled without damage to either of them, but that requires time and patience. If the pieces of string have been properly knotted, then it will not be possible. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. It is our office to examine the knots, Dottore, not to cut the string.” More snipping motions.
The dottore’s lawyer and the defender of the bond both have a good deal to say about strings and knots and the distinctions made in canon law between impotentia relativa and impotentia absoluta. Dottor Postiglione himself, who regards the matter with extreme distaste, has brought his opera buffa to a fine point, but just as his wily conniver—portrayed by a basso buffo, himself—is about to confound the court of old men with a dazzling deus ex machina, the audience falls silent. The officialis is speaking to him, repeating himself: “Dottor Postiglione? Dottor Postiglione? Let me remind you again, Dottor Postiglione, that doubtful impotence is no impediment, nor is subsequent impotence. The court will ask the bishop of Florence to appoint a commission to take the depositions regarding the validity of the postcards; the commission will prepare the interrogatories and begin to summon the witnesses within three months’ time. And let me remind you, Dottor Postiglione, that until you have complied with the court’s suggestion, the court will continue to regard your case as one of impotentia coeundi dubita et relativa. A deposition from your wife will be required as well to establish the fact that you have carried out our suggestion in good faith. And one final point: If the new depositions furnish proof of nonconsummation that are stronger than the proofs of impotence, then the Rota will declare itself incompetent to rule in the case and all the records will be sent to the Sacred Congregation of the Sacraments, along with the written opinion of the defensor vinculi, and you will have to petition the Sacred Congregation for an apostolic dispensation, which the church may grant as a favor she accords her subjects. There will be no appeal agains
t the decision of the congregation, of course, since it is a purely administrative matter, not a judicial one. That will be all.”
The judges rise. The defender of the bond rises. The notary rises. Dottor Postiglione and his lawyer rise.
Where is the deus ex machina?
“Go in peace,” says the officialis, smiling.
Margot is full of questions.
“How did it go?”
“Not too badly.”
“But not too well?”
“One can’t expect too much from those old crows.”
“Tell me everything.”
“You don’t want to know, and you wouldn’t believe me if I did tell you.”
“Try me.”
He tries.
“Where did you get the postcards?”
“At a place behind the Pantheon.”
“Behind the Pantheon?”
“A specialty shop, everything you need to manufacture evidence: old postcards, old inks, old-fashioned fountain pens, old stamps, a machine that does any kind of cancellation you want, any date and city.” Dottor Postiglione pretends to pluck out an eye, which he places on the railing of the balcony, to indicate how much the place charges for its services.
“Why not letters?”
“Because the postmark is only on the envelope, not on the letter itself. You need something with the date stamped right on it. It’s like insurance.”
“And what about your wife?”
“She’ll have to make another visit to the Rota.”
“You’re not really going to . . . ?”
“Of course not.”
“But those old men will ask her about what happened when you . . . ?”
“Exactly. And she’ll tell them . . . ?”
“Everything?”
“All the juicy details.”
Margot shudders.
“It’s the only chance the church has left to squeeze you by the coglioni, legally. Now in the old days there were a thousand ways the priests could get at you. If you looked cross-eyed they could put you to the test. Look”—with a sweeping gesture of his arm he invites her to take in the entire piazza, the noisy market at their feet; the pushcarts and large umbrellas; the fountains, the restaurants; the old, crumbling palazzi; the schoolchildren on their way home for lunch; the great hooded figure of Giordano Bruno, towering over the market stalls. “This was the place of public executions. Bruno was only the first. Burned alive. February 17, 1600. That’s what those old crows would do to me if they could. Public torture too. Right over there. You see that banchetta with all the scarves? Just beyond the fountain? This was the city center, you know. Everybody came through here, all the religious processions, all the notables. They’d hoist you up by your arms—especially if you were a Jew or a heretic—tie weights on your feet, and then drop you just enough to pull your arms and legs out of their sockets. It gave the place a bad name.”
The Sixteen Pleasures Page 21