The Translation of Father Torturo (9 page)

Twenty minutes later the man was stripped to his socks and underwear, on his hands and knees in the interior of the apartment. A woman, Signora Clara Della Casa, stood over him, wearing knee-high leather boots, red lace panties, and a black latex top, which was cut low enough to reveal the majority of a swelling balcony. The windowless room was lit by a single phosphorescent bulb enwrapped in a red Chinese lantern which hung overhead. The steady surge of house music, a four-on-the-floor beat, pulsed from the stereo, adding a sense of youthful urgency to the scene.

Clara cracked a three-tasselled whip over his buttocks.

“Now,” she said, standing hip shot, arms akimbo, her large cellulose thighs swelling majestically; “will you be obedient, slave?”

“Yes, yes,” he whimpered gleefully.

She cracked the whip dangerously near his left ear.

“Yes, what?” she cried.

“Yes Mistress. I will do anything you say Mistress.”

“Kneel! You hear me doggy; – kneel!”

He sat back on his haunches, revealing a thin, bird-like chest thickly covered with grey hair. He posed his hands like a puppy and looked up at her, his eyes glassy with subservient lust.

“Stick out your tongue.”

He complied, letting the wet red organ hang from his mouth. His head was hot and glands well stoked. He crawled forward.

“Lick me; – Lick me here!” she demanded.

***

“I think we have enough now Clara, thank you.”

“What the hell,” the cardinal cried, wheeling around.

“You were magnificent,” Bishop Vivan smiled, capping the lense on the video camera.

Both himself and Father Torturo were dressed in civilian clothes, Vivan looking particularly spry in close-fitting black pants and shirt by Max Mara, and a pair of brown leather loafers which he wore without socks.

“Vivan, is that you? My God—”

“With Father Torturo. You remember him, right?”

The cardinal rose to his feet, his face beginning to take on the colours of an egg plant. “I . . . I . . . I am,” he stuttered incoherently. And then, his lips quivering: “I am confessing her,” he gasped.

“Yes,” Torturo said suavely. “I can see you are dressed appropriately for the occasion. Do you like his vestments?” he asked, turning to Vivan.

“Oh, very much! Very much indeed! And really, for his age, his figure is not half bad.”

“
Fava della Madonna
!” the cardinal screamed, white with rage, and clenched his fists. “Vivan, what the devil are you doing here?”

“I might just as easily ask you the same question,” the bishop replied coolly with one hand on his hip.

“And, so I would guess, your answer would be less than satisfactory,” Torturo added, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“May I have one?” Clara asked, setting down her whip and stepping towards the priest.

“Certainly; but please put something on over those hips and latex. They are liable to distract the cardinal and we have business to discuss.”

“Would you rather I leave for a while?”

“That might be better,” he said, handing her a cigarette and a hundred euro note. “Go down to the bar and get something to drink, on me. Come back in half an hour or forty-five minutes. We should be all settled up here by then. And cardinal,” he continued, lighting a match for Clara and then applying the flame to his own cigarette, “you might slip something on as well. Our good bishop is rather too generous with his compliments. Take it from me, a few weeks unsheathed in the sun and a regular program of callisthenics would do you a world of good. As it is, I feel like I am looking at the thin wedge of fat around a joint of
prosciutto
.”

“Listen priest,” the cardinal said, showing the very gums of his teeth. “I don’t know what your game is, but you will surely suffer for crossing me.”

“As I have already indicated,” Torturo said, exhaling a jet of smoke, “seeing you thus I take to be a rather trying punishment. Please be so kind as to put on your trousers.”

“You can’t blackmail me!”

“I can.”

“It won’t stick.”

“It will.”

“And if I don’t comply? If I don’t care about my reputation?”

Father Torturo’s lips became set. The cigarette dropped from his fingers. “Then,” he said in a menacing voice that rose into a violent crescendo. “Then,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Then I will make you suffer twice what you deserve – And, like this damn mouse, dash the life out of your tedious, bloodless carcass!” He raised the white, squirming handful over his head and flung it brutally to the floor, where it let out a horrible squeak and then lay, quite broken, its little mouth agape, showing minuscule teeth set in pink lips.

“Picolito!” the cardinal cried, throwing himself down beside the mouse. He took it in his hands and pressed it, a lifeless rodent, to his face. He looked up at the priest with a horrified expression on his face, crying, “You are a madman; a scoundrel; a cruel maniac!”

Torturo stood, powerful, immobile, unsympathetic. Vivan simpered, though his face showed signs of emotion.

“
Ciao
,” Clara called, walking out the front door, dressed in leather slacks and a turtle neck sweater. “You boys have fun!”

“Vivan, lock the door behind her,” Father Torturo said. And, looking coldly at the cardinal: “Put on your clothes.”

Zuccarelli was visibly shaken. Alone, in a locked apartment with two men whose program seemed to be so diametrically apposed to his own left his mouth empty of the demands and cutting remarks he was habituated to spill forth. He lifted his shirt and white linen suit from the chair upon which they had been flung and, without a word more of opposition, stepped into the bathroom to dress.

“Would you like wine, coffee, tea?” Vivan asked, sliding towards the kitchen, the front door key bouncing in his hand.

“Coffee,” Torturo replied

A quarter of an hour later all three men were seated in the living room, sipping the espresso which Vivan had prepared.

“Today is your lucky day,” Torturo said to Zuccarelli. “I am sure that my methods have led you to believe that I intend you harm, when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. My intentions are to better your situation, by a rather broad margin. Don’t look so disgusted signore, I am being sincere.”

“And I am sincere in my disgust. Do you think I could be otherwise after your intrusion into my private affairs with a video camera? Do you think I could trust a man whose aim is so obviously the destruction of my pleasures?”

“A certain English authoress once wrote that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety. Now, that you find pleasure from paying Clara to let you suck her toes and feel the point of her heel, I feel no doubt. But, for a man in your position such a thing is certainly viewed as an impropriety. Now I personally,” (with a carefree gesture of his hand). “I personally have nothing against such hobbies, and am willing to give you full indulgence. Is all I ask for in return is your co-operation.”

“Listen to him,” Vivan said sweetly, sipping his coffee. “His offer is really not a bad one.”

“What exactly is his offer?” Zuccarelli asked, somewhat pacified now that the scene had taken on a more businesslike tone.

“To begin with,” Torturo said, “I want, I require a cardinalature.”

“Absurd!” Zuccarelli laughed grotesquely.

“I agree,” Torturo responded. “It is absurd. It still however would give me a certain measure of worldly satisfaction.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least. I am sure you would be quite satisfied. But I don’t see that I am the man to grant it. Only the Pope can make a cardinal, and I do not see, even if I were to put in a good word for you, that he would be inclined to make such a gift. These things are done, to a certain measure, for services rendered.”

“Oh, don’t worry on that score,” Torturo remarked casually. “I will render services.”

Chapter Ten

The pig had been hanging from the pine tree since morning, its hind legs secured to a branch by a rope. The doctor kicked Žnidaršič away from the pool of blood, cut the pig down and heaved its body into the centre of the court, near the well, onto the flagstones warmed by the sun.

“This is good wholesome meat,” he murmured as he began to carve the pig.

The dog barked.

“Žnidaršič! Žnidaršič!” the doctor called.

A man, probably in his mid-thirties, though with relatively boyish features, walked in. It was Marco. The dog ceased barking, approached Marco, and licked his hand and he, in turn, petted the dog

“I was looking for a Dr. Štrekel,” he said, approaching the doctor.

“Ah; and what do you need with him?”

“I was told – I was told by a friend of mine that he could – That he could,” (grinning weakly). “Well . . . I was told that he could help me fulfil a certain urge.”

“An urge, eh?” the doctor said, still leaning intently over his work and only glancing up.

“Yes. I – I often think of spikes. Spikes and tusks. Pogo sticks, cucumbers and carrots. – Really I do need to be; – I do think of tusks so often!”

The doctor looked at Marco archly. “Really?” he said.

“Really. Much too often.”

“So – you think of tusks?”

“Yes. My general practitioner laughed when I told him what I wanted. He did not understand . . . I need someone who will do it for me.”

“Do it?”

“Yes. – Cut it off. Cut the left one off. I want the left one cut off.”

“Are you serious?” The doctor’s intelligent eyes darted up and met Marco’s.

“I have never been more serious. I have money and will pay. I want the left one removed.”

“You have money and need some good work done, eh? . . . Well; then I suppose I am your man. Dr. Jure Štrekel at your service!” The doctor lifted up his hands. They were dripping with blood, the grim entrails of the pig hanging out of one clinched fist, like a macabre garland. “Ha!” he laughed, displaying his large, pink mouth and sparkling teeth. “I have been operating on this pork! – But come inside, I wash up and we talk things over.”

Marco followed the doctor inside, the dog trotting at their heels. Nassa was in the kitchen, kneading dough. The doctor spoke a few words to her in Slovenian and she walked out of the room, inclining her head slightly towards Marco as she went.

“So, what friend told you of me,” the doctor asked, rinsing his hands in the sink.

“A friend; – an acquaintance of mine . . . A priest.”

“Ah, the Father Torturo was it?”

“Yes. He is my intimate friend.”

“Then that is good. He is an honest man. – We drink wine and discuss business. It is better to talk business over wine.”

“Certainly,” Marco agreed. “It might help me overcome my embarrassment. – I have never done anything like this before!”

The doctor turned around and walked towards the cabinets, talking volubly as he did so about the quality of his
teran
, his ‘black wine’. Marco felt the pistol, which was equipped with a silencing device, in his jacket pocket and stepped behind the doctor. The doctor opened the cabinet, bent down, and reached for a plastic Sprite bottle, full of dark liquid. Marco slipped the gun from his pocket.

“
My wife will bring the
prosciutto
,” the doctor said, slowly rising. “We eat and drink a glass of the black wine, and then do business.” Unscrewing the top of the bottle, and lifting it to his nose: “That is our custom you know; we always drink a glass of wine before business.”

“
A good custom,” Marco said while placing the barrel of the gun a few inches from the back of the doctor’s head, and pulling the trigger. Without so much as letting out a cry, the man fell forward, slamming the cabinet door shut and then toppling to the floor. The open bottle dropped from his hand. A circle of blood leisurely expanded around him and mixed with the black wine, which flowed fluidly.

Marco heaved a sigh. His arms hung limp at his sides. Žnidaršič licked his right hand, which still held the gun, and then began to lap at the pool of blood.

Nassa, the doctor’s plump, blonde wife walked in carrying a plate of ham and a loaf of home baked bread which she set on the table. She smiled stiffly, cautiously at Marco. The only sound in the room was that of the dog, lapping away. Marco looked at her sadly, tenderly. Her own gaze dropped to the floor, where it fell upon the body of her husband swimming in gore. She shrieked, loudly and frantically, threw her arms in front of her face and staggered back. Marco lifted the pistol, bit his bottom lip, and shot her twice in the neck. She reeled against a wall and fell, sliding down, her legs sprawled. He approached the quivering body and dispatched a third bullet into her crown. Žnidaršič turned and barked, alarmed at the noise, which was like a melon dropped on the floor. The dog received its death, a bullet being sent into its head with cold precision.

The young man dragged the woman’s body into the courtyard, a clear trail of blood streaking the flagstones behind her. He lifted the temperate corpse to the opening of the well, and threw it in. The doctor was quite heavy. His mouth was open and his white teeth shone in a set smile. Marco managed, with great effort, to drag him to the the well. Straining himself, he worked the heavy frame over the stone edge and watched it topple into the black hole. Žnidaršič he threw in after, and then walked back into the house and washed his hands in the sink, with hot water and soap. After drying his hands with a paper towel, he approached the table, stepping gingerly over the pool of blood. The loaf of bread,
treccia
, braided white bread glazed with egg, sat on a cutting board. A fly buzzed around the plate of ham, and alighted on a white spot of fat. Marco shooed it away, picked up a piece of the ham and ate it, slowly and despondently.

“It is really quite good
prosciutto
,” he murmured.

Chapter Eleven

Before sending Marco to conduct the aforementioned business with Dr. Štrekel, Torturo had made sure that he was through with his services. The doctor had, within half a dozen surgical sessions, given the priest those miraculous relics of the saints to keep encased in his own living muscle and meat. In between operations Torturo had stretched his limbs and exercised incessantly. He ate restorative foods: tripe soup, wild pheasant and boiled marrow bones. Oils of myrrh and frankincense he rubbed on his wounds, and the proper incantations he muttered thrice daily, taking care to perform all the necessary articles of his practice.