The Translation of Father Torturo Read Free Page B

“It’s that old priest, Father Falzon. Me and Arnoldo—”
    “Arnoldo and I,” the professor corrected.
    “Arnoldo and I passed by the church the other evening and saw him naked; we saw the old priest naked, drunk and sitting up in a pine tree.”
    That day, after school, Xaverio pummelled both boys vigorously, and advised them to watch their tongues.
    Firmly established on the path of scholarship and entering his teenage years, when a keen and original intellect naturally finds itself drawn to the arcane, Xaverio proceeded to work his way through the old priest’s entire library of texts, reading such books as the Sermones Vulgares and Tractus de diversis materiss praedicabilibus of Jacques de Vitry, the Cisterciensis Dialogus Miraculroum of Caesar of Heisterbach and the Exuviae Constantinopolitanae of Count de Riant.
    “Oh, that’s a fine book,” the old priest grimaced, coming upon Xaverio reading the De fabulo equestris ordinis cosantiniani of Marchese Scipione Maffei. “When you finish with that I will loan you his Arte magica dileguata and the Arte magica annichilata . These are hardly children’s books and, unfortunately, many of my colleagues would say I am poisoning a young mind, but you are intelligent and will surely make your way through the classical writings without doing too much damage to your soul.” (Here his top lip curled back, revealing a strip of pink, receding gums.) “To properly understand them though, I must say that a bit of knowledge of the Greek authors would do you good. I have a lovely Latin Parua Naturia of Aristotele Stagirita and—”
    “I would prefer to read it in Greek,” the boy said.
    Father Falzon was dumbfounded. “Would you now?” he said scratching his head. “Well, my Greek is not as good as my Latin, but I could teach you some basic grammar and vocabulary I suppose.”
    “Please do. It is necessary for Bible study; and Uncle Guido will appreciate it.”
    “Yes,” the father murmured, fingering the box of Montecristo No. 3’s Xaverio had handed him that morning. “I am sure he will.”
    One day, upon visiting the father for his lesson, Xaverio found him sick in bed. His cheeks were pale and, in the weak light admitted through the aperture which some humorous architect called a window, appeared extraordinarily long. His nose was as red as coral. Black rings circled his eyes.
    “I am afraid that I will not be able to give you lessons,” the old man said.
    “Maybe not today, but tomorrow.”
    “No, not today, tomorrow or the next day.”
    “What?”
    “Bring me a glass of wine and water. The water is there, on the dresser. Look under my bed; you will find a bottle of Barbera . . . Yes, that’s it; a nice portion of wine – Please, not quite so much water! – There is no need to drown me.”
    When the boy had complied with his request, the old man held the glass of light red liquid to his lips and drained half its contents at a swallow. “Ah, that’s better,” he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I had fire in my throat.”
    Xaverio looked at him seriously and asked: “So, you don’t want to give me any more lessons?”
    “It is not that,” Father Falzon grinned hideously. “For one thing, I am not sure I have much left to teach you. You are a better latiniser than I, and, furthermore, your Greek is nearly at the same level.”
    “So you think I know enough; that is the reason?”
    “No; I would still have you come around even if it was you who gave me lessons. To my feelings Xaverio, you are my only ally here on earth. In the kingdom of heaven maybe I have a few friends; possibly even a connection or two downstairs; but here you are really my single interesting associate. This might surprise you, but many people look on me with suspicion. You ask why the lessons will end? I have spent my life in sedentary occupation; too much poring over books without the appropriate exercise; too much blood meat and maybe a sip too