dismayed to see the private kitchens of the rich nuns and the costly delicacies that were served to them on damask cloths set with silver plates while they lolled on their cut-velvet cushions like courtesans in a seraglio. He ordered all the nuns to return to the godlysimplicity of communal dining. He closed the bakery that produced the opulent bread and polvorón cakes for which the convent was famous.
Now I of course valued the world as something merely worthless and I had never been one tiny part jealous to see the sisters flaunting their jewelled silver crosses and Sèvres teacups. Nor had I envied them their slaves, or their pernicious affection for each other, shown in wanton kisses and hugs. But I agreed wholeheartedly with Bishop Chávez de la Rosa that their wicked ways must be put to an end. Therefore I wanted to make sure that he was fully informed of the many additional sins that the nuns were trying to conceal from him.
Those days that the Bishop made his investigations among us, I spent prostrate in prayer upon the icy stone floor of the church. He was obliged to step over my suffering form several times on his way to the altar. And so my own piety, the only true faith in the whole convent of Santa Catalina, was finally noticed by Bishop Chávez de la Rosa.
‘What is your name, child?’ he asked me.
I kept my face down on the floor. I did not wish him to be distracted by it. ‘I am no one, Ilustrísimo ,’ I declared. ‘I am a humble messenger.’
With my head muffled by stone, I recounted all the secret wrongdoings of the light nuns and the priora . I told him of my deeds of penance, my fasting, and what I had suffered in the way of scorn. I left out no detail.
He knelt down beside me and listened in silence. Then he picked up one of my wrists and turned it over in his hand.
‘Poor child,’ he pronounced finally, rising to his feet. ‘We must see what can be done for you.’
By this, I naturally understood that I would shortly rise to a position of great authority, and preside over all those sinful ones who had sought to bring me down.
Gianni delle Boccole
Until he had eleven year, if ye dint know him intimid, twere jist possible, with yer head on one side n yer fingers crosst, to think on Minguillo as a tearing-way kind ovva lad, with a morbid maginashon n a bad temper.
He dint grow any prettier. Swear that the eyes lookt closer to by the year and the mouth on im were like summing pulled in on a hook with mackerel guts. The skin stretcht oer his face so ye could see the scull underneath, trying to affright ye, ugly as a gargle, Great Toad ovva God!
At eleven he grewed the worst crop o pimples as ever bedivilled a humane skin. The repungent kind what waxes yellow, then black, what run around in colonies, settling n spreding there seed, finely digging pits in the face. Twere as if his wickedness got up evry night while he lay sleeping and writed more of his gilt on that face o his.
And that were the year that he were found tyin up my poor sister Cristina in the limonaia . He ud made a little wooden cross for her, and she were bound hand n foot like Jesus pon it. There were an apple in her mouth. He, in cool blood, were sharpening the knife on a grindstone. Thank the Lord. On account of as it were the shrieks n sparks o the knife what caused a passin footman to investigerate.
The Papà Fernando Fasan were of natural course way in Arequipa agin. I rusht down to the limonaia to see my Cristina trusst up and the fish-gutting knife a-glinting in Minguillo’s hand. Twere me that restled the thing out o his fist. He dint nowise wunt to give it up, and the look he give me burnt into the back of my brain. At the last minute he twisted the blade so it went deep into my hand. None o t’other servants dared to help me. The knife stood there in the fat o my palm, uprite like a soldier.
Dint I ache to nuck im one up the bracket jist then? But Minguillo were the young Master, he were intitled. He dint
Now I of course valued the world as something merely worthless and I had never been one tiny part jealous to see the sisters flaunting their jewelled silver crosses and Sèvres teacups. Nor had I envied them their slaves, or their pernicious affection for each other, shown in wanton kisses and hugs. But I agreed wholeheartedly with Bishop Chávez de la Rosa that their wicked ways must be put to an end. Therefore I wanted to make sure that he was fully informed of the many additional sins that the nuns were trying to conceal from him.
Those days that the Bishop made his investigations among us, I spent prostrate in prayer upon the icy stone floor of the church. He was obliged to step over my suffering form several times on his way to the altar. And so my own piety, the only true faith in the whole convent of Santa Catalina, was finally noticed by Bishop Chávez de la Rosa.
‘What is your name, child?’ he asked me.
I kept my face down on the floor. I did not wish him to be distracted by it. ‘I am no one, Ilustrísimo ,’ I declared. ‘I am a humble messenger.’
With my head muffled by stone, I recounted all the secret wrongdoings of the light nuns and the priora . I told him of my deeds of penance, my fasting, and what I had suffered in the way of scorn. I left out no detail.
He knelt down beside me and listened in silence. Then he picked up one of my wrists and turned it over in his hand.
‘Poor child,’ he pronounced finally, rising to his feet. ‘We must see what can be done for you.’
By this, I naturally understood that I would shortly rise to a position of great authority, and preside over all those sinful ones who had sought to bring me down.
Gianni delle Boccole
Until he had eleven year, if ye dint know him intimid, twere jist possible, with yer head on one side n yer fingers crosst, to think on Minguillo as a tearing-way kind ovva lad, with a morbid maginashon n a bad temper.
He dint grow any prettier. Swear that the eyes lookt closer to by the year and the mouth on im were like summing pulled in on a hook with mackerel guts. The skin stretcht oer his face so ye could see the scull underneath, trying to affright ye, ugly as a gargle, Great Toad ovva God!
At eleven he grewed the worst crop o pimples as ever bedivilled a humane skin. The repungent kind what waxes yellow, then black, what run around in colonies, settling n spreding there seed, finely digging pits in the face. Twere as if his wickedness got up evry night while he lay sleeping and writed more of his gilt on that face o his.
And that were the year that he were found tyin up my poor sister Cristina in the limonaia . He ud made a little wooden cross for her, and she were bound hand n foot like Jesus pon it. There were an apple in her mouth. He, in cool blood, were sharpening the knife on a grindstone. Thank the Lord. On account of as it were the shrieks n sparks o the knife what caused a passin footman to investigerate.
The Papà Fernando Fasan were of natural course way in Arequipa agin. I rusht down to the limonaia to see my Cristina trusst up and the fish-gutting knife a-glinting in Minguillo’s hand. Twere me that restled the thing out o his fist. He dint nowise wunt to give it up, and the look he give me burnt into the back of my brain. At the last minute he twisted the blade so it went deep into my hand. None o t’other servants dared to help me. The knife stood there in the fat o my palm, uprite like a soldier.
Dint I ache to nuck im one up the bracket jist then? But Minguillo were the young Master, he were intitled. He dint
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