The Translation of Father Torturo

The Translation of Father Torturo by Brendan Connell Page A

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Authors: Brendan Connell
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surrounding town like a horseshoe cast on the top of the low mountain, small vineyards, bereft of growth, levelling off into the valley below. The car wound up the road and through the portal of the bombed out watch-tower, the doctor violently sounding the horn as he made his way, at an extremely unsafe velocity, through the narrow opening. Then up, past the medieval church they went and through the narrow lane of mostly abandoned, gutted houses; the few that were inhabited having measly kitchen gardens in front, severe peasant women bent over ailing cabbages. The doctor lived at the far end of the village, in a refurbished villa with a courtyard.
    “Ah, Žnidaršič!” he said affectionately, petting the slobbering dog that leaped on him as he got out of the car. Looking up at the priest, the dog’s head sunk between its shoulder blades and it slunk off with a guilty look, a low whine issuing from its mouth.
    “Ah, Žnidaršič respects you,” the doctor said. “It shows you are a powerful man. Animals sense that.”
    “It is a shame humans, generally speaking, do not.”
    The two men walked through the courtyard, which had a pine tree on one side, and an old well in the centre. Torturo plucked a few needles from the pine tree and stuck them in his pocket. Inside the villa, he was greeted by Nassa, the doctor’s plump, blonde wife, who unfortunately did not speak a word of Italian.
    “ Dobar dan, me veseli ,” she said.
    “ She says she is glad to see you,” the doctor translated with a smile, showing his fine white teeth. “She likes good business for her husband.”
    “ Was she with you in America?” the father asked.
    “ No; I got her when I came back,” the doctor replied seriously. “American women are no good. They don’t like to work, or respect the husband. Life with Slovenian women is good. The women in America are no good. They call me criminal because I do good business.”
    “ But you got caught in your ‘good business.’”
    “ Life in America is like a mealy apple,” the doctor said gravely. “It looks nice on the outside, but inside it is bad fruit. There some men who like to have funny things. They like the fetishes. Some like to have their legs sawed off. I am a good doctor, but if a weak man cannot live, it is not fair that I should get the blame. As you know father, I am a very good doctor.”
    “ Of course you are – That is why I am using you.”
    Nassa put down a plate of ham and freshly baked bread on the table, as well as an old Sprite bottle filled with black wine.
    “ Come,” the doctor said motioning the priest to sit. “We eat and drink a glass of teran , the black wine, and then we do business. That is our custom you know; we always drink a glass of wine before business.”
    “ An admirable custom,” father Torturo said as he watched his glass fill with the rich, dark liquid, the very blood of the earth.
    “ To your health.”
    “ To your health.”
    The two men drank, each savouring the spectacular beverage. The doctor talked volubly, about wine, farming, his experiences as an unlicensed surgeon, and European politics. Torturo listened, or affected to listen, sipping gladly at his wine and every now and again slipping a bit of the delicious, fatty ham into his mouth. He found the doctor’s physiognomy interesting: The large head, bristling with short, black hair; a small nose mounted above a ferocious moustache; the large, pink mouth, glowing with healthy teeth; – and then the eyes: soft, intelligent, almost feminine eyes! In some respects he reminded the priest of a great, trustworthy, clever dog. – In any case, the doctor certainly had two commendable qualifications: a definite quantity of mad genius, and enough self interest to produce a moderate level of loyalty.
    “ Do you have eggs?” Torturo presently asked.
    “ Certainly. In the country we keep chickens, and they make good eggs; wholesome eggs. We consider our Slovanian eggs to be wholesome eggs.

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