Diego Marani - God's Dog

4 June

There was hardly a soul in the flower market this morning. That was where I had arranged to meet Guntur, after prayers. It was going to be a bright day, but a sharp wind was blowing in from the sea, sweeping away the clouds and showering the city with a rain of petals and leaves, leaving them stuck to window panes, to car bonnets. They carpeted the water in the canals, then the current swept them along in slow drifts which got caught under the bridges and against the sides of the barges. The flower-sellers on the Singel did not seem to be in any hurry to open their kiosks; they stood in huddled groups at the doors of the bars, their numb hands in their pockets. I found Guntur rummaging through a box of bulbs.

‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to a black tuber.

‘If you were to plant this today, in October it would produce a bright red flower. It’s dense with life, even though it looks like a lump of dead matter — in fact, just like the planets orbiting in space. We think of them as arid and burnt-out, but they too may hold the seeds of future life. All that they need to do is find the humus which will make them bloom…’

I nodded in agreement, noting that the bulb-seller did not seem to be taking too kindly to Guntur and his rummaging, though Guntur himself seemed impervious to his disapproval; lost in thought, he helped himself to a plastic bag and began to fill it with odontonema strictum .

‘Life and death are so closely intertwined. They seem sealed off from one another, but in fact there is much to tell us that this is not the case. All life is redolent of death. I don’t think I mentioned this, but Django arrived here with a mate, Mirah, and she too had grown up in the forests of Kibale. She fell ill, and we sent her back to Kenya, hoping that they might be able to treat her, but she died a few months later. And they sent her body back from Kibale, explaining to us that otherwise Django would go mad: he had to see the corpse in order to be able to mourn. Otherwise, he could never have been able to accept her disappearance. Do you see? Even a chimpanzee has a notion of death. In which case, this bulb too knows that it will flower in October and then die!’

The Vicar closed the exercise-book and sat there for a moment, lost in thought. In the ensuing silence, the airy figures on the frescoed ceiling seemed to be peering down at him. After a time he got up from the desk and went over to the large windows overlooking the gardens. The rhododendrons were all in flower; a gardener was cutting the grass, leaving a strip of lighter green on the lawn. The colours of the rainbow shone through the spray of a fountain as though they were blown glass. The Vicar picked up the telephone and said: ‘Send in Kowalski.’

The blinding light almost dazzled Salazar. He tried to shade his eyes with his hand, but realised he could not move it. He tried to turn his head, but felt a sharp stab of pain in his nose. Even those few attempts at movement had exhausted him. He now realised that he was tied to a bed, with several tubes attached to his body, and a drip. Yet he felt as though none of this concerned him; he was filled with a sweet, almost euphoric indifference. Someone passed by his bed, and at last the blinds came down. In the half-light he saw a nun walking away. He had been lying there for a long time, or so it seemed to him. He was dimly aware of voices, saw heads bent over him. It was almost dark by the time he was properly awake. Clear-headed at last, he looked around him: he was in a hospital, but it was not San Filippo Neri. The linoleum was green, and the walls blue. Apart from his bed and a formica chair, there was no furniture, not even a cupboard or a bedside table. White light came in through a frosted glass pane in the door. Through the window he could see a row of modern buildings. Suddenly a neon light went on, and two men came in; Salazar recognised the badge of the guardians of the faith on their jackets. The taller one, a sergeant, who was constantly fiddling with his small red moustache, was now plumped down on the only chair; the other one, a lance-corporal, stood behind him, arms crossed. The door opened again, and a nurse came in, removed the tubes from his nose, disconnected the drip and went out again without a word. When the door was shut, the man with the red moustache asked:

‘Inspector, have you anything to say to us?’

Salazar tried to prop himself on his elbows to get a better view of his questioner, but was prevented by the straps round his arms and legs.

‘I think I must have fallen among abortionists! Sergeant, please untie me! What’s going on?’

‘That’s for you to tell us, inspector…’

‘Where are we? What is this place?’

‘It’s a hospital. And this is the palliative care unit…’

Then Salazar understood. He half-closed his eyes and tried to clench his fists, but even that was beyond him.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘You are accused of treachery and offences against religion. We want the names of your accomplices in Amsterdam.’

‘What do you mean, accomplices? I am a front-line defender of the faith in Amsterdam!’ expostulated Salazar, fully aware that protest would serve no purpose. What he most feared had already happened; they had him cornered.

‘In Amsterdam you had a homosexual relationship with an infidel, thereby violating the rule of chastity. Do I have to remind you of number 2351 in Joseph Ratzinger’s catechism: the chief sins against chastity are adultery, masturbation, fornication, pornography, prostitution, rape and homosexual acts. Furthermore, you founded a scientistic sect, the so-called Biblical-Koranists. Number 2110, the sin of polytheism and idolatry. Inspector, we want the names of all the missionary priests involved.’

‘Sects, idolatry, what utter rubbish! The word is proselytism! Sergeant, these are important matters we’re talking about. I am here in Rome on a secret mission and someone tried to kill me,’ protested Salazar in a vain attempt to parry the hail of accusations being levelled against him.

‘Who are the Darwinists with whom you are plotting against the Church? Who is in the know about the monstrous experiments your accomplice is conducting? The sooner you start to talk, inspector, the sooner we can try and help you…’ The man was looking at him with rheumy eyes which did not seem to fit with his face. He made an angry gesture, then controlled himself.

‘Sergeant, get me off this bed and let me speak to my Vicar! The appointment is at Sant’Andrea della Valle, Friday, seven o’clock. My registration number is 18246592NLA.’

‘We’re quite aware of that, inspector…’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, sergeant. I’m on the track of a gang of abortionists who also practise euthanasia. If you don’t free me immediately you’ll have to answer for the consequences!’

‘Salazar, we’ll all have to answer for the consequences. But here it’s you who’s out of place. We know all about you, inspector. We also know that you are a survivor. You escaped the catastrophe which divine providence, in its infinite wisdom, had planned for you. There is no earthquake, no tsunami, which is not part of God’s plan, as Sodom and Gomorrah tell us all too clearly. You come from an evil place, inspector, and to such a place, sooner or later, you must return…’ At these words, Salazar saw that he was in the hands of a fanatic.

The man with the red moustache stood up. He stood at the foot of the bed and gripped the bars with both hands. The other man went to the door and gestured towards someone who was waiting in the corridor.

‘Inspector, if you won’t talk, we for our part have nothing to say to you. Just take a look around. Do you realise where you are? Think about it. We’ll be back tomorrow.’