Free The Translation of Father Torturo by Brendan Connell

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.”
     

Chapter Nine
     
    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