The Translation of Father Torturo (17 page)

“Its delicious,” Vivan cried, tasting the beverage while watching the lad saunter around the enormous table in order to serve the Pope.

“I thought you would like it,” the Archbishop of the Roman Province said, watching his own glass fill with the aromatic liquid. “It is a an old Bordeaux, an 1893 Lafite Rothschild, mixed with pulverised pinecones, as well as small amounts of mastich and pennyroyal.”

“I did not realise you were such a decadent!”

“When occasion presents itself, I am many things.”

“Such delightful bread; still warm from the oven! And the taste!” Here Vivan could only express himself adequately by use of that typically Italian gesture: pressing the pinched fingers to the lips and kissing them.

“A simple breaking of fast,” the Pope said coolly, pouring a little olive oil on his plate and mopping it up with the wheaten head of a sparrow.

“Oh, but I feel quite honoured you know.”

“Well Vivan, you are my right-hand man so to speak, and you deserve to be treated accordingly. I would not lunch you on dried crusts and water.”

“Most considerate of you.”

“Not at all. I give you only your just deserts.”

Just then a serving boy, extremely pale of skin and with hair so blond that it was almost white, stepped in carrying a silver tray laden with baked ostrich heads. Vivan drank the sight in with his eyes, his nostrils opening wide as the youth bent over his plate, depositing a portion of the cuisine thereon.

“It smells delicious,” he murmured still gazing, not at the food, but the server.

The youth approached the Pope, but the latter waved him away.

“This sort of thing is a bit too rich for me,” the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth said, cutting off a piece of Parmesan cheese instead. “I imagine it will suite you however, as your tastes are more . . . refined.”

“Well, I have been told that my tastes are peculiar,” Vivan said, watching the boy mince out of the room. “What light skin the little fellow has,” he commented, turning and prodding the ostrich head with his fork.

“An albino from Norway. He does not speak a word of Italian. The other four you saw are identical twins from the south, quadruplets, each deaf and dumb. All my servers are alike unusual,” (just then a train of fresh boys began to enter, laden with provisions.) “Ah, here is little Leo from Russia, Piasecki from Minsk and Wong from the Szechuan province of China. Behind him is young Pablo from Buenos Aires, who is unfortunately blind. Still, look how well he goes about his business!”

Pablo, for all his lack of sight, was indeed dexterous in handling the dish of oyster and crayfish sausages on lily blossoms. With short, solemn steps he made his way to the table, walked along its edge and, when within a foot or two of Vivan, forked a few steaming morsels onto the latter’s plate with silent decorum.

“My god!” Vivan shouted in ecstasy. “What I would not give for these boys! They’re delicious, delightful . . . I cannot think of adequate words to describe them.”

“They are handsome, are they not?” suggested the Pope, smiling slightly to see his guest begin to lose all pretence of indifference toward the young men’s charms.

The servers each deposited a portion of the delicacies they carried on Vivan’s plate, though not on the Pope’s. Leo had with him wild boar with pine nuts, Piasecki’s somewhat thin arms were strained under a great platter of camel’s heels in vinegar and Wong stepped easily, bearing a boiled owl with sweet peppers.

Vivan tasted each with ever increasing glee, washing the food down with mouthfuls of the strong wine. But no sooner had he sampled one dish than a new one was brought forth: the four mute southerners returned bearing trays of poached partridge eggs, scrambled flamingoes’ brains, daisy and pellitory salad, and cockscombs on lettuce. The other boys, in fairly rapid succession, brought in great platters piled high with treats: pasta seasoned with peacocks tongues, lobster, goose and figs, parrots heads with saffron, French peaches with fennel and brandy, roast bear with garlic and rosemary and, finally, carried in by four boys at once, a small porpoise resting on a bed of Tunisian dates and blackbirds.

“
What an attractive fish,” Vivan gurgled ecstatically.

“
We seem to be missing something,” the Primate of Italy said. He snapped his fingers at Wong and murmured a few words in an unintelligible tongue. The boy ran off bowing and, two minutes later returned, carrying a bowl which he set before the host.

Vivan, sucking down a mouthful of porpoise, looked over inquiringly.

“
Locusts and honey,” Pope Lando explained, dripping a spoonful on his own plate. “We cannot do without the food of John the Baptist.”

Vivan snickered and began to lap up a peach in brandy.

“
You are fond of music, are you not?”

Vivan wiped his lips. “Oh yes. I love all sorts of music: jazz, blues, country and western. I am very fond of Dwight Oakum.”

The Primate of Italy dipped a chunk of bread in honey, saying: “I planned an entertainment, but unfortunately Mr. Oakum was unavailable; – I hope a classical quintet will do.”

“
Classical? Yes, I find the works of Queen positively inspirational! –
Mama mia – Mama mia, let me go
!”
Vivan shrugged his shoulders burst out in a high pitched laugh. It was obvious that he was feeling the effects of the wine.

The Primate of Italy looked at his guest with distaste, picked up the bell from the table and rang it. Instantly five serious, black haired young gentlemen stepped in. They each carried a musical instrument, violins, viola, cello and bass, and were dressed in tuxedo tops and shorts, which showed off their bold, athletic legs. Vivan gave a little squeal as he swallowed a bite of owl. The five sat off to one side and proceeded to play Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nacht Musik
.

One of the young waiters approached the Pope with a silver platter on which rested a slip of paper. The latter took up the paper and read it, just as all the bells of all the churches in Rome began to toll three, forcing the quintet to cease playing. The expression on the face of the Primate of Italy was one of concern.

“You must excuse me,” he said, rising from his seat. “It seems that a delegation from Zambia has been waiting for me in the Sala degli Arazzi for the past thirty minutes. The appointment completely slipped my mind.”

“You have to go? Oh, what a shame – just when we were beginning to enjoy ourselves.”

Pope Lando expressed his apologies and exited.

The music resumed, with the minuet, and Vivan continued to eat, dipping his hands into all the delicacies before him, licking sauces from his fingers and time and again putting his greasy lips to the wine glass. After the rondo, the musicians stopped for a short recess. Vivan clapped his hands and asked that each of the five be served ‘the fruits of the vine,’ as he expressed it. While this order was being carried out, the large main doors opened and Dario walked in, dressed in a stylish, close fitting black suit and looking particularly suave.

“Dario? I did not know you had been invited to lunch!”

“Yes,” the young man replied seriously. “The Papa told me to attend.”

“There are marvellous dishes here; look at the spread.”

“Unparalleled, I’m sure.”

“Oh, so am I. It is so nice to be pampered.”

Dario took a glass of wine, though he seemed to avoid the food, and Vivan chattered away. Presently the entire waiting staff re-entered, burdened under the weight of massive silver trays capped with gorgeous shining lids. They set the trays on the table, removing those dishes which were already ransacked as they did so. The lids were removed, revealing breathtaking piles of moulded food stuffs.

“They look like statues, don’t they?” said Vivan, sticking his head forward.

Dario nodded. “Yes. They seem to be busts.”

Cardinal-Priest Vivan, sipping his wine, examined one more closely. It was a most curious dish. The black locks, tentacles of squid, curling over a fine forehead, a boyish brow, a head and shoulders made of minced dormice, the whole seasoned with honey and sesame seeds. A truly gourmet model of effeminate male perfection to be sure. The resemblance suddenly struck him. There could be no mistake – the bust, which rested on a bed of crisp arugula, was of the youth Vittorio. Vivan, setting his glass down unsteadily, upset it and the wine spilled over the table, staining the cloth red. His eyes flashed to the second dish, from which arose a strong, relatively sickening aroma. Made of roasted Botswana mopane worms, dripping with melted butter and constructed with nearly the same level of skill that went into Cellini’s
Perseus
, the sculpture bore a striking likeness to Terisio. It had a blistery, waxy appearance and, though undoubtedly tasty, inspired Vivan with profound revulsion. The third plate was piled high with Vittorio, constructed entirely of pâté de foie-gras. The chef who had erected this masterpiece in goose liver had undoubtedly studied the works of Lysippus and Myron, for it bore true similarities to those artists’ works, with the same graceful elasticity and tridemensionalism as the
Apoxyomenos
and
Discobolus
. The fourth torso, in the image of Dario’s good friend Walter, was moulded out of a mixture of ricotta cheese, calves’ brains and white radish, the hair, being braided corn silk sprayed with the juice of Syrian plums, was a most ghastly red, particularly in contrast to the milk-white face and neck. It was a moody, idealised portrait, not unlike that in red sandstone of King Mentuhotep IV, of the eleventh dynasty located in the Gregorian Museum.

Vivan gasped. He was mortified. His face took on a sickly, greenish hue.

“What . . . What is the meaning of this?” he stammered.

“Are you no longer hungry?” Dario asked coolly.

There was no reply. Vivan sat, discomposed and staring at the epicurean busts before him.

Dario twisted his lips and then, snapping his fingers at the musicians, asked Vivan: “Well, in that case, shall we dance?”

Johann Strauss Jr.’s
The Blue Danube
struck up. Dario offered Vivan his hand. The latter, somewhat inebriated by wine, alarmed by the grimly decadent dishes before him, took it and rose. His brain was unable to fully grasp the meaning of the affair. Slowly, and with much decorum Dario led him out to the middle of the room. Like an automaton, Vivan followed his lead. The music surrounded them and each note seemed to carry with it a double meaning and dart, float about like soft but deadly insects, now caressing, now stinging the Cardinal-Priest’s ears. He felt the young man’s icy fingers clasp his own and looked into the other’s eyes which were filled with an intensity that he dared not comprehend. He shifted his own gaze away, towards the door, where he spied the train of waiting staff slowly winding in. They carried no foods, no bottles of rare vintage, but each walked solemnly forward, intent and soldierly. The line wound around the dancing couple, formed a surrounding hedge and then stopped, each youth upright with his hands behind his back.

Vivan’s feet ceased moving. Dario released his hands and took a step back.

“What is this?” Vivan cried.

The music stopped. Each member of the waiting staff drew forth from his sleave a blade, four-sided and deadly, a set of fifteenth century French rondels with raised median ridges, thin, pierced oval guards and pommels.

“Are you all mad? Are you all mad I say!”

There was silence. The young men stepped forward, in unison, the daggers gleaming in their hands.

“What lunacy is this?” Vivan cried in a quivering voice, turning to Dario.

The latter was silent, stern.

“Dario!”

The young man’s face was unmoving, pale and almost inhuman. The waiting staff mechanically advanced another step, their eyes without feeling or emotion.

“What are they doing! What are you all doing?”

No one said a word. Vivan turned this way and that, but there was no escape. He felt faint. He was surrounded by handsome young men, each endowed with a blade, long, sharp and vengeful. He who had thrilled to butcher the flower of his affections, prick and bash out their lives, sickened in the presence of suitable justice.

“And you Dario?” Vivan said, trembling.

Dario unbuttoned his jacket and drew from its inside pocket a small magnificent East Indian poniard, the hooked blade flickering, encrusted with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. He pressed his dry white lips together and looked at the Cardinal-Priest coldly.

Vivan threw himself on the floor at the Dario’s feet. “I know I have a problem!” he cried, partially rising and embracing the young man’s knees. “But I love you all so much. I love you Dario! Can’t you see that? Dammit I love you!”

Dario twitched. Vivan let out a squeal as his throat was cut, blood gushing over his young avenger’s fashionable trousers and hands and flecking his white shirt front. Gasping, Dario stepped back. The body fell to the ground, swimming in an ever widening pool of gore, the wealth of young men piercing, splashing, going about their business like dogs stripping a carcass bare.

“For Filippo, Vittorio and Terisio,” Dario whispered. “For you Walter.”

Chapter Seventeen

St. Peter’s Square was a sea of humans, sweating in the rich afternoon sun. The forepart was cordoned off and chairs were set up therein where the VIP sat – the rich, those who had made particularly generous donations to the church, politicians and high level ecclesiastic officials. Before these was set a stage, with a small body of cardinals seated thereon, including Gonzales, O’Malley and Zuccarelli. On the stage was a podium. To the right of the stage sat the Choir of Apostle St. Paul. Carabinieri were stationed around this area, standing with legs apart, looking menacingly self important. Beyond them was the surge of humanity, made up in a large part by the sick, the cripples, the mad; those who had come with desperate hope – the hope that Christ Jesus would remove their miseries through his miracles, through the hands of his emissary, Pope Lando the Second. Blind men stood, their heads tilted back, mouths agape. Others, cripple of limb, pressed themselves forward, eyes wild with frenzied optimism. Christian youth, from all parts of Europe, waved banners, shouted and sang, happy to mix with the oppressed and the dispossessed before the eyes of God.