Would you like some?”
“ Yes. One please.”
“ Fried, scrambled?”
“ Hard boiled.”
Speaking rapidly the doctor instructed his wife to boil eggs. She complied without the least objection, apparently finding it quite natural to cook to order.
Father Torturo poured himself a fresh glass of wine and sat back, spilling the liquid into his mouth and letting it run over his tongue: – Or, in any case, the tongue that was in his mouth.
In 1263, when the vault containing the body of St. Anthony was opened, thirty two years after its original internment, the flesh had turned to dust, but the tongue was in a perfect state of preservation, fresh and ripe as a red pepper. “O Blessed Tongue,” St. Bonaventure had said, taking up the glossy morsel in two fingers and holding it high. “O Blessed Tongue that always praised the Lord, and made others bless Him, now it is evident what great merit thou hast before God.”
Father Torturo, when he found himself in possession of this precious relic, the tongue of the man they called the Malleus hereticorum , the Hammer of the Heretics, was overjoyed. He filled a small mayonnaise jar with his own blood, draining it from an incision he made in his left palm, placed the tongue in the jar along with a silver amulet inscribed with the name Eresgichal written in Greek characters, sealed it and brought it with him on his first visit to Doctor Štrekel, who was less surprised at the priest’s request than might be expected.
“ Of course, the thing might rot in your mouth,” was his only objection.
“ I have no fear on that score,” Father Torturo had replied. “It has remained a healthy, living thing for nearly eight hundred years, so I imagine it can subsist a while longer rubbing against my palate.”
“ Oh, look how it wiggles in my fingers!” the doctor remarked, taking it out of the jar.
“ Yes, it will graft beautifully. I have every confidence that it will graft beautifully.”
The eggs were finished, and Father Torturo stuck one in his pocket. The two men, after draining their glasses of wine, walked across the wet courtyard, each carrying one of the suitcases, to the doctor’s studio, which was not directly accessible from the house.
“ Have you had much work since I last saw you?” Torturo asked, setting his luggage down on the floor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “No, not much. Some nose jobs and one or two breast implants. One fellow came, nastily burned from a fire. I did a good skin graft. He had no money, so he paid me with a pig. We kill it soon and make good ham of the legs; nice roast of the loin. – Really though, that is about all. Not much work. – Not much work that’s good for me.” He grinned.
“ Are you ever worried about botching a job? . . . Or, I should say: another job.”
“ Father please,” the doctor said with a hurt look on his large round face. “I was top student at the University of Leningrad. I am best surgeon. If I need confession I will come to you and trust you with my soul. So, as a personal favour, trust me in my job.”
“ You might trust me, in my capacity as priest, with your soul,” the priest replied, “but I am trusting you with my body, which, here on earth, is often considered the more valuable of the two assets. But, believe me, I would not be using you if I judged you to be in the least bit incompetent.”
“ So, we set to work?”
“ Certainly. Let me first just attend to a few matters – Alone.”
“ You want I should go?”
“ If you don’t mind – For three-quarters of an hour.”
Left to himself, Torturo took the boiled egg from his pocket, cracked it on the edge of the table and peeled away its shell, leaving a glossy white oval in his palm. He set it down, took a pin knife from the same pocket and pricked his thumb. Dipping the pine needle in the drop of blood, he wrote on the egg the word ‘ Adad ’ and then, in a single swallow, took the hen’s ovum into his
“ Yes. One please.”
“ Fried, scrambled?”
“ Hard boiled.”
Speaking rapidly the doctor instructed his wife to boil eggs. She complied without the least objection, apparently finding it quite natural to cook to order.
Father Torturo poured himself a fresh glass of wine and sat back, spilling the liquid into his mouth and letting it run over his tongue: – Or, in any case, the tongue that was in his mouth.
In 1263, when the vault containing the body of St. Anthony was opened, thirty two years after its original internment, the flesh had turned to dust, but the tongue was in a perfect state of preservation, fresh and ripe as a red pepper. “O Blessed Tongue,” St. Bonaventure had said, taking up the glossy morsel in two fingers and holding it high. “O Blessed Tongue that always praised the Lord, and made others bless Him, now it is evident what great merit thou hast before God.”
Father Torturo, when he found himself in possession of this precious relic, the tongue of the man they called the Malleus hereticorum , the Hammer of the Heretics, was overjoyed. He filled a small mayonnaise jar with his own blood, draining it from an incision he made in his left palm, placed the tongue in the jar along with a silver amulet inscribed with the name Eresgichal written in Greek characters, sealed it and brought it with him on his first visit to Doctor Štrekel, who was less surprised at the priest’s request than might be expected.
“ Of course, the thing might rot in your mouth,” was his only objection.
“ I have no fear on that score,” Father Torturo had replied. “It has remained a healthy, living thing for nearly eight hundred years, so I imagine it can subsist a while longer rubbing against my palate.”
“ Oh, look how it wiggles in my fingers!” the doctor remarked, taking it out of the jar.
“ Yes, it will graft beautifully. I have every confidence that it will graft beautifully.”
The eggs were finished, and Father Torturo stuck one in his pocket. The two men, after draining their glasses of wine, walked across the wet courtyard, each carrying one of the suitcases, to the doctor’s studio, which was not directly accessible from the house.
“ Have you had much work since I last saw you?” Torturo asked, setting his luggage down on the floor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “No, not much. Some nose jobs and one or two breast implants. One fellow came, nastily burned from a fire. I did a good skin graft. He had no money, so he paid me with a pig. We kill it soon and make good ham of the legs; nice roast of the loin. – Really though, that is about all. Not much work. – Not much work that’s good for me.” He grinned.
“ Are you ever worried about botching a job? . . . Or, I should say: another job.”
“ Father please,” the doctor said with a hurt look on his large round face. “I was top student at the University of Leningrad. I am best surgeon. If I need confession I will come to you and trust you with my soul. So, as a personal favour, trust me in my job.”
“ You might trust me, in my capacity as priest, with your soul,” the priest replied, “but I am trusting you with my body, which, here on earth, is often considered the more valuable of the two assets. But, believe me, I would not be using you if I judged you to be in the least bit incompetent.”
“ So, we set to work?”
“ Certainly. Let me first just attend to a few matters – Alone.”
“ You want I should go?”
“ If you don’t mind – For three-quarters of an hour.”
Left to himself, Torturo took the boiled egg from his pocket, cracked it on the edge of the table and peeled away its shell, leaving a glossy white oval in his palm. He set it down, took a pin knife from the same pocket and pricked his thumb. Dipping the pine needle in the drop of blood, he wrote on the egg the word ‘ Adad ’ and then, in a single swallow, took the hen’s ovum into his
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