The Translation of Father Torturo (10 page)

The priest who Vivan had once described as ‘inoffensive as a fly’ was rapidly coming into his own. That he had very little in common with a buzzing, two winged insect was now openly apparent. He had subjugated Vivan with ease. Zuccarelli could not be said to have been subjugated, but the man had clearly seen that to help Torturo was in his own best interest.

Both men wondered about this priest, this well built man in his thirties who chain smoked Parisiennes and who, apparently, had as deep and dark a clandestine life as could be imagined. Rumours had been floating about for some weeks that he was occasionally visited by the Holy Ghost. He had been seen entering a cheese shop during a torrential rain, every inch of him completely dry. At the intersection of the via Benedetto Cairoli and the via Jacopo Avanzo a bus had run over a seven year old boy’s foot. Torturo instantly appeared upon the scene, pushed the hysterical mother aside and, after removing the boy’s shoe, rubbed his foot. The child laughed, rose to his feet and danced along the sidewalk.

One night Torturo was preaching on the nature of the spirit world at Il Santo. Vivan was a member of the audience and was both impressed and moved by the oratory. Zuccarelli walked in and approached him.

“Who is that?” he whispered.

“Father Torturo – his voice is like wild honey.”

“Impossible!”

“You don’t like wild honey?”

“Not the honey idiot! The notion that that is Torturo – it cannot be him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because on my way here I passed by the Church of Eremitani. Torturo was there contemplating the half decimated fresco by Mantegna of the annunciation of the virgin. We talked for thirty minutes.”

“But I have been sitting here intoxicated by his voice for three quarters of an hour!” Vivan said, his eyes growing wide with astonishment.

“
Fava de la Madonna
,” Zuccarelli murmured. “Our priest is a mesmerist.”

Not long after this incident, a young nun claimed that, while she slept, Torturo visited and admonished her for aberrant thoughts. “He, in the likeness of sinful flesh, and for sin, condemned sin in the flesh!” She insisted that the man would do great things in the church.

“So now you are you working miracles?” Bishop Vivan asked him one day with a silly, self-conscious smile.

“The miracles of one age become the commonplace workings of nature in the next,” Torturo replied simply.

Through the efforts of Vivan and Zuccarelli, he was made an auxiliary bishop of Padua.

When he appeared before the cardinal with a suitcase full of bones and a jar containing a tongue the latter became apprehensive.

“What do we have here?” he asked.

“The tongue of Saint Anthony and the relics of Milan.”

“And how did you come by them?”

“As an official statement?”

“I suppose it had better be,” Zuccarelli replied nervously.

“
Officially: I prayed and fasted. I recited the responsory of Friar Julian of Spires
: Si quaeris miracula; resque perditas
. A messenger was put before me. As I knelt, behold, then an angel touched me, and said ‘Arise, I will show thee where they be.’ Then we walked to and fro over the earth and through the myrtles. The place where the relics were hidden was revealed in a vision.”

“
And where was that?”

“
In the hollow of a fig tree near Limena.”

“
You fetched them?”

“
I did.”

“
And this story is to be believed?”

“
It will be accepted. Us Catholics, after all, are not without faith; – We are not materialists.”

Zuccarelli drew up a statement, outlining Torturo’s story and adding his own conviction that it was so. Vivan lent his signature to the document and it was sent to Cardinal O’Malley, one of the key figures in Rome and a man on politically intimate terms with Zuccarelli. O’Malley, through partial coercion, managed to see a number of other signatures of prominent men affixed to the document, including those of the Archbishop of Milan and the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia. The Vatican, though pleased with the news, refused to offer its sanction to the relics without a verification procedure. A meeting was called of numerous ecclesiastic authorities, in order to ascertain the validity of the relics.

“I do not know whose tongue that is over there on the table and, frankly, I do not want to know,” Zuccarelli said in a low voice, as the various ecclesiastics gathered in the Palazzo della Ragione in Padua. “Outwardly I will remain convinced that it is the tongue of Saint Anthony; – I have told you I would do so much, and I will. Over my inner feelings however, you have no jurisdiction.”

“Oh, you don’t need to lay bare your heart to me Cardinal,” Torturo replied. “I am perfectly satisfied with outward pretence.”

“And you shall have it; – from me. But remember, we are not alone. The men you see around you, for the most part, are not fools. Though I have my supporters here, I also have my enemies. When I say something is true, they will surely claim it to be false.”

“Yes, Cardinal Gonzales, who has been warming himself in front of the fireplace, has been giving you a most unpleasant look for the last five minutes.”

“I noticed. It is because I am intimate with O’Malley, whose interests are opposed to his own. He does not dare offend the man personally, because he is afraid of him. It is much more convenient for him to display his impertinence towards myself, whom he considers harmless.”

“Yet I imagine there are more fitting adjectives to describe you.”

“Thank you – I suppose.”

“They have closed the doors. I presume we are ready to begin?”

“Yes; to our seats.”

The various members of the committee found their seats around the great wooden table placed in the centre of the room, with cassocks fluttering and whispers exchanged. In the middle of the table was a small golden casket, lined with white silk, on which sat the tongue; to one side sat a larger casket containing the relics of Milan. A few old ecclesiastics sniffed at the tongue and poked through the bones.

Zuccarelli, who was to head the committee, sat at one end of the table, Gonzales, an agile old cardinal, at the other. All the chief ecclesiastics from Padua were there, including of course Vivan, and many from Rome. Torturo took his place next to Cardinal Di Quaglio, a plump, polite little man with smooth white hands and a double chin. The latter’s nostrils widened. He looked over at Torturo.

“Excuse me,” he whispered. “But what is that cologne you’re wearing? It smells categorically celestial!”

Torturo smiled stiffly and shrugged his shoulders.

Zuccarelli opened the meeting with a brief speech outlining the general circumstances and stated that he firmly believed that the relics were genuine and should be seen as such. Gonzales roundly objected, stating that there was little more evidence that they were real than the word of a single priest.

“Are you calling him a liar?” Zuccarelli asked pointedly.

Gonzales pursed his lips. “I make no direct accusations,” he said.

“And where do you propose he got the bones from?”

“We are in Italy; – Bones are far from rare.”

“And the tongue?”

Gonzales gave the ghost of a smile. “Oh, men lose their tongues often enough.”

A number of those present burst out in indignation. The comment was generally taken to be in ill taste.

Torturo stood up before the assembly. He seemed to almost glow in the ill-lit room. There was a certain bearing, a power to his person which was ineffable. He exuded, not only supreme self confidence, but a kind of dominant strength that was somewhat uncanny.

“Cardinal Gonzales has kindly informed us that men often lose their tongues,” he said, “while giving us a brief but piquant demonstration that he has not lost his own.”

“The fellow certainly does have fire,” thought Zuccarelli. “It is remarkable that he remained unknown to me for so long. We could have been of use to each other earlier.”

Torturo placed his finger tips on the table and continued: “My veracity has been brought into question: The dead bodies of thy servants have they given to be meat unto the fowls of the heaven, the flesh of thy
saints unto the beasts of the earth. – Now, let us be clear about the matter at hand: We have before us right relics of the saints, and, according to the Council of Trent, we must pay them due respect. – The holy bodies of holy martyrs, which bodies were the living members of Christ and the temple of the Holy Ghost and which are by Him to be raised to eternal life and to be glorified are to be venerated by the faithful, for through these many benefits are bestowed by God on men. – Furthermore, Vivan is the bishop of this diocese and he has recognised the relics as authentic.”

“Yes,” Vivan said with a simper. “I know a relic when I see one and those are relics; – That tongue looks awfully relic to me.”

“It is all very well to talk randomly on these matters,” Gonzales said peevishly, the loose skin which hung from his chin to his throat, like that of a lizard, quivering, “but, the fact is that the bishop is required to obtain accurate information, to take council with theologians and pious men, and in cases of doubt or exceptional difficulty to submit the matter to the sentence of the metropolitan and other bishops of the province. Furthermore, nothing new, or that previously has not been usual in the church, shall be resolved on, without having first consulted the Holy See.”

“That is the very process which we are engaged in,” Zuccarelli said solemnly. “And I suggest we go about it respectfully. We must hold in the highest regard the saints who were so much beloved by God, and also their bones, which were once the frameworks of the temples of the Holy Ghost.”

“But these are mere bones!” Gonzales burst out in disgust. “Possibly those of some worthless beggar – And God only knows where the tongue came from! Bishop Quivil of Exeter, whose authority on the matter is pronounced, clearly states that relics should in no way be venerated on account of dreams or on fictitious grounds.”

“Cardinal Gonzales,” Torturo said coolly. “You seem determined to cast a doubting shadow over this assembly. What you refer to as ‘mere bones’ are more precious than refined gold; – The tongue is a priceless treasure. – I do not have the least doubt that, were you shown Saint Peter’s chains, you would say they were for snow tires and, were your eyes exposed to the gridiron of Saint Laurence, you would claim it was meant for the pressing of waffles. – Bishop Quivil, in making that statement (which you so kindly abridged) was referring to the discovery of
new
relics; – He in no way intended it to be used in regards to the
re-discovery
of relics already regarded as such.”

These words won Torturo general approval, but all those present were still by no means convinced. One old and much respected ecclesiastical scholar rose to his feet and spoke.

“Though I do not for a single moment doubt the good father’s credibility and I admit his story sounds plausible when looked at from a purely Catholic point of view, I still feel some reservations in admitting this to be the authentic tongue of Saint Anthony. In the history of the church there have been many unfortunate occurrences where spurious relics have been introduced. Though I would like to believe that this is the genuine article, and have the right and proper tongue of Saint Anthony restored to its sanctified home, my conscious still cries out for proof. Where is the proof my friends?”

There was a murmur throughout the room. All eyes were on the tongue. Many brows were furrowed. Minds were hesitant upon which way to turn. Zuccarelli, perplexed, bit his bottom lip and looked at Torturo, as if to say, “There, now the ball’s in your court.”

Torturo bent forward and, with a rapid yet suave gesture grabbed up the tongue, turned around and cast it into the fire. Every man, as if attached to a single spring rose to their feet in an uproar. All bodies rushed towards the fire, all arms stretched towards the flames. Torturo, powerful, magnificent, with arms wide and legs spread barred the way.

“No!” he cried. “Stand back you of miniature faith! If God cannot speak through your hearts, let him speak through the flames!”

“But you’ll burn it!” Vivan cried.

Most everyone in the room begged Torturo to step aside, a few even attempting to use physical force, but the priest, with an almost ecstatic look on his face, held them back. Many pulled their hair and wrung their hands in despair – for that the tongue was genuine the majority of the party had already been convinced. To have the relic once more in their possession only to be deprived of it, and this time without hope of ever seeing it returned, was horrible.

Some suggested calling in the carabinieri and having the priest arrested.

“You are a madman!” one cardinal sputtered, looking at Torturo with wild, bloodshot eyes.

“I seem to have heard that comment before,” the other replied with just the slightest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “But, if I am a madman, than surely I am one who lives amongst maniacs.” He stooped over the fire and, with an iron poker, fished through the burning bits of timber and hot coals, which sent up sprays of gem-like sparks. Delicately, with two fingers, he pinched what appeared to be a live coal from the fire, and turned. “I simply have faith,” he said raising the tongue up high, unharmed, red and ripe as a strawberry. “It has fulfilled its just probation, has it not?”

There was a murmur of general astonishment. The perfume of the supernatural struck every man’s nostrils. None dared contest such evidence. Torturo set the tongue back in its casket and strode out of the room, victorious.

“I will break down the barriers,” he murmured to himself. “This body of flesh is all simply an instrument; let me fit it out properly. I myself must be as God, because God created me, as a spider does his web; – I cannot be denied my just inheritance. My desires are, after all, not evil; – I only wish to promote general and universal . . . welfare.”

Four days later Cardinal Zuccarelli sat in his private office, filling out the paperwork required for Torturo’s nomination for cardinal.