The Translation of Father Torturo (18 page)

As the time approached for the Pope to make his appearance, Di Quaglio grew apprehensive. He had never seen, in his life time, such a torrent of people fill St. Peter’s Square. He viewed many of them, those who had come with the mad desire to have their ills cured, little better than anarchists, and was extremely worried that they would cause trouble, or that some assassin would infiltrate their ranks, and find an easy target in the Primate of Italy.

“There are a great many sick in the square tonight,” Di Quaglio said to the Pope. “I am not sure you should go out. There are far too many. We can make an excuse. We can say that you are indisposed.”

“Tell an untruth? For what reason?”

“The situation out front is almost riotous. There are German teenagers chanting your name while a thousand cripples pound the pavement with their crutches.”

“All the more reason to make my appearance.”

“But many, – Many expect things. The sick seem to think you can help them, – heal them.”

“And you have no such faith?”

“No man has more faith in you than I
Summus Pontifex
,” Di Quaglio said seriously. “I am just not sure it is the dignified thing to do – to accommodate the riffraff.”

“The riffraff, as you call them, need to be ministered to as much as any other social group.”

“But there are ministers for that, you are the Pope.”

“Yes, I am the Pope. I am Lando the Second, the first minister on earth,
Servus servorum Dei,
the Servant of the Servants of God.”

He strode away. Near the door that led to St. Peter’s Square Marco approached him. His features were soft and sad. He looked miserable.

“The task is taken care of?” the Pope asked.

“Yes.”

“And you are making further preparations? You have spoken with her?”

“Yes, we have discussed it.”

Marco had a pouting, somewhat taciturn air about him. He was obviously upset. The Pope either did not notice or did not choose to notice his cousin’s pathetic state.

Instead he simply nodded his head and stepped through the door. Two Swiss guards, Betschart and Meier, stood frozen and slightly hip-shot on either side, looking like they were snatched from a painting by Giorgione in their rich uniforms. The choir, upon seeing the Pope, rose from their seats and struck up Caelius Sedulius’s delightful hymn titled
A Sortis Ortus Cardine
, their voices angelically spilling forth praises to
Iusu natus es de Virgine
.

Pope Lando the Second stalked onto the stage and up to the podium. He stood still for two minutes, with his head bowed, until the coir completed its song. Those up front, who were seated in the cordoned off area, rose and gave a very tame, well mannered ovation. Behind them, the poor and sick roared like beasts. Men shouted his name vigorously, spraying spittle on those in front of them. Many raised their hands and spread their fingers wide apart, as if they would grab the heavens. Some tried to push their way through. A few clouds sailed before the sun, their shadows gliding over St. Peter’s Square.

The Pope spoke and a hush ran through the people. He began with a formal address dealing with general matters in broad terms. Those immediately before him seemed quite satisfied with the nature of the speech. The women and the politicians smiled complacently. The ecclesiastics looked on gravely, deeply absorbed, or at least feigning to be, in every hint of the language.

Those in the rear, the plebeians who made up the vast majority of those present, were however not content with these generalities. They began to grow restless, particularly those who had come with specific grievances which they wildly hoped to be resolved. Occasional cries began to emerge from the back and the sea of people began to stir and push forward, like slowly rising waves.

Pope Lando the Second noticed the unrest.

“I see before me battalions of sinners, an army of sufferers,” he said addressing the crowd. “Many of you have been excluded from the joys of life; – most of you surely fear the terrors of death. You have come here, a great number of you capering like harlots, not so much to do your souls good, as to find relief from your miseries.”

A good number in the front rows cringed at the word harlot, though a few women smiled knowingly to themselves. They did not in the least mind having a young Pope who spoke so forcefully, and found his language to be rather attractive than otherwise.

“I see that, today, we have sick here in great numbers. They have come seeking ministration from my hands, as from the hands of God the Almighty. You want to be touched by the finger of the Lord and absolved from your heinous sins.”

The shout of: “Heal me!” could be distinctly heard shoot out from the crowd.

Cripples, the blind, the possessed, the deaf and the dumb, all found their way to the forepart of the crowd, pressing forward in a hideous swollen mass. The carabinieri, fresh ones appearing on the scene as the situation advanced, interlocked arms and held them back. Those in the VIP section were visibly nervous. A number of women were constantly looking over their shoulders and seemed at any moment prepared to stand up and bolt should the dam break and the flood of sick pour through. O’Malley smiled and fingered his rosary. Zuccarelli looked especially pale and grave. The sky darkened and a few of the VIP women were stripped of their hats by a sudden gust of wind.

The Pope spoke: “
Ipso Deo in illis operante
. With insturmentality there is
miraculum.
In the book of Daniel three children were lifted from the fiery furnace; in Acts Saint Peter was delivered from his prison. The holy relics, the mantle of Elias, the body of Eliseus, the handkerchiefs of Saint Paul, are miraculous as are the places, the Temple of Jerusalem, the waters of the Jordan, the Pool of Bethsaida.”

A woman shouted out from the crowd: “Heal me! – Oh heal me precious Lando!”

She flailed herself madly forward, with wild, untame eyes, apparently unaware of her surroundings.

“Let her through,” the Pope cried.

O’Malley rose from his seat, swept forward, plucked the woman from the crowd and led her to the stage. It now became manifest that she was blind. O’Malley winked at the Pope as he set the woman before him.

“What troubles you my child?” the Pope asked solemnly.

“I am blind,” she sobbed.

“Such is the fate of man, as it is for the mole of the hill.”

“Heal me!” she cried frantically. “I have been blind for ten years. I have spent all my money on doctors, but without it doing any good! Please heal me!”

The Pope replied: “If you had given to the poor what you have wasted on physicians, the true physician would have cured you.”

“Oh please Holy Father,” she shrieked. “Pity me; pity me! Heal me!”

The crowd joined in. “Heal her! Heal her!” it shouted frenetically.

The Pope raised his hand. The crowd was silent. The sky grumbled.

“I, as the Successor to Saint Peter, have a duty to go into the whole world and preach the truth to all creation. He that believes will be saved; he that does not believe will be condemned.”

“I believe in you Sir, – I believe!”

The Vicar of Christ Upon Earth bent forward and spat into her eyes. She swooned back and was caught in O’Malley’s arms. O’Malley chuckled, his thin Irish lips pressed together in a grin. The woman trembled and then, rousing herself, found her feet. She put her hand to her forehead and blinked, rapidly bat her eyelashes.

“I can see! I can see!” she shouted hysterically, flailing her arms in the air. “I can see the light! I can see it clearly now!”

Zuccarelli twisted uncomfortably in his seat. He was suspicious of the proceedings but also touched by the woman’s zest. He however, as a highly suppressed individual, did not care for the public display of emotions. He watched as O’Malley led a young, long haired man, impaired with crutches, onto the stage. Tears flowed over his cheeks and, in a choked voice with a heavy Sicilian accent, he told of his infirmity and begged the Pope to interfere for him – to speak to the higher powers on his behalf and beg for their kindness.

The Pope turned towards the crowd, raised his hands in the air, and spoke in a commanding voice:

“All holy martyrs, Saint Sylvester, Saint Gregory, Saint Ambrose, Saint Augustine, Saint Jerome, Saint Martin, Saint Nicholas; all holy bishops and confessors; all holy doctors, Saint Anthony, Saint Benedict; all holy priests and levites; all holy monks and hermits, Saint Mary Magdalen, Saint Agatha; all holy virgins and widows; all holy saints of God, intercede for us. Be merciful.”

He touched the young man and he fell back. The crutches fell away. He rose, brushing his hair from before his eyes, and began to jump up and down, wildly upon the stage like a pathetic, disturbed child.

“I’m free!” he cried, leaping. “I am free of sin!”

Gonzales averted his gaze in disgust. He had seen similar scenes in America and Africa and to him it stunk of fanaticism. Certainly it attracted one desperate portion of the populace, but, in general, it scared the better sort of people away. He pursed his lips together and watched O’Malley snatch another case from the crowd.

This time it was a woman, with a nest of salt and pepper hair done up in a bun on her head, and a young man. The woman prowled up to the stage, dragging the young man behind her. He was a lumbering, oafish sort of fellow, probably around sixteen years old. His body was enormous and his neck as thick as a woman’s waist. He stared around him with the wild, dumb eyes of an animal.

“He has the devil in him!” the woman shouted. “My son has the devil in him!”

The boy’s hair was in disarray; his mouth dropped open and a thick, swollen tongue lolled out. He looked like a hunted animal: scared and dangerous. The Pope approached, and the boy, wheeling his tongue over his chin, backed off, cowering.

“Careful now,” O’Malley warned.

The Pope nodded.

“What is your name?” he asked.

The boy did not answer, but merely wrinkled up his nose.

“Tell me by some sign your name!”

The young man sprang up on tiptoe and craned his thick neck. The veins and tendons protruded, giving it the texture of an oak trunk. His eyes were glaring with madness. “
Baahhh
!” he answered in brutal cry. “
Bahh-Baau
!
Baau zophesamin anro mainyu
!”

O’Malley stepped up and cautiously hooked a microphone to the boy’s shirt.

“
Baau
!
Baau zophesamin anro mainyu
!” the boy repeated, the perfect Syriac flowing from his lips, without the absence of either sibilant or aspirate.

Whispers ran through the crowd. “He is possessed of the devil,” people said to one another. A good many shed tears. Some broke down and fell to their knees in prayer. A few old men, who stood off to one side, chuckled and nudged each other. They considered it a good show, but were pessimists at heart. The woman, the mother with her anguished face and bun of salt and pepper hair, clenched her fists and shook them in the air.

“My son has the devil in him,” she shouted. “Free him! Free him from the devil!”

The crowd took the key, especially that overwhelming section of enthusiasts, who valued the outward show of religion far more than silent sanctity. They waved their hands in the air, danced and shouted, repeating the mother’s words: “Free him! Free him from the devil!”

The sky was now thoroughly overcast, a rolling mass of black clouds, and though it was only three in the afternoon it felt like early evening. The scene was dramatic. The ocean of people swelled and pitched in the vast St. Peter’s square. The great dome, the dome of St. Peter’s Church rose up almost fiercely into the conspiring storm.

Di Quaglio hurried up to the Pope and whispered in his ear. “
Summus Pontifex
,” he said. “I beg you to consider your position. This is neither the time or the place to deal with this woman and her depraved son. In all probability they are both mad. You are frightening people!”

The Pope however did not heed the sub-prefect’s words. Pushing him aside he approached the boy.

Pope Lando the Second, the Vicar of Christ Upon Earth, cried out in a powerful voice: “Almighty Father, who consigned the apostate tyrant, your other son, to the flames of hell; hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the midnight fiend this human being made in your image and likeness. Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste to your vineyard. Let my mighty hand cast him out of your servant.”

People were visibly touched; the air seemed to become suffused with a supernatural perfume; the clouds, which had been gathering overhead, rumbled. One woman, surprisingly enough the wife of the mayor, who sat in the third row, began to whine that she felt the Holy Ghost inside herself.

Pope Lando the Second, the Successor of Saint Peter, made the sign of the cross on the brow, lips and breast of the boy.

“We cast you out, you onslaught of the infernal adversary!” he said in a voice quivering with grave authority. “We command you, begone and fly far from the precious blood of the Divine Lamb. The bones of the martyrs command you. Give way to the holy apostolic Church!”

He pressed his fingers rather violently to the boy’s forehead and the boy began to shake as if he were working a jack hammer. He flailed his arms and neighed. Di Quaglio, fearing he might attack the Pope, summoned Betschart and Meier, the two Swiss guards, who ran onto the stage, quaintly ridiculous in their sixteenth century style outfits of black, red and yellow. The three men together, with the utmost difficulty, restrained the young man.

The Pope continued:

“May the trembling that afflicts this human frame, the fear that afflicts this image of God, descend on you. Make no resistance nor delay in departing from this young man. Use him no longer as your vessel. Do not think of despising my command because you know me to be a great sinner. It is God Himself who commands you. God the Father commands you; God the Holy Spirit commands you. The blood of the martyrs commands you. The continence of the confessors command you. Depart, then, transgressor. Depart seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent. I now and this moment adjure you, profligate dragon, in the name of the spotless Lamb, who has trodden down the asp and the basilisk, and overcome the lion and the dragon, to depart from this boy. Depart from the Church of God!” He made a sign to the crowd. “Tremble and flee, as we call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the heavenly Virtues, Powers and Dominations are subject, whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries as they sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth!”