Act IV – Private Quarters
* * *
Characters:
POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
BENITO - domestic servant.
LAZZARO - domestic servant.
LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI - mafioso boss.
* * *
Popes old and new take tea and discuss future directions for Curia policy…
‘That thing should be defrocked,’ Pope Franco fumed. ‘He’s clearly a raving homosexual!’
Rightvinger eyed his successor imperiously as he fingered a white cat. ‘Hmm, but I suspect he would enjoy being ‘divested’ ah?’ He raised his Kriegvagon seat slightly causing the feline to twitch.
Franco frowned and tried to discern his counterpart’s inscrutable expression. ‘Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life!’ he raged. ‘The indignity…absolutely diabolical!’
‘Dire-bollock-pull, you say?’ Rightvinger responded with a feint smirk. ‘But shouldn’t one ‘turn the other cheek’…?’
Franco glared ferociously at him. ‘You find this amusing?’
Rightvinger cackled and slapped his knee. ‘Moderately so, ja.’ The cat started and peered up from his lap. ‘But you have to admire Cardinal Felatittio’s enthusiasm - I mean, he was practically champing at the bit.’
‘How dare you!’ The new pope snapped.
‘Or perhaps you found it pleasurable my dear fellow…when he, y’know, offered his succour…?’ The Emeritus winked.
‘I beg your pardon, Franco puffed, ‘you…’
‘And we grant you our pardon,’ Rightvinger deigned. ‘But enough of this loquaciousness; to business I think. We are, after all, here to discuss your future plans are we not?’
Franco sipped sulkily at his tea.
The Pope Emeritus pressed a button on his wheelchair. Shortly, two besuited domestic servants padded into the opulent drawing room. ‘Benito, we will take more tea please. Lazzaro, if you would be kind enough to fetch my aide memoire? Oh, and call maintenance about za blocked lavatory, yes?’
The pair nodded deferentially.
‘Coffee!’ Franco snapped. ‘I prefer coffee…and thank you for asking. Truly, one is overwhelmed by such gracious hospitality.’
The Emeritus ignored him and exchanged a glance with Benito who then disappeared into an adjacent kitchenette. The sound of a coffee grinder broke a stilted silence. The cat mewed and stared down disdainfully at Franco.
‘Manners maketh man,’ Rightvinger commented absently whilst petting his furry friend. ‘Puss, puss, puss, puss,’ he crooned; pursing his lips in a fashion evocative of a grossly distended sphincter. The feline looked up, watching intently as her master fished a tidbit from a silver tray. It promptly wolfed down the morsel from his fingers. ‘Aw, you love za lange-schwein don’t you, ah? Oo-ooh...you little slut! Oo-ooh...you little harlot...ah?...ah?’
The feline purred wildly as it was boisterously fondled and pawed.
The Emeritus returned to his successor. ‘You like cats?’
‘I’m allergic to the brutes,’ Franco sniffed. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep that mangy moggy away from me.’
‘Hmm, we take exception to that, don’t we Magdalene?’ Rightvinger’s maw puckered again and lowered to the cat’s head, planting a slobbering kiss. ‘Don’t listen to that nasty cardinal. We should tell her to put her claws away shouldn’t we, hmm?’ As the feline sniffed adoringly at Rightvinger’s drooling grimace, his dentures slithered from his mouth and crowned her with a toothy-tiara. The cat shook its head and mewed forlornly as her owner retrieved the itinerant mandibles and blew at them.
‘Dis-gusting,’ Franco sneered. ‘I’m surprised such cankerous creatures are permitted here,’ he continued haughtily, ‘left to roam hither and thither…leaving their calling cards on the upholstery…’
‘Nonsense my dear chap,’ Rightvinger countered. ‘My Magdalene is fully potty-trained. Furthermore, she’s a devoted ‘roam-and-cat-lick’. Aren’t you my diddy-pusskin?’ he chortled through slightly furry teeth. The cat stretched up on its haunches and began prancing coquettishly about her master’s lap before presenting him with a quivering rump. ‘Who’s a little Jezebel then? Who’s my strudel-strumpet, ah? Oo-ooh, you vant me to tickle that pretty pink rosebud again don’t you, ah…ah…?’
‘Eeugh...how utterly repugnant,’ Franco muttered.
Shortly, Lazzaro crept in. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said reverentially, handing a leather-bound journal to the Pope Emeritus.
‘Ah thank you Lazzaro, most kind,’ Rightvinger said with a nod. ‘I trust your paw’s healing satisfactorily?’
The tall young man looked down sullenly at his bandaged hand. ‘Yes, your Holiness. Most agreeably.’
‘Good. Now, you will attend to our maintenance concern if you will. Please escort the tradesman straight here and ensure he doesn’t stray.’
‘Yes, your Holiness.’ The servant bowed low and departed.
‘And the coffee…?’ Franco huffed, staring pointedly at his wristwatch.
‘Patience, my discourteous friend, is a virtue,’ Rightvinger scolded. As he shifted awkwardly a gurgling noise emanated from his Kriegvagon. ‘Ooouf, oh dear. I fear my effluvia’s proving a touch bothersome today.’
‘Pfffffft,’ [sic] came a gusty expulsion from his nether regions.
The cat bristled, pricking up its ears with alarm.
All of a sudden, the genteel ambiance was punctured by a thundering cannonade: ‘Brrr-ummphhh!…pitta-pitta-pitta…flumph-phuff…thrump…parp!…phhhlutt…pit-pit…’
The feline wailed, scrambled to floor and promptly hightailed it to the sanctuary of the chaise lounge. It gazed back looking most aggrieved.
‘Puss, puss, puss,’ Rightvinger called after his skulking pet. A flushing sound emanated from his wheelchair followed by the urgent thrumming of a motor and a whooshing sound. ‘Oooh…I love zat bracing air wafting around meine pinkel,’ he chuckled.
‘Phorrrp!...pwit-pwit...fumphhhhhhh…’ rumbled a decidedly damp squib. Sloshing, slurping noises began to swill around within the Kriegvagon’s bowels.
‘Will you desist from your foul percolations!’ Franco bellowed, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.
‘You do not vant za coffee?’ Rightvinger inquired mildly. ‘Hmm, there is no pleasing some people.’
The new pope duly produced a dainty handkerchief as he felt himself gag.
Benito strode into the room wearing a plumber’s mask and bearing a tray. He placed it down before the retching guest and opened the terrace window. Before beating a hasty retreat he coughed politely and discharged a discreet blast of air freshener.
Meanwhile Rightvinger perused his notes. ‘Hmm, let us see what we have in za pipeline. Hmm, I note you’re proposing some reforms? Tell me, what is wrong with preserving centuries of intransigence, ah?’ He paused to gaze at a portrait of Benito Mussolini. ‘You know, if I were you I… Ah…but za vicissitudes of men are no longer my concern…’ As if to underscore his existential angst the Emeritus evacuated a whining fart.
Franco glared up at his predecessor. ‘Well, mercifully, you are not me. What our church - and indeed what I desperately need - is a breath of fresh air. I envision our onward course as a mélange of old and new.’
‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger sniffed, cocking a haughty eyebrow.
‘As everyone knows by now,’ Franco went on, ‘I’m a humble man of modest needs…’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ his counterpart butted in. ‘So you will take za guest house and I keep my palace. I’m pleased we’re in accord.’ Dripping, trickling sounds issued from beneath him rising to a crescendo of rapid plopping noises, culminating in an explosive splatter.
Franco brought his handkerchief to his nostrils and eyed him up and down severely. ‘Good God man, are you not well?’
‘I fear I’ve been stricken with an ague of late,’ Rightvinger responded with a dismissive wave. ‘Continue.’
Franco’s began to gasp for air, his eyes streaming. ‘You will… [cough] …excuse me…a moment…’ He felt himself begin to swoon.
‘I must say, you’re looking a little peaky cardinal,’ the Emeritus observed.
‘Whoa …uh-oh…ooh…’ Franco panted, ‘…attack…o’ the vapours...I feel like…the Oracle of Delphi…y’know…seeing stars.’
‘Oh dear,’ Rightvinger said gazing down critically. ‘Well I sincerely hope you have the capacity to fill my shoes satisfactorily. Certainly, I filled my shoes on a regular basis until I acquired this most commodious throne. My very own ‘poopmobile’.’
The new pope gulped at his coffee and began to feel somewhat bolstered by a light breeze. He gathered his wits and addressed his host. ‘The…erm…first point…is the matter of sollicitationis; you know; clergymen who spend more time preying than praying…?’
‘Ah yes. It seems despite my worldwide edict enforcing the concealment of sexual abuse cases, there’s been seepage.’
‘Seepage? Listen, those shyster lawyers are bleeding us dry over this! Our church must act forthwith or face bankruptcy. So I suggest we discreetly petition the European Parliament. Have them lower the legal age of consent to five-years old.’
‘Hmm, an interesting strategy,’ Rightvinger cogitated.
‘As for the existing legions of libertines you’ve been shuffling around the globe, I propose immediate excommunication; leave them to face the jurisdiction of the civil authorities.’
‘Nein! We continue to handle these matters internally and in strictest secrecy. Guarding our reputation trumps any concerns of so-called ‘civic justice’. This is a matter of principle. As supreme representatives of God, do you think we’re answerable to the paltry laws of men? Of course not; we transcend such fripperies. Besides, I’ve an alternative strategy. I’m fully aware of these clergy and za catamites with whom they consort. And I’ve come to za conclusion that cure is better than prevention.You will leave this with me.’
‘I see. Well we might at least implement the second-phase of my scheme; the introduction of Fleshlight™ and Kleenex to all confession cubicles. That way, should a priest experience… [ahem]…‘amorous inclinations’ during confession he might, as it were, contain the matter discreetly.’
‘I will consider this,’ Rightvinger commented nonchalantly.
‘Fine. But I trust this won’t become a sticking point,’ Franco went on, ‘because quite frankly matters have come to a head. Do you know I actually discovered a glory-hole in my local confession box? I was there as a penitent. Initially I assumed the priest was offering home-cooked sausage to the destitute. Dear God…I mean the degeneracy!’
‘Quite,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘It would seem piety, not patriotism, is the last bastion of za scoundrel.’
‘Well, it is high time we clamped down on this sort of behaviour in our ministries. So I’m advocating the imposition of chastity belts. Furthermore, I’ll insist upon a daily dose of bromide for all clergy. And, for those more ‘wayward’ clerics, we provide child-sized inflatable dolls. I feel confident that, in concerto, these measures will reign in those vile and libidinous urges that have cost us so dearly.’
‘Ah-ha, excellent,’ Rightvinger crowed approvingly (popping a celebratory squeaker). ‘I must concede you have devised a competent damage-limitation strategy.’ A red light began to flash on the Kriegvagon’s control panel. ‘Ah shizer! Not again surely?’ he grumbled. ‘Za sludge tank is almost full. You will be succinct. I have no desire to baste in my own juices again.’
‘Then I will speak of my majestic vision - visited upon me by God himself: ‘Popeworld’. Good wholesome family entertainment with a healthy dose of proselytizing. I received inspiration after reading about Walt Digby – y’know, the McCarthyite racist who hated trade unions and enjoyed fairy stories?’
‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger reflected, ‘I’ve heard of him. I understand he shared many of our political affinities.’
‘Doubtless. Anyway, his muse led me to a shining revelation; St Peter’s Square festooned with carousels, rollercoasters, burger stands... I see a carnival of characters from our illustrious history like Pope Julius II and Tomás de Torquemada.’
‘Ah-ha,’ Rightvinger slapped his knee approvingly, ‘yes, a useful diversion.’
‘Quite. Not only would it entice more sightseers, but it would also restore funds to our impoverished coffers. We might even utilize our pool of amateur musicians, thespians and clowns.’
‘A splendid notion. In fact I have myself progressed from the pianola to za violin. I might offer the occasional performance as za ‘kiddie-fiddler’ yes?’
‘Hmm, well…a possibility…’ Franco humored him doubtfully. ‘But just think of the vast revenue from corporate sponsorship. There’s also the merchandising potential. Picture it: Jesus Juice, Pope-a-Cola, Heretic Burgers, Papal Peenie-Pads…Pope John Paul II dildos… The possibilities are endless. Further, we commission the IOR to print Popeworld Dollars. Then, at the end of a two-week vacation package, we massively devalue them and claw them back at huge profit.’
‘It seems I’ve underestimated you my dear fellow. You are, like your namesake, General Francisco Franco, a man of uncommon vision. Alright, we will review other matters in due course. There are more pressing matters to attend to before decrepitude overtakes me. Good.’ The Emeritus lowered his seat and stood to pour himself another tea.
Franco quailed as he was confronted by a pair of blotchy, sloughing buttocks through a circular vent in the rear of Rightvinger’s vestments. The Emeritus stooped as his cat scampered up to him, providing a more intimate portrait and one normally reserved for proctologists.
‘By all the saints!’ Franco exclaimed, ‘I’ll never eat a pastrami bagel again.’
‘My main concern, naturally, is we maintain the dignity of za church,’ Rightvinger asserted as he caressed his pet. ‘Oo-ooh what a fluesy, ah? Oo-ooh you’d make a lovely pair of gloves, hmm?’ he cackled raffishly. Feeling a slight updraft he settled back into his chair.
Magdalene wailed and darted towards the visitor.
‘Shoo!’ Franco yelled. ‘Keep that caterwauling quadruped away from me!’ He began sneezing.
There was a rap at the door.
‘Come,’ Rightvinger called out.
Lazzaro stole in accompanied by a disheveled, shambling, wreck-of-a-man in overalls and brandishing a sink plunger.
‘Evenin’ yer’ ‘oliness, I understand you got a problem with yer plumbing?’ Luigi slurred.
‘How dare you!’ Rightvinger spat. ‘Impudent swine!’
‘Ah…err…now…hmm,’ Luigi gabbled, swaying somewhat. ‘Um…I’ve come about the...um...clogged up lav, yeah? The governor mentioned you got a logjam or something?’
Rightvinger ignored him and addressed Lazzaro. ‘Please, will you show this cretin to the restroom. And keep an eye on him, yes? I think it is inebriated. Oh, and the other matter; you are to bring this one to me, ja? Integra et incolumi…understood?’
Lazzaro nodded soberly and led Luigi to the bathroom.
Luigi winced as he dropped his tool bag and regarded his bandaged hand. He peered into the toilet bowl. A solitary kernel of sweet corn sailed a rather stagnant sea. As Lazzaro watched over him from the doorway he quaffed a long draft of liquor and placed a refuse bag by the pedestal. He began to struggle with a pair of long rubber gloves. ‘Ere, give us a hand will yer’?’ he called back to the servant.
‘Sure,’ Lazzaro said, closing the door behind him. ‘But I only have one hand to offer.’
Luigi noticed the servant’s bandage as the pair wrestled with the gloves. ‘Snap,’ he grinned, feeling a certain camaraderie with a fellow sufferer. ‘Right, well, I’d best get this sorted…I left the gas oven on, see?’
With gloves finally secured the gravedigger began groping around the u-bend. ‘Papers,’ he huffed, trying to keep his chin from the bowl. ‘Coor dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve ‘ad to fish documents out o’ blocked lavvies.’
‘I see,’ Lazzaro murmured.
Luigi yanked a dripping, sodden mass from the depths and plopped them into the sack. ‘Bleedin’ ‘orrible,’ he shuddered. ‘Reckon there’s bit more up there too.’ He returned his hand to the putrid pool. ‘Y’know, I’m not actually qualified in the maintenance of bogs?’
‘No, you’re a gravedigger…and a fucking thief,’ Lazzaro hissed.
‘Now…um…‘ere…’ Alarm bells rang loud in Luigi’s head. So loud, in fact, that even he could hear them over the dull throb of his hangover. ‘Omar-gawd…you…?’
‘Me.’ Lazzaro grinned maliciously as he stalked towards the prone workman. ‘What’s wrong?’ he snickered, seizing Luigi’s head and thrusting it brutally into the pan, ‘…feeling a little flushed?’
* * *
Bertilloni dialled his cell phone and drummed his fingers to the dialling tone. ‘Answer goddamit.’
‘What already?’ Garibaldi spat.
‘Another fatality. Wiener…Stanislaw Wiener. And he’ll be missed. He was the Archbishop of Warsaw,’ the cardinal said perfunctorily.
‘Oh yeah, he was a regular…paid well…liked ‘em young,’ Garibaldi said with a horse laugh. ‘So he fell off his perch, ah?’
‘Not exactly. He was decapitated… dismembered. My source informs me the walls were adorned with profanities written in his own blood.’
There was a long pause. ‘Mother-fucker. Hey, I only sent my guy ‘round there yesterday. Y’know, the Ganymede Guesthouse. Anyways, he had a sniff around. One of my little boys mentioned this masked monk he saw; tearing down the stairwell. So he followed this freak to the basement. But then the guy just fuckin’ vanished. The kid said he ‘melted into darkness like a phantom, like il Diavolo himself’.
‘Of course…the catacombs!’ Bertilloni exclaimed. ‘There’s a network of rat-runs extending way beyond Vatican state boundaries. Hmm, it seems our assassin’s privy to this. But how? I mean it’s hardy common knowledge…?’
‘Obviously he’s connected. So he has a rendezvous with our bishop then dices him. Y’know, this ain’t good for business,’ Garibaldi murmured gruffly. ‘So I been thinkin’…why don’t I move operations to São Paulo?’
‘But we’re in this together aren’t we? Surely it’s imperative that we find this cutthroat? I mean, what if he knows of us…?’
‘Hey that’s your lookout pal. I’m shippin’ out. I mean, we may be morally bankrupt but at least we’ve stayed financially buoyant all these years. But things ain’t lookin’ too bright now. Y’know that friendly police commandant? Well, he just told me about some other stiff. Monsignor Giuseppe Carrioni, Bishop of Verona - ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ to his friends. Anyways, the polizia just pulled him out the fuckin’ Tiber. He looked like he’d been fuckin’ crucified. Oh, and he’d had his balls sliced off.’
‘What?’ Bertilloni gasped. ‘Jesus! Of course we must act on this. You must send your men into the catacombs hunt for this killer. I mean if I go down, well…what of your fate?’ the cardinal insinuated.
‘You threatening me - smug little cunt? Garibaldi hissed menacingly. ‘Hey, Listen, forget the inferno, I’ll throw you down the deepest fuckin’ pit there is. I told you, I’m out. Latin America’s where the action is. People-trafficking, drugs…you name it. And thanks to you guys prohibiting condoms they can’t stop having bambinos. So there’s always fresh meat for the whorehouses. So when your cardinals finish spouting their sanctimonious bullshit from the pulpit they can enjoy some R&R in the Favelas they’ve helped create. It’s perfect. Plus the kids can’t afford no fuckin’ lawyers and nobody asks questions when they go missin’.’
‘I think you’re forgetting about the documents in my safe my friend,’ Bertilloni hissed. ‘Many of which might prove, shall we say, embarrassing - even for you. After all, you’re not above sampling your own delectable wares on occasion, are you? Oh, and don’t forget I have you on candid camera.’
Yeah-yeah, whatever. We’re through pal.’
‘We’re not through, damn it!’
He was anwered with the dialling tone.
Bertilloni assumed a faraway look. He gazed from his townhouse window to the infernal embers of Rome’s metropolis. Was it over…all the power, the influence…the wealth…? Up in flames like the apocalyptic pyre of the cityscape? Perhaps it was time to retire…enjoy all the wealth in sunnier climes…?
Bertilloni’s craggy features took on a wistful expression. But then he noticed smoke wafting around the doorframe. Paint blistered on the door. What the hell? As he stepped over and flung it open, flames consumed him.
© Edwin Black 2013
