Read Online The Translation of Father Torturo by Brendan Connell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brendan Connell
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lamed.
“ What have you done Torturo? You have hurt yourself!”
“ Oh, it is nothing – I over-exerted myself while exercising, that is all.”
“ Poor man!” cried Vivan. “You take this bodily training too far.”
“ And you – you eat far too many dainties.”
Vivan blushed. He sucked his bottom lip.
“ I see you are enjoying further literature,” the father said presently.
“ Yes,” Vivan replied, closing the copy of Boy’s Life magazine and turning the cover in Torturo’s direction. “I have a subscription from America. The English is very difficult, but the pictures are, er; – let us say the pictures inspire me. They speak about modes of a pure life: A child’s life with nature. They tell of lads, innocent fellows, and their adventures – their humid adventures in forests, and on the rocky shores of North American lakes . . . To see a young man vigorously clasping a rod, a fishing rod; or bending over and thrusting a stake into the earth, a tent stake: Really, it is one of the most beautiful things.”
“ Children are unquestionably interesting.”
“ They are fascinating.”
“ Particularly the boys of the species.”
“ Absolutely the boys.”
“ Did the police come and question you?”
“ Question me? Well, naturally. I saw Pepito on an almost daily basis. It was a tragedy. I sent his mother a pot of orchids (charming flowers). I hope you will be there for the services father. Your presence would be appreciated.”
“ Of course I will go. He was, as you say, a charming boy.”
“ Charming in the extreme.”
“ And do the police have any suspects?”
“ None that they have indicated – though they say there might be a connection between this and the other murder – the one that happened a month or two back.”
“ I suspect that there is such a connection.”
“ There could be,” Vivan said with a sigh, his eyes straying heavenward; and then, bringing them down and steadily fixing them on father Torturo. “There are unfortunately a great many evils in this world.”
“ True. It is some consolation that Pepito died like a saint.”
“ I don’t quite follow you,” Vivan said with a gentle, consolidating smile.
“ Like Saint Peter of Verona to be exact,” Torturo grinned. “Remember the words ‘ Credo in Deem ’?”
Vivan raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“ As you know,” Torturo continued, “good Peter was walked from Como to Milan one evening, the sixth of April 1252 to be exact. In the forest around Cesano a Manichæan named Carino jumped him and split his head open with an axe. Peter, half dead, rose to his knees and recited the first article of the Symbol of the Apostles. Dipping his fingers in his own blood, he offered it as a sacrifice to God. Using it as ink, he wrote on the ground ‘ Credo in Deem .’ Carino then jammed a blade into his heart.”
“Yes, yes yes,” Vivan said with a wave of his hand. “And the body was carried to Milan where it was entombed in an ark at Sant’ Eustorgio, where it remained until the tragic event three weeks ago. I understand all this, but what connection does it bare to our dear departed Pepito?”
“ Why, it is apparent that Pepito, in his last moments was inspired by Peter, the martyr of Verona.”
“ Inspired? How?”
“ Pepito also managed to jot down a few letters.”
“ Pardon?”
“ Before he died, he wrote a name on the floor. In his own blood.”
Bishop Vivan’s boyish face flushed bright scarlet. He pursed and then licked his lips and then swallowed. His clear green eyes became extraordinarily wide as he looked at the father and asked, “And . . . And whose name was it that was written?”
“ Why, the murderer’s of course.”
“ The murderer?” Vivan gasped.
“ Yes. Why look so shocked? The murderer; – the same man I saw clobber poor Pepito with a fuller’s club as I stood hidden in the transept. It was a remarkably cruel act. I knew you had certain vicious instincts
“ What have you done Torturo? You have hurt yourself!”
“ Oh, it is nothing – I over-exerted myself while exercising, that is all.”
“ Poor man!” cried Vivan. “You take this bodily training too far.”
“ And you – you eat far too many dainties.”
Vivan blushed. He sucked his bottom lip.
“ I see you are enjoying further literature,” the father said presently.
“ Yes,” Vivan replied, closing the copy of Boy’s Life magazine and turning the cover in Torturo’s direction. “I have a subscription from America. The English is very difficult, but the pictures are, er; – let us say the pictures inspire me. They speak about modes of a pure life: A child’s life with nature. They tell of lads, innocent fellows, and their adventures – their humid adventures in forests, and on the rocky shores of North American lakes . . . To see a young man vigorously clasping a rod, a fishing rod; or bending over and thrusting a stake into the earth, a tent stake: Really, it is one of the most beautiful things.”
“ Children are unquestionably interesting.”
“ They are fascinating.”
“ Particularly the boys of the species.”
“ Absolutely the boys.”
“ Did the police come and question you?”
“ Question me? Well, naturally. I saw Pepito on an almost daily basis. It was a tragedy. I sent his mother a pot of orchids (charming flowers). I hope you will be there for the services father. Your presence would be appreciated.”
“ Of course I will go. He was, as you say, a charming boy.”
“ Charming in the extreme.”
“ And do the police have any suspects?”
“ None that they have indicated – though they say there might be a connection between this and the other murder – the one that happened a month or two back.”
“ I suspect that there is such a connection.”
“ There could be,” Vivan said with a sigh, his eyes straying heavenward; and then, bringing them down and steadily fixing them on father Torturo. “There are unfortunately a great many evils in this world.”
“ True. It is some consolation that Pepito died like a saint.”
“ I don’t quite follow you,” Vivan said with a gentle, consolidating smile.
“ Like Saint Peter of Verona to be exact,” Torturo grinned. “Remember the words ‘ Credo in Deem ’?”
Vivan raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“ As you know,” Torturo continued, “good Peter was walked from Como to Milan one evening, the sixth of April 1252 to be exact. In the forest around Cesano a Manichæan named Carino jumped him and split his head open with an axe. Peter, half dead, rose to his knees and recited the first article of the Symbol of the Apostles. Dipping his fingers in his own blood, he offered it as a sacrifice to God. Using it as ink, he wrote on the ground ‘ Credo in Deem .’ Carino then jammed a blade into his heart.”
“Yes, yes yes,” Vivan said with a wave of his hand. “And the body was carried to Milan where it was entombed in an ark at Sant’ Eustorgio, where it remained until the tragic event three weeks ago. I understand all this, but what connection does it bare to our dear departed Pepito?”
“ Why, it is apparent that Pepito, in his last moments was inspired by Peter, the martyr of Verona.”
“ Inspired? How?”
“ Pepito also managed to jot down a few letters.”
“ Pardon?”
“ Before he died, he wrote a name on the floor. In his own blood.”
Bishop Vivan’s boyish face flushed bright scarlet. He pursed and then licked his lips and then swallowed. His clear green eyes became extraordinarily wide as he looked at the father and asked, “And . . . And whose name was it that was written?”
“ Why, the murderer’s of course.”
“ The murderer?” Vivan gasped.
“ Yes. Why look so shocked? The murderer; – the same man I saw clobber poor Pepito with a fuller’s club as I stood hidden in the transept. It was a remarkably cruel act. I knew you had certain vicious instincts
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