“Such a pious man could never have committed such heinous acts as he had been accused of by the self-serving trollop. Women who made the grave error of independent thinking usually took advantage of the men around them. ”
By Mrinalini Harchandrai
On his way to the Apostolic Palace for the ecumenical council meeting, Cardinal Roberto Cacciavillan stopped at the chapel to stand in front of Jesus. A sumptuous summer of colour burst forth in holy ecstasy from the surrounding walls and ceiling, but it was the tableau in front of him that never failed to emboss his soul. Unlike most of the other imagery in the Sistine Chapel, in this particular fresco at the altar, the Saviour looked powerful. He was brimming, not just with the muscular vigour of Michelangelo’s Adam but also with the girth of his Moses. One hand raised to heaven and one facing hell below—he was glorious and fulsome within the Kingdom of God, with the power to bless or to damn souls. Flowing with strength, he had nothing of the bony vulnerability of his cross-bearing depictions. This somewhat relieved Roberto who couldn’t bear the guilt of the Saviour’s death for his sins. Roberto imagined that this is what drinking in the divine nectar of bliss will do to you. The Cardinal then imagined his own body beneath his silken scarlet cassock. What was once a host of youth had now after years of service turned soft as ricotta.
Roberto was startled out of his musing by a loud snore which echoed through the arches around him. He turned to look behind him to the left, across the rich Cosmatesque flooring, and in one corner spotted Giuseppe in his cathedra. As usual, the archpriest of St Peter’s Basilica’s head was lolling back in deep slumber. Roberto winced when Giuseppe thumped his head on the marble back of his seat and woke with a start. Poor Guiseppe, thought the Cardinal, the devil has him.
*
Roberto’s head was abuzz after the meeting at the Apostolic Palace. He headed to his room, placed the pillow on the floor and sank on his knees. He ignored the pain shooting through his joints. This was a serious matter and the Church itself was at risk of losing its identity. He began his private session with God, first offering up his own will with an Our Father. The Cardinal followed this with prayers of pleading and bargaining. At the end, he bowed his head for a long time, before rising like a camel in the dry Midian desert, one hefty side at a time. He realized that he still had his galero on and removed it before making his way to the table at the window.
While he was out, the altar boy had left his plate of ravioli there, as requested by him—a secret luxury he allowed himself when he didn’t want to take the effort to dine in the main hall. His meal was covered with a dish and served along with a goblet of wine. Roberto unlidded his plate, and deeply inhaled the aromas of basil, sacred as the earth of his childhood memories, mingling with the plummy scent of the Fruilaro red that he himself had ordered all the way from a monastery outside Padua. Usually Roberto would have heartily devoured his meal, the way his Mamma liked to see him do when he was a little patatino. Today, however, his bile was rising and blotting out all logic. The ecumenical council was up in arms with the latest suggestion from His Holiness and, the recent emergency meeting sans The Holy Father was held solely in order to put the pressure on him, Roberto, to sway the Pope’s decision and save the sanctity of the Catholic tradition, the nerve center of civilization itself. Their voices swished around his head like a hot liquid.
“It is the brew of witches. How can it even touch our lips, let alone the lips of His Holiness!”
“Do you know that the infidels drink it to charge their spirits and fornicate with their harem? All at once!”
“It is said to turn your soul into a shadow. But first it will blacken your body!”
Roberto had raised his hands at that moment and asked for proof. The Monsignor Abadelli who was quiet during the angry babble had stood up and cleared his throat for silence. He proceeded to read out from the parchment His Holiness had ordered be drawn up to be added to the evidences.
“The plant on which the berries are grown are from Yemen. Their seeds are plucked from the fruit, roasted and then boiled in water. They call the hot drink qahhwat al-bun, an Arabic word which means ‘wine of the bean’….”
“Wine of the devil!” a member of the council had interjected dramatically, igniting a delicate ruckus of murmuring.
Once quietude settled in again, the Monsignor continued,“It is drunk wherever the Moslems have taken root, from Ottoman Egypt and the Anatolian peninsula to the Persian lands and as far as Shahjehanabad in Hindoostan. The drinkers of the blackened water report that they feel the muses descend upon them. The infidels drink in qahwakhanas, which are community houses where they indulge in the profane liberties of poetry, dance and idle chatter.”
Again there was an uproar with members of the council adamantly voicing the rules of art as a divine favour bestowed upon man, employed to serve God and his work on earth. Not to be freely indulged in unless one was a heathen like these quaveh quaffers.
The Monsignor had to wait before completing his final words. “By virtue of its association with the world of the Moslems, the drink is decreed unholy and has been banned under the authority of the Church. Anyone found importing, dealing, vending or drinking it, or harbouring anyone who does so, will be arrested and imprisoned according to the law.”
The Monsignor stepped down and the council turned to Roberto, deemed among them the most trusted of Cardinals by His Holiness. One who had his ear and with good reason too. It was he who had seen the blackness in the soul of Beatrice Cenci, the woman masked behind the blush of youth, but who had murdered her father on the grounds of physical subjugation. He had seen right through it, for her father had often generously dropped a tithe of scudi in the offertory. Such a pious man could never have committed such heinous acts as he had been accused of by the self-serving trollop. Women who made the grave error of independent thinking usually took advantage of the men around them. Then, it was he, Roberto, who had planted the seed in the mind of the Pontifex Maximus about those usurers, the Jews. His ‘suggestions’ led to the edict banning the heretical Talmud readers from living and operating their loathsome trade in the Papal states. And it was he, favourite Cardinal of the Vicar of Jesus Christ on Earth, who arranged the trial and verdict of Giordano Bruno, the rabble-rouser who dared question the Trinity, Christ’s divinity and the Mother’s virginity, offering doubtful seeds of cosmos theory to any malcontent who would listen in the name of science. One can only hope his soul was purified by the flames at the stake.
Roberto had done his conscionable duty as a guiding vessel to the Highest Servant of Christianity. And he could eat his ravioli in peace each time, knowing that the austerity of his actions didn’t allow clemency to run amok. Indeed, the Saviour would be smiling down on him. But now, he simply couldn’t digest what was going to take place. The drink of the Moslems would be in the cup of His Holiness by tomorrow. Teasing him with its murky tongue, it had the power to launch him into a slumber of sin and taunt the pillars of Christendom.
*
Guiseppe was surely overtaken by the devil. His eyes were wide, his attention fixed maniacally on his rosary as he plucked it a little too quickly between his fingers in prayer, rocking back and forth on his cathedra. Roberto thought he detected a twitch and knew that he must have succumbed to the godless brew. Standing in front of The Last Judgement for the final time, he felt the noir decoction of dispiritedness infuse his veins. He shared his thoughts with his Saviour, “Sorry my Lord. You who are all merciful will know I am your humble servant. But I was not enough.”
Roberto remembered the Day of the Tasting with great distaste. His Holiness had gathered with the highest members of the council, who had berated and bored into him, Roberto, with their eyes. His choicest words and humblest pleas had failed to sway the Sovereign of the Church into avoiding this unpalatable event. His Holiness was brought a cup brimming with the brew. As it travelled across the sanctified room, it raised a steam like the fires of Hell, its aroma as warm and seductive like harlotry. And when His Holiness lowered the cup after sipping from it, it left a delicate froth on his upper lip, surely an indication of its rabidity. But it was when His Holiness pronounced his next words that Roberto felt the sanctified marble quake under his feet.
He said, “This Satan’s drink is so delicious that it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it.” Just then Roberto was certain that Saint Peter himself, founding patriarch of their great Christian Church, must have been rolling in the grave within his Basilica. And to the great horror of those present, as it surely was a test of their faith and ability to submit their free will completely as Roberto had to, in the great house of their Lord God, the Cardinal and council watched their Servant of Servants of God baptize the Mohammedan drink. On that fateful day, it was given a new name, a mantle of disguise under which it would spread its shadowy fingers in good Christendom: Caffè.
Roberto knew he couldn’t stay around for the Armageddon that was coming. Who knew in the future with what variety and intensity this brew would create the quickened pulse of commerce and addicts out of its drinkers. So Roberto performed the last of his duties and ordered the release of coffee merchants that were Inquisitioned and imprisoned. He then pleaded his special case for retirement, a rare thing to do for a Cardinal of the Holy See who has pledged his life in God’s service. But Roberto had faith that as long as the veins of his heart were entwined with the fulsome ones of His Lord, he would be saved from the perils that befall man. So back home, in his Mamma’s village, he tended the vines of his house grape, often sending a prayer up for all the souls who drank the infernal Moslem drink, present and future.
Mrinalini Harchandrai was a finalist for the Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize 2019 and received an Honourable Mention for the CID Pearlman Performance Project 2021. Her unpublished novel manuscript is longlisted for the McKitterick Prize 2021 and was selected as Notable Entry for the Disquiet International Literary Prize 2019. Her short fiction has been longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2018 and shortlisted for Columbia Journal Spring 2020 Contest. Her work has been anthologized in RLFPA Editions’ Best Indian Poetry 2018, The Brave New World of Goan Writing (2018, 2020) and The Yearbook of Indian Poetry 2020-2021. She is Deputy Editor Poetry at Sangam, an online journal based in India dedicated to poetry worldwide.
Banner image is by Noah Battles and downloaded from unsplash.com