By Night in Chile

going away, coming back, praying and going away again?
    And Farewell: I see whores stopping for a fraction of a second to contemplate something important, then heading off again like meteorites. And I: Can you see anything there about Chile? Can you see the future of our land? And Farewell: That meal didn’t agree with me. And I: Can you see our Palatine Anthology in that shadow play? Can you read any names? Or recognize any profiles? And
    Farewell: I see Neruda’s profile and my own, but, no, I’m mistaken, it’s just a tree, I see a tree, the multiple, monstrous silhouette of its dead leaves, like a sea drying up, it looks like a sketch of two profiles, but actually it’s a tomb out in the open, cloven by an angel’s sword or a giant’s club. And I: What else? And Farewell: Whores coming and going, a river of tears. And I: Be more precise. And Farewell: That meal didn’t agree with me. And I: How odd, it doesn’t look like anything to me, just shadows, electric shadows, as if time had speeded up. And Farewell: There is no comfort in books. And I: And I can see the future clearly, and I can see you there, living to a ripe old age, loved and respected by all. And Farewell: Like Doctor Johnson? And I: Precisely, to a T, you’ve hit the nail right on the head. And Farewell: Like the Doctor Johnson of this godforsaken strip of earth. And I: God is everywhere, even in the most outlandish places. And Farewell: If I weren’t so drunk and didn’t have such a gut-ache I’d ask you to hear my confession right now. And I: It would be an honor. And Farewell: Or I’d drag you into the bathroom and screw you good and proper. And I: That’s not you talking, it’s the wine, it’s the shadows upsetting you. And Farewell: No need to blush, we’re all sodomites here in Chile. And I: Not just our pitiable compatriots but all men are sodomites, each of us harbors a sodomite in the architrave of his soul, and it is our duty to prevail over that unwelcome guest, to vanquish him, to bring him to his knees. And Farewell: Now you’re talking like a cocksucker. And I: Never, I have never done that. And Farewell: I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Not even at the seminary? And I: I studied and prayed, prayed and studied. And Farewell: I promise I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I promise. And I: I read St. Augustine, I read St. Thomas, I studied the lives of all the popes. And Farewell: Do you still remember those holy lives? And I: Indelibly etched. And Farewell: Who was Pius II? And I: Pius II, also known as Enea Silvio Piccolomini, born in the vicinity of Siena, Supreme Pontiff from 1458 to 1464, attended the Council of Basel, secretary to Cardinal Capranica, spent time in the service of the Antipope Felix V, then in the service of the Emperor Frederic III, who crowned him poet laureate, he wrote verse you see, lectured at the University of Vienna on the classical poets, published a novel in 1444,
Euryalus and Lucretia
, in the manner of Boccaccio, just a year after publishing the said work, in 1445, he was ordained a priest and his life took a new turn, he did penance, admitted the error of his ways, became Bishop of Siena in 1449 and cardinal in 1456, obsessed with the idea of launching a new crusade, in 1458 he published the bull
Vocavit nos Pius
, in which he summoned the unenthusiastic sovereigns to the city of Mantua, in vain, later an agreement was reached and it was decided that a three-year crusade would be undertaken, but no one paid much attention to the Pope’s grand words, until he let it be known that he was personally taking over command of the operation, Venice then forged an alliance with Hungary,
    Skanderbeg attacked the Turks, Stephen the Great was proclaimed
Atleta Cristi
, and thousands of men flocked to Rome from all over Europe, only the kings remained indifferent and unresponsive, so the Pope made a pilgrimage first to Assisi and then to Ancona, where the Venetian fleet was late to meet him, and when the Venetian warships finally arrived, the Pope was dying, and he said “Until this day I was wanting for a fleet, now the fleet must want for me,”
    and then he died and the crusade died with him. And Farewell said: So he screwed up, like a typical writer. And I: He protected Pinturicchio. And Farewell: And who the hell was he? And I: A painter. And Farewell: I guessed that much, but who
was
he? And I: The one who painted the frescoes in the cathedral at Siena. And Farewell: Have you been to Italy?