Can’t have him thinking I already knew about it, as that might imply that I’d been discussing him with someone else and I don’t want to oil his ego too much.
‘ So, you will come?’ he asks, clasping his hands together. I prolong his agony by pulling a pensive face and producing my phone from by bag, scrolling through the calendar to find the right dates, and then finally saying:
‘ Oh, yes, I can come. I seem to have a free day on the Thursday.’ As if I wouldn’t have gone, but I don’t want him thinking that his exhibition is so important that I would clear the decks to be there, regardless of any other commitments I might have. Actually, I can’t wait to see his work; the little bits of it I’ve seen around his office are very promising. He has a strong, individual style, quite unique really, and despite the female-students-as-model dramas I’ve heard about, I am expecting to be very impressed. I need to give the guy a chance.
Seven
The crowds line the streets ten deep. I stand at the open window and gaze down from my privileged position to the masses below, whose gentle chant of ‘Il Papa, il Papa’ grows stronger as the Papal procession nears the piazza, and his ardent followers glimpse for the first time his lavish procession. How fortunate we are to have a visit from our Holy Father; he honours us humble Bolognese so greatly with his presence.
Whilst Rosetta gladly gives us this leisure time to feast our eyes upon the great man and his entourage, she expects us to do our duty as normal this evening. There are many visitors to this city and, despite the religious fervour which brings them here, they are but men and have their needs, and those will not be inhibited by the presence of Il Papa. Our usual clientele will tonight have to compete with gentlemen from outside the city, and whilst the disbursement Rosetta demands of our visitors will deter those whose manners are less refined, we need to be prepared for a long, tiring night of hard work, with men whose desires and wants may be unfamiliar to us.
Finally the cavalcade comes into view, and I do believe in my eighteen years on this earth that I have never seen anything so beautiful and so richly opulent. A convocation of choirboys leads the way, their red cassocks and brilliant white surplices mirrored by the crimson, lighted candles they carry before them. The carriage seems to be made from gold alone, as though hewn in one piece from gilded rock, and is studded with vast coloured gems which glint in the mid-afternoon sunshine. The horses’ hooves click rhythmically on the warm cobbled streets, and the air is filled with the sweet pungency of their newly-deposited dung.
The Papal guards, in their striped blue, red and yellow uniforms, adorn the sides of the procession like strutting peacocks, the plumes in their helmets wafting in the gentle summer breeze. They march in perfect unison, almost bright enough to detract from the Holy Father himself but then….yes….. suddenly I see him! He is close enough for me to glimpse his kind, benevolent face. He waves serenely to the crowd, casting his gaze first to one side, then to the other, so that all men shall be equal in the receiving of his blessing.
I cannot believe it, that I should this day gaze upon the Holy Father! I make the sign of the cross on my chest and raise my eyes to the heavens for forgiveness for the sins which I am compelled to commit daily, according to my profession. ‘Please find a place for me in your heart, My Lord,’ I plead, as this mortal but most holy representative of Our Father on High passes by.
It is as I thought. A steady procession of men has visited our establishment from the moment that darkness fell. I myself have been fortunate to have had only two clients thus far, both who hail from outside of our city, and neither has wanted to tarry in their mission. Once they have achieved what they came here for, they have departed; clearly
‘ So, you will come?’ he asks, clasping his hands together. I prolong his agony by pulling a pensive face and producing my phone from by bag, scrolling through the calendar to find the right dates, and then finally saying:
‘ Oh, yes, I can come. I seem to have a free day on the Thursday.’ As if I wouldn’t have gone, but I don’t want him thinking that his exhibition is so important that I would clear the decks to be there, regardless of any other commitments I might have. Actually, I can’t wait to see his work; the little bits of it I’ve seen around his office are very promising. He has a strong, individual style, quite unique really, and despite the female-students-as-model dramas I’ve heard about, I am expecting to be very impressed. I need to give the guy a chance.
Seven
The crowds line the streets ten deep. I stand at the open window and gaze down from my privileged position to the masses below, whose gentle chant of ‘Il Papa, il Papa’ grows stronger as the Papal procession nears the piazza, and his ardent followers glimpse for the first time his lavish procession. How fortunate we are to have a visit from our Holy Father; he honours us humble Bolognese so greatly with his presence.
Whilst Rosetta gladly gives us this leisure time to feast our eyes upon the great man and his entourage, she expects us to do our duty as normal this evening. There are many visitors to this city and, despite the religious fervour which brings them here, they are but men and have their needs, and those will not be inhibited by the presence of Il Papa. Our usual clientele will tonight have to compete with gentlemen from outside the city, and whilst the disbursement Rosetta demands of our visitors will deter those whose manners are less refined, we need to be prepared for a long, tiring night of hard work, with men whose desires and wants may be unfamiliar to us.
Finally the cavalcade comes into view, and I do believe in my eighteen years on this earth that I have never seen anything so beautiful and so richly opulent. A convocation of choirboys leads the way, their red cassocks and brilliant white surplices mirrored by the crimson, lighted candles they carry before them. The carriage seems to be made from gold alone, as though hewn in one piece from gilded rock, and is studded with vast coloured gems which glint in the mid-afternoon sunshine. The horses’ hooves click rhythmically on the warm cobbled streets, and the air is filled with the sweet pungency of their newly-deposited dung.
The Papal guards, in their striped blue, red and yellow uniforms, adorn the sides of the procession like strutting peacocks, the plumes in their helmets wafting in the gentle summer breeze. They march in perfect unison, almost bright enough to detract from the Holy Father himself but then….yes….. suddenly I see him! He is close enough for me to glimpse his kind, benevolent face. He waves serenely to the crowd, casting his gaze first to one side, then to the other, so that all men shall be equal in the receiving of his blessing.
I cannot believe it, that I should this day gaze upon the Holy Father! I make the sign of the cross on my chest and raise my eyes to the heavens for forgiveness for the sins which I am compelled to commit daily, according to my profession. ‘Please find a place for me in your heart, My Lord,’ I plead, as this mortal but most holy representative of Our Father on High passes by.
It is as I thought. A steady procession of men has visited our establishment from the moment that darkness fell. I myself have been fortunate to have had only two clients thus far, both who hail from outside of our city, and neither has wanted to tarry in their mission. Once they have achieved what they came here for, they have departed; clearly
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