The Translation of Father Torturo (8 page)

The doctor believed himself to be one of the most brilliant, though admittedly despised, medical men in the whole of Eastern Europe, and was more than willing to attempt the dangerous and tamper with the impossible. If he made a mutant, it would not be the first; if it was otherwise, than it would simply mean further prosperity, additional gold in his purse from the future operations the Italian priest had planned.

Doctor Štrekel was not timorous when it came to digging in open flesh, and feared not to go against either the laws of man or nature. That the spirits of the dead inhabit not only the hollows of trees, dark forests, graveyards and rocks, but their very bones discarded of flesh is certain. The doctor was surprised at how smooth and rapid the operation proceeded. He worked with agility. Bones and bloody tissues sprang in his hands like sprightly, self-willed children. He was under the misapprehension that the work was all his own. He did not realise that there, in that village on the Slovenian border, in his own home, the supramundane had been invited.

It was early morning and still dark out when young Pepito stepped into Santa Giustina to pray, as was his custom. He went to one of the pews near the front, crossed himself, and then knelt down on one knee, lowered his head and pressed his palms together. His corral lips began to move, letting out low, sonorous tones, and his handsome, slightly feline face took on an angelic look. He was thoroughly abstracted in his communion with the supreme being – too much so to see the figure that had entered shortly after him and lurked silently in the shadows.

Presently the figure stepped forward, moving slowly, noiselessly, and worked its way around the nave, to the pew immediately behind Pepito. It stopped, wavered back and forth like a pliant tree in a breeze, and then dramatically dropped to its knees and began to crawl along the floor. The young acolyte raised his head, looked around slightly and then settled back into prayer. The figure paused for a few moments, and then continued to creep along the pew, until directly behind Pepito. The young acolyte murmured a few words louder than the rest. The figure rose up behind him and, producing a fuller’s club from the folds of its garments, brandished it high.

Pepito, apparently sensing the presence, lifted and turned his head. It was at that moment that the first blow fell, with manic force. The skull cracked and resounded throughout the church, like a pitcher of wine falling on a parquet floor. Pepito did not so much as let out a cry. He collapsed to one side; his eyes swam toward the frescoed ceiling. The attacker leapt agilely over the pew and proceeded to rain blows on the boy, who instinctively lifted his arm to his face, but in no other way defended himself. His neck, ribs and sides were beaten mercilessly, while a foot pressed in on his stomach, making him vomit a series of pale pink bubbles. The attacker kicked the acolyte’s chin. A sudden resonance, booming, ringing, shot through the church.

The matins bells began to sound, and all Padua groan, forced to awake, forced away from simple sins and love making by these majestic cast iron contrivances.

The robed figure stepped backward out of the pew, dropped the club and, turning, hastily made its way through the side doors of the vestry. Pepito laboriously crawled the few feet it was from the nave to the isle. His right hand caressed his own round face and, feeling the blood course down, over his left eye and cheek, traced the stream to its source: a giant fissure stretching from his forehead back. He looked at his vermilion hand, raised himself slightly and, trembling, traced a few letters on the floor before hiccoughing his final gore filled breath.

Seconds later a new figure emerged from behind a stone pillar, by the transept, and approached the body. It bent over; a hand felt the pulse, eyes gazed at the five letters written in blood. Spitting on a handkerchief, he wiped away the word.

***

Bishop Sebastiano Vivan sat at his desk, a magazine spread before him, with a dish chocolate mousse to one side, which he was sensually spooning into his mouth as he read, a look of blissful ease on his face. There was a knock at the door.

“
Avanti
!” he said, looking up.

Father Torturo entered. His look was bold. His eyes were ringed with black.

“
Do you have a spare moment?” he asked.

“
Certainly, certainly,” the bishop replied, licking mousse from his lips. “Please, have a seat.”

The priest moved forward and sat down. His walk was noticeably lamed.

“
What have you done Torturo? You have hurt yourself!”

“
Oh, it is nothing – I over-exerted myself while exercising, that is all.”

“
Poor man!” cried Vivan. “You take this bodily training too far.”

“
And you – you eat far too many dainties.”

Vivan blushed. He sucked his bottom lip.

“
I see you are enjoying further literature,” the father said presently.

“
Yes,” Vivan replied, closing the copy of
Boy’s Life
magazine and turning the cover in Torturo’s direction. “I have a subscription from America. The English is very difficult, but the pictures are, er; – let us say the pictures inspire me. They speak about modes of a pure life: A child’s life with nature. They tell of lads, innocent fellows, and their adventures – their humid adventures in forests, and on the rocky shores of North American lakes . . . To see a young man vigorously clasping a rod, a fishing rod; or bending over and thrusting a stake into the earth, a tent stake: Really, it is one of the most beautiful things.”

“
Children are unquestionably interesting.”

“
They are fascinating.”

“
Particularly the boys of the species.”

“
Absolutely the boys.”

“
Did the police come and question you?”

“
Question me? Well, naturally. I saw Pepito on an almost daily basis. It was a tragedy. I sent his mother a pot of orchids (charming flowers). I hope you will be there for the services father. Your presence would be appreciated.”

“
Of course I will go. He was, as you say, a charming boy.”

“
Charming in the extreme.”

“
And do the police have any suspects?”

“
None that they have indicated – though they say there might be a connection between this and the other murder – the one that happened a month or two back.”

“
I suspect that there is such a connection.”

“
There could be,” Vivan said with a sigh, his eyes straying heavenward; and then, bringing them down and steadily fixing them on father Torturo. “There are unfortunately a great many evils in this world.”

“
True. It is some consolation that Pepito died like a saint.”

“
I don’t quite follow you,” Vivan said with a gentle, consolidating smile.

“
Like Saint Peter of Verona to be exact,” Torturo grinned. “Remember the words ‘
Credo in Deem
’?”

Vivan raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“
As you know,” Torturo continued, “good Peter was walked from Como to Milan one evening, the sixth of April 1252 to be exact. In the forest around Cesano a Manichæan named Carino jumped him and split his head open with an axe. Peter, half dead, rose to his knees and recited the first article of the Symbol of the Apostles. Dipping his fingers in his own blood, he offered it as a sacrifice to God. Using it as ink, he wrote on the ground ‘
Credo in Deem
.’ Carino then jammed a blade into his heart.”

“Yes, yes yes,” Vivan said with a wave of his hand. “And the body was carried to Milan where it was entombed in an ark at Sant’ Eustorgio, where it remained until the tragic event three weeks ago. I understand all this, but what connection does it bare to our dear departed Pepito?”

“
Why, it is apparent that Pepito, in his last moments was inspired by Peter, the martyr of Verona.”

“
Inspired? How?”

“
Pepito also managed to jot down a few letters.”

“
Pardon?”

“
Before he died, he wrote a name on the floor. In his own blood.”

Bishop Vivan’s boyish face flushed bright scarlet. He pursed and then licked his lips and then swallowed. His clear green eyes became extraordinarily wide as he looked at the father and asked, “And . . . And whose name was it that was written?”

“
Why, the murderer’s of course.”

“
The murderer?” Vivan gasped.

“
Yes. Why look so shocked? The murderer; – the same man I saw clobber poor Pepito with a fuller’s club as I stood hidden in the transept. It was a remarkably cruel act. I knew you had certain vicious instincts in you bishop, but I must admit that, until I saw you at work I never suspected you of such absolute heinousness. I suppose, until then, I took you for an ordinary pervert . . . But honestly, the look in your eyes as you slew him was beyond nasty.”

The bishop rose from his seat, his countenance glowing with guilty indignation. “How dare you say such things,” he shouted. And then, lowering his voice, “How can you say I did it? I didn’t. I didn’t I tell you. I loved Pepito!”

“
I do not have a doubt in the world that you loved the lad,” Father Torturo said calmly, taking a pack of cigarettes and matches from his pocket. “You loved him, not as Jesus loved his enemies and blessed those who cursed him, but as Othello loved, your love voluptuous and mixed with a zest for blood. You loved him as you loved young Baldasari Sorrissi. That’s right; don’t think I never saw Baldo entering your office at odd hours – Or, for that matter, leaving it in a state of disarray. I fancy you had been seeing him since he was a boy?”

“
Well, I used to be his confessor, years ago, – But that is no reason to imply—”

“
I am implying nothing,” the father said, raising his voice. “I am saying that you are a swine and a criminal of the lowest order; the stereotypical Catholic degenerate!” Resuming his calm demeanour, he put a cigarette between his lips and proceeded to light it.

“
I . . . I don’t allow smoking in my chambers,” Vivan stuttered.

“
Be quiet,” Father Torturo said brusquely. “You work for me now. You will do as I say or pay the consequences.”

“
You would turn me in to the authorities?”

“
Certainly.”

“
Well, there are worse things than being despised in the eyes of men.”

“
Are there?”

“
I . . . I have heard it said that there are.”

“
And your mother? Your dear old mother? What will she think when I tell her, with a pitying look on my face, of her son’s morbid homosexuality, of his stabbing a boy with a knife nineteen times (along with the psychosexual implications), of the other lad, your office boy, and how you cracked open his skull in the very house of the Lord? Do you fancy she will be proud of the disgrace you have brought upon the church?”

“
Mother!” Vivan cried, collapsing in his seat, tears bursting from his shy green eyes. “She thinks I am such a good boy. I would rather have a red hot iron shoved down my throat than have her find out.”

“
Then I am your iron,” Father Torturo said, taking a long and forceful drag of his cigarette, as if he were drinking thirst quenching liquid instead of inhaling a slow acting poison. “You will do what I ask of you and, in the end, find yourself in a better position than ever – Your mother will be given but further reason to be proud of you, her loyal and dulcet son.”

Vivan took out a handkerchief and began to dab at his eyes. “So,” he said. “So, you will not tell on me?”

“
No. Not if you do as I say.”

“
Well . . . Well, then I will,” Vivan murmured, his face taking on a set, businesslike expression. And then, smiling, “But please; treat me well. I am rather sensitive, as you can see, and damage under rough handling.”

It was a grey day in Venice. The man peered through his sunglasses as the boat passed St. Mark’s and the Palazzo Ducale, with its knots of pigeon feeding fools and pairs of floundering tourists out front, inebriated by the foul lagoon air. He got off the boat at San Zaccaria, being careful, as he stepped, not to soil his white linen suit. His legs set off in rigid, determined strides down the Calle Albenesi, past the Prigioni. By his dress and his rather severe countenance, an onlooker would have taken him for some well-to-do German tourist or art collector – possibly an author; certainly not a plebeian. He looked at his watch, saw that it was a quarter past four in the afternoon, and doubled his pace. It was obvious that he had an appointment which he was eager to keep. He moved rapidly along the Calle Sagresita, in three sweeping steps crossed the Rio di San Giovanni Novo, turned up Ruga Giuffa, and, after negotiating a few minute back lanes, strode down an alley that came to a dead end at the Rio di San Formosa, the dark water splashing against the stone embankment where a small motor boat was moored. There was an undersized wooden door to his left, worn and patched, with a few flakes of green paint still adhering to it, the original coat of which must have been added to the antique portal at least fifty years previous. One of his long bony fingers stretched out and pressed against an electric bell with the name ‘Sig. C. Della Casa’ written beneath it. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped his forehead and waited, gently stroking a mouse that crawled out from the cave of his sleeve.