The Translation of Father Torturo (14 page)

Vivan, instructed to decorate his chambers as he pleased and given full access to the Vatican treasures of art, exposed his feral nature. Being an adamant admirer of manly beauty he placed, in the centre of his office, the giant gilt bronze statue of Hercules which Pius IX paid such vast sums for. Around this he stationed the
Apollo Sauroktonos, a bust of a young boy from the Sala dei Busti, and the Satyr from the Gabinetto delle Maschere. The walls he hung with valuable tapestries and paintings, including some by Guido Reni, Titian and Caravaggio. Small Greek sculptures, from the Galleria Chiaramonti, he scattered throughout the corners and nooks, paying no heed to which were originals and which reproductions, and interspersed them with Etruscan vases. His cabinets he filled with vessels of all type and shape, including a kylix by Xenophantos, an amphora by Epiktetos and a somewhat risque majolica plate by Georgio Andreoli. Next to his desk he placed the Belvedere Apollo.

The wonderful Sistine chapel, one-hundred and thirty-three feet long and forty-six feet wide, cleared of the ever stampeding train of upright livestock, was quickly converted into an office for Pope Lando the Second, where he could comfortably go about the business of the day in an environment that was to his liking. The tasteless, manneristic end frescoes over the door he had replaced by a Roman mosaic of the third century with figures of a stag and birds and another mosaic taken from the Porto San Lorenzo depicting Achilles dragging the body of Hector. A large oak desk was set up beneath
The Last Judgment
, upon which he put his writing gear and a telephone that was connected to the outer office where his secretary, Cardinal-Priest Vivan, sat, admiring the Belvedere torso while awaiting instructions.

“It is most unusual,” Cardinal Gonzales complained when he saw the alterations taking place. “After all, this is the court chapel and is considered to be reserved for papal ceremonies and elections. Thus, even if we are to deny public access, I am not sure if it is acceptable for use as an office.”

“Signore Gonzales, my using the chapel as an office will in no way impede the usual ceremonies,” was the reply of the Archbishop of the Roman Province. “I am flexible. The ceremonies which previously took place here will be transposed to the Cappella Paolina. As for your second point: A papal election can only take place when I am dead. Under such circumstances I would certainly not object to your doing as you wish with the space.”

The sole Patriarch of the Western Church naturally had his way. This chamber, the famous Sistine Chapel, was, for the most part, kept sparse. The frescoes of Perugino, Michelangelo, Pinturicchio, Botticelli, Ghirlandajo, Pier di Cosimo, Rosselli, Signorelli and della Gatta were the sole décor on the walls. The twelve stained-glass windows, which had been given by the Prince Regent Leopold of Bavaria, were removed, sold at auction by Sotheby’s and replaced by plain semi-opaque glass, which let in far more light and were not half so ugly. Toward the back end of the room, the last third beyond the beautiful marble barrier, His Holiness set up a personal library of those books and manuscripts which he felt a need of immediate access to. In the centre, more or less beneath the
Creation of Adam
, was a small wooden table, big enough to seat four, on which were perpetually placed equipment for satisfying his hunger at any hour, videlicet a jug of Montepulciano wine, a partial form of parmigiano reggiano, a bowl of black olives and a loaf of rye bread. A young man from Mantova named Lucio was kept in an outer chamber, stationed before an espresso machine, his sole job being to make the said beverage at an instant’s notice, at any given hour of the day or night, and have it delivered within two minutes of its being asked for at the door of the potentate.

He had a couch set up to one side of the room upon which to lie and at the far end he kept glass cases containing items particular to himself: the skin of a bushcat, eagles’ claws, snail shells, feathers, tails and heads of snakes, the horns of antelopes, goats and gazelles, a dried buffalo’s liver, the teeth and claws of a leopard, herbs and nuts. He had no intention whatsoever of neglecting his studies. Though he was far from a fool, he was not devoid of pride. He had had great successes and believed himself capable of still greater. Christ Jesus had been sent forth from the presence of the invisible beings as a saviour, for the deliverance of men. Lando would also deliver men; – deliver them from their own wickedness, and let it be seen that he too was a saviour. From the abyss of darkness he would rule with the light of justice and truth. He was convinced that his mission was not far from divine.

He brought his cousin Marco from Padua and had him ordained, something the poor man had long wished for. Marco shed tears of joy. His heart danced in his chest.

“Thank you ever so much Holy Father,” he said. “I am extremely eager to begin my religious duties.”

“Certainly,” the Pope replied, “But please be aware that I might call on you if I need help with security measures.”

“Security measures?”

“Yes. If I need to implement disciplinary measures I might call on you. Be prepared.”

Meanwhile Gonzales was finding his position in the Vatican more and more untenable. During the previous Pope’s reign he had been of supreme importance, influencing the feeble old man in almost all decisions of moment. With Lando it was different. Not only had he gravely embarrassed Gonzales during the conclave, but now that he was in office, he had stripped him of nearly all his responsibilities. Gonzales spent his days wandering about the palace like a ghost, seeing activity everywhere but unable to take a meaningful role in any of it. Even the majority of South American cardinals, following the dictates of self interest, had more or less abandoned him.

“What do you expect,” Hojeda said. “You failed to get me elected and now, in my place, we have an Italian who tells us to quit our missionary exploits along the Amazon Basin. He seems to think that the indigenous people are not in need of salvation.”

“A man like this cannot last long,” Gonzales said.

“Not last long? He is not yet forty years old and he seems to be in optimum health. I believe he will see us both in our graves.”

“No,” Gonzales insisted desperately. “He cannot last long.”

Cardinal Gonzales, though by no means a brilliant man, could not help but see that the new Pope desired to change the course of the Catholic church. He missed no opportunity to whisper calumnies against the successor of Saint Peter. “It is a frightening thing,” he would say, “when we consider the vision of the angel Gabriel, and how he describes a king of a most fierce countenance who understands dark questions, and is exceedingly powerful, and full of false wonders. Gabriel says that he shall corrupt, direct, influence, and put strong and holy men down. He will derail the church. Deceit shall be in his hand, and he will lead many to perdition, bruising them in his hand like eggs.”

The Pope meanwhile worked with activity. He did indeed desire to change the course of the church and took no pains to hide the fact. It seemed to him a crude thing to spend so much effort in the prostelesation of third world nations. The men who were assigned such tasks were usually brutes of feeble intellect who no more understood the words of the gospel than parrots. To have such men as his representatives he considered to be disgraceful. As it was, the faith of Europeans was in the midst of a remarkable decline. There was an upsurge in young Italian atheists. The priesthood was in a state of decay. For the most part, only the most feeble young men, young men who were too weak to endure the hardships of the real world, took up the calling.

“Our duty lies pre-imminently in our home land,” he said. “We need to make Christ Jesus fashionable once more. We need to divert our youth from the football field and into the seminary. We must herd our young women out of the discotheques and into the nunneries.”

“But young people these days want to join the workforce,” Di Quaglio suggested. “They wish to be part of the world economy.”

“World economy be damned!” the sole Patriarch of the Western Church cried in annoyance. “Italy is the greatest nation on earth and I will see it burning in hell before I see it turned into the slave of Brussels. The nation that produced Leonardo da Vinci, Dante and Machiavelli will not be the producer of light bulbs and eyeglasses for England and America.”

Chapter Fourteen

Cardinals, when given an audience with him, quivered from head to toe. Those used to addressing audiences of thousands found themselves speechless in his singular presence. The President of the United States, upon visiting Rome for the first time, obtained an audience for himself, his wife and daughter. The latter two dressed themselves in black, with black veils, like women from Sicily. The daughter wore red shoes, grotesquely incongruous with the occasion.

“Red shoes!” Di Quaglio whispered to the Pope as they approached.

“A dash of the Scarlet Woman in her, eh?”

For the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth, the meeting was tiresome. The presence of the women, the nature of the visit, made the discussion of serious topics difficult to advance. He was glad to leave the Throne Room at the end of such a dull audience. He made his way through the Gallery of Maps, the walls rich with rare charts, cosmographical diagrams and paintings of naval battles. Turning the corner, into the Sala Dei Misteri, he saw Zuccarelli moving towards him with hasty steps, his face solemn and particularly dignified. Since his ascension to the important office he now held, the tall, thin ecclesiastic seemed more grave and distinguished than ever. Though he treated the Pope with the utmost respect, those of lesser status he glanced over with a level of contempt that made him notorious.

“Good day,” Lando the Second said, offering the other his hand.

Zuccarelli quickly dropped to one knee, kissed the Pope’s hand and rose. “Good day Your Holiness.”

“And how are you.”

“Perfect.”

“Are you finding your new situation satisfactory?”

“Yes, absolutely satisfactory,” Zuccarelli answered stiffly. “Most kind of you to ask.”

“I take it that you are having no trouble in managing the affairs of the various departments under your jurisdiction? The departments of building, furnishing, and household expenses I imagine to be of little trouble, aside from the accounting. And the fire brigade, garage, printing presses and gardening department, being self contained in nature, must more or less run themselves.”

“Well, they do not exactly run themselves, but Di Quaglio, in his role of sub-prefect, takes a certain portion of the work load off my shoulders, so in the end things are manageable.”

“Di Quaglio is a good man.”

“He knows his work.”

“And Vivan, have you seen him? I would like to consult with him about certain matters.”

“I believe he is in the Sala degli Arazzi, taking lunch. I saw him and a few – I saw him and a few friends making their way there earlier, and was told something to that effect.”

“The Sala degli Arazzi? I did not realise it was a dining room. But, following your suggestion, I will look for him there. And you? You seem to be in a hurry. Does duty call?”

“Er. Yes; duty does call. A number of important tasks . . .”

The Pope nodded his head. “I would imagine so,” he said. “Your responsibilities are extensive.”

Zuccarelli muttered a few unintelligible words, presumably an adieu, bowed, turned and, resuming his hasty steps, made his way around the corner, towards his own private chambers.

After watching the cardinal retreat, the Pope resumed his own course, his face grown more austere since the encounter. The Swiss guards along the way stood like statues, the blood draining from their faces as the Primate of Italy passed them by. What persons he met fell hushed to their knees in his presence, like poppies before Tarquin, not daring to so much as lift their eyes beyond the level of his knees.

At the great carved double doors of the Sala degli Arazzi the Primate of Italy stopped. He could hear voices coming from within and a great deal of laughter; – the giggling of Vivan was particularly pronounced.

The Pope pushed one door open and stepped silently into the room. In the centre was a table, surrounded by young men, with Vivan at its head. The walls of the room, decorated with colourful landscape frescoes worked around the arms of Paul V, beneath which hung valuable Flemish tapestries, were beautifully imposing. The ceiling was thoroughly gilt. The windows, high and stately, were covered with white silk, backed by the same material in green. The marble floor was a priceless work of art in itself, with elaborate scenes depicted in the most ornate mosaic.

The Pope silently observed the young men who surrounded the table. Each was distinctly handsome in the way that models are: that is, merely physically attractive with eyes gleaming simplicity rather than emotional or intellectual depth. The eight or so youths were each dressed in various costumes of green fabric and leather, clothes truly designed for the cat walk rather than public usage. One had on an enormous hat like that in Pisanello’s painting of Saint George in the London National Gallery, locks of his black hair curling out over his forehead. Another wore an ermine cape died a light, lime green. A third was attired from head to toe in granny Smith coloured snakeskin: a one button jacket and close fitting trousers that terminated at the ankle. The suit was obviously the production of one of the better Italian designers and must have carried a shocking price tag.

Vivan himself was dressed in a jumpsuit, very much in the cut of a mechanic’s. Of course mechanics rarely have their garments hued to a rich bottle green, and never tailored of sumptuous Japanese silk, much less adorned with a fish scale pattern and hung with leather tassels around the shoulders.

The Bishop of Rome coughed and walked forward, his heels clicking on the floor.

“Ah, hello most Holy Father,” Vivan said, rising from his seat and waving his hand. “Won’t you come and join us at our supper? These are some friends of mine, – Genuine Roman youths: Filippo, Alberto, Walter, Francesco, Vittorio, Franco, Dario and Terisio. See,” (laughing), “I remember all their names!”