their fields and barns, wearing broad-brimmed hats to keep the rain off their faces. After Monfalcone, the train ran along the Gulf of Trieste and Torturo looked out at the calm, though somewhat dismal Adriatic Sea, the waters appearing almost black in the morning light. Sloping down from his left were the hills of Slovenia. Behind him was the mass of Italy. He looked at his watch. It was 9:30. A quarter of an hour later the train pulled into the Trieste station. He deboarded, headed straight for the restrooms, which were completely empty, abandoned his wig and changed his clothes. The cap, jogging pants and jumper were stuffed in the trash receptacle, the sacerdotal robes resumed.
Despite the drizzle, which still persisted outside, he made his way on foot, a suitcase in each hand, to the local stop, some four blocks away. As luck would have it, he only had to wait for some five minutes before the small red trolley arrived, though he was fairly soaked through by the time he boarded. The three or four people who were on the transport nodded to him respectfully, their reverence being inspired not so much by his moist appearance as by the garments he wore. He sat down in one of the antique wooden seats, towards the front, where the sign still read, ‘Reserved for Veterans of the War,’ an indication of the age of the little trolley, which jolted into motion and wound through the empty streets of Trieste, past the rain dimpled harbour, which contained mammoth cargo ships, with dirty white characters inscribed on their sides, mostly in Russian and other Eastern European languages. The trolley reached the edge of town and gained grade, climbing up the steep hills towards the frontier, down below the harbour a gorgeous blue-grey against the gouged out blocks of buildings and the rich green, mist wreathed hills. At the gorge it stopped, and funicular lines were attached. It continued airborne for a short distance and then resumed its route on tracks, to Villa Opicina, which was the end of the line.
Getting off the train, the conductor, a small, balding man, helped him with one of the suitcases, obviously considering it an act of devotion.
“Quite light,” he commented, setting it down in the station bar.
“Yes,” the father replied with a half smile. “I left my Bibles at home.”
He then went to the phone booth, made a brief call, and returned to the station bar to have an espresso. He chatted casually with the fat woman behind the counter, complemented her on her Italian (she was Slovenian), had a second espresso and stepped outside. He smoked two cigarettes, paced back and forth for a quarter of an hour and then, just as he was lighting a third, Dr. Jure Štrekel pulled up, in a small white car with Slovenian plates.
The doctor, a man even larger than father Torturo, with an extraordinarily thick frame and a huge black moustache spiking out of his pale, fat face, stepped out of the car, cracked his knuckles, opened the trunk and flung the two suitcases inside, a jaunty greeting flying off his lips.
“So, glad to have you back,” he grinned as they drove away, his Italian heavily tainted with an Eastern accent. “I thought you might be indisposed for a while after our last meeting.”
“No,” the father replied. “You did an admirable job and, thanks to my strong constitution, the negative effects were quite brief.”
The doctor peered into the other’s mouth as he spoke.
“Yes. It’s natural. Very natural.”
“Eyes on the road please.”
The car sped on, barely missing dogs, elderly women and baby carriages, crossed through the frontier without incident, their passports not so much as checked, and on into the wild countryside in the vicinity of Sezana. The dark, gnarled oaks sat near the edge of the road and, further on, past the thickly grassed meadows were the forests which rolled over the hills, rich and evergreen, a mask for prowling wolves. Off to one side was the ruined castle of Štanjel, the
Despite the drizzle, which still persisted outside, he made his way on foot, a suitcase in each hand, to the local stop, some four blocks away. As luck would have it, he only had to wait for some five minutes before the small red trolley arrived, though he was fairly soaked through by the time he boarded. The three or four people who were on the transport nodded to him respectfully, their reverence being inspired not so much by his moist appearance as by the garments he wore. He sat down in one of the antique wooden seats, towards the front, where the sign still read, ‘Reserved for Veterans of the War,’ an indication of the age of the little trolley, which jolted into motion and wound through the empty streets of Trieste, past the rain dimpled harbour, which contained mammoth cargo ships, with dirty white characters inscribed on their sides, mostly in Russian and other Eastern European languages. The trolley reached the edge of town and gained grade, climbing up the steep hills towards the frontier, down below the harbour a gorgeous blue-grey against the gouged out blocks of buildings and the rich green, mist wreathed hills. At the gorge it stopped, and funicular lines were attached. It continued airborne for a short distance and then resumed its route on tracks, to Villa Opicina, which was the end of the line.
Getting off the train, the conductor, a small, balding man, helped him with one of the suitcases, obviously considering it an act of devotion.
“Quite light,” he commented, setting it down in the station bar.
“Yes,” the father replied with a half smile. “I left my Bibles at home.”
He then went to the phone booth, made a brief call, and returned to the station bar to have an espresso. He chatted casually with the fat woman behind the counter, complemented her on her Italian (she was Slovenian), had a second espresso and stepped outside. He smoked two cigarettes, paced back and forth for a quarter of an hour and then, just as he was lighting a third, Dr. Jure Štrekel pulled up, in a small white car with Slovenian plates.
The doctor, a man even larger than father Torturo, with an extraordinarily thick frame and a huge black moustache spiking out of his pale, fat face, stepped out of the car, cracked his knuckles, opened the trunk and flung the two suitcases inside, a jaunty greeting flying off his lips.
“So, glad to have you back,” he grinned as they drove away, his Italian heavily tainted with an Eastern accent. “I thought you might be indisposed for a while after our last meeting.”
“No,” the father replied. “You did an admirable job and, thanks to my strong constitution, the negative effects were quite brief.”
The doctor peered into the other’s mouth as he spoke.
“Yes. It’s natural. Very natural.”
“Eyes on the road please.”
The car sped on, barely missing dogs, elderly women and baby carriages, crossed through the frontier without incident, their passports not so much as checked, and on into the wild countryside in the vicinity of Sezana. The dark, gnarled oaks sat near the edge of the road and, further on, past the thickly grassed meadows were the forests which rolled over the hills, rich and evergreen, a mask for prowling wolves. Off to one side was the ruined castle of Štanjel, the
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