Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
- Joined
- Dec 8, 2007
- Posts
- 5,047
- Reaction score
- 4,558
- Location
- Bunyip, Gippsland
- AFL Club
- Melbourne
- Other Teams
- The Exers
I had just picked up my RT Charger from Ando’s workshop (it was my beloved E49 job) when the mobile rang. It was my old mate Professor Humboldt von Duritz, the head of the Società Dantesca Italiana.
“Biff, I know this is not a good week to ring you,” he said apologetically, “but I have major news. Prepare to be electrified!”
“What, you’ve located the intestinal fortitude that has been missing from the Dees for so long?” I commented sourly.
“No, shit no,” Professor Duritz replied with a chuckle. “Biff, you’re a global expert on Dante. As you know, there’s been no major discoveries in this field for centuries. New interpretations, yes; transformations, no. The text is the text. But it is all about to change.”
I pulled over in excitement. “What’s happened?”
“Biff, as you know, the Thirteenth Century Monastery of St Bumbora is closely associated with the great Italian poet. Recently a decision was made to return the chapel to its former glory. That involved removing the plaster off one of the walls – it’s been whitewashed for centuries. As we progressively removed it, a fresco came to light. We have been able to trace it back to one of Dante’s contemporaries. It’s the earliest representation of the Divine Comedy in the world. It has an amazing depiction of Hell with – wait for it: not Nine Inner Circles, but ten!”
I was on the next plane out of Melbourne. I flew my favourite airline: Cathay Pacific. Its hostesses were grace personified. I was feeling refreshed indeed when I strode up to the gates of the Florentine monastery where Professor Duritz awaited me. He led me directly to the fresco.
“Well Biff, as you can see we have uncovered three quarters of the fresco. It can be dated to Dante’s lifetime. To our minds, it could represent a first draft of the Inferno – or perhaps a variant which Dante himself countenanced. But we can’t make much sense of this Tenth Ring – that’s where we need your expertise!”
The canonical Nine Rings of Hell are well known: they are reserved for, respectively, the Souls in Limbo; the Lustful; the Gluttons; the Greedy, the Angry; the Heretics; the Violent; the Fraudulent and the Treacherous. Satan himself is enchained to the Ninth Ring, where he unceasingly mauls Judas Iscariot, Cassius and Brutus for eternity and beyond. But here, before my very eyes, was a Tenth Ring. What was I to make of it?
The Tenth Ring itself lay beneath Satan’s bum hole. Its ceiling was emblazoned with various stars and constellations. Professor Duritz read my mind:
“We have already looked into the Zodiac, Biff,” he said. “Whatever transpires in this ring is subject to its dictates. By any measure, it is ill-omened. Anything that occurs in the months of September or October is accursed beyond redemption.”
I stared at the inmates of the Tenth Ring. Legion in name and in number, the Damned had been depicted in shades of black, white and red. Some of them had a heraldic shield on their breast-pocket. Most of them looked plebeian in the extreme. Some figures stood out from the crowd: a Blonde Idol has been placed directly under the aforesaid zodiac – he was a wounded Fisher King of some kind - and there was nothing he could do to nullify its influence. To his left stood an older figure with a full set of hair and two devilish medals around his neck; he too, in his own way, was a contagion. To the right, another figure stood with a glum, if not sulky look on his face; he was lost in thought, as if contemplating a treasure that had been temporarily in his hands and then snatched away remorselessly, Four other Idols (the first was tall and mute with a dumb look on his face, the second was dark-skinned, while the remaining pair were runts) were revelling in sinfulness: rape, robbery and unnatural vice to the acclaim of the rank and file. But even here, their desperation was self-evident as if a wider prize lay forever out of reach.
“Biff, look in this corner,” the good Professor urged. “The artist has included his own version of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but in this instance, it is a quartet of anti-popes saying a Black Mass. The first has permed hair and his face is covered with some sort of white powder as if he was the Pale Rider himself; the second, as you can plainly see, is a short squat little man with no eyes who is standing in some sort of wagon; the third – pestilence itself – wears a broad-brimmed hat; the last of the quartet is holding a pack of cards – presumably tarot; his hair is fake and so is the whiteness of his fangs.”
I took a step closer to soak in the detail. The quartet’s malignancy was indisputable – but were they the source of the curse or an attenuation of it? I asked Professor Duritz for his thoughts.
“Biff, from what I can tell, endless hunger is the primary punishment that has been inflicted on this Circle by the Almighty. Look here, here and here! See, the crowd is athirst for sustenance, but it will be forever denied to them. This Tenth Ring bears comparison with the Third and Fourth Rings, but to my mind, it is an intensification of the punishment. Notice also the ravaged forest in the background as if its wood has been commandeered for some nefarious reason.”
I felt sick in the stomach. We are all sinners, but who among us would warrant such treatment? Professor Duritz drew my attention to a figure near the epicentre.
“And behold, here is their general. Platitudes are constantly issuing forth from his mouth which only add to the torment of the rank-and-file. He refers to ‘the Saints this, and the Saints that’. He too, is subject to the Zodiac. All in all, it is deeply mysterious.”
I drew my thoughts together.
“Esteemed Professor, you are dead right. This changes everything. Your indicative thoughts are meritorious. But you cannot expect me to come up with an overarching interpretation on the spot. This fresco will repay close inspection. I suggest we retire for lunch.”
The monks were hospitable. Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the monastic dining hall with a steamy bowl of minestrone each.
“Biff, thanks for coming all this way at short-notice. I hope I didn’t drag you away from anything!”
I shook my head.
“Nah, I have been moping around the house, ever since we lost to Norf.”
Professor Duritz had not been keeping up with the AFL so I gave him a rundown of the season thus far. I added at the end.
“My beloved Demons are playing the Sainters this week,” I added. “If we lose, Bailey will be firmly buckled into the ejector-seat within an hour of the siren, even if the decision to push the button comes much later. We all expected that our boys would be somewhat up and down this year, albeit without the listlessness that was on display against the Eagles in particular. But we’ve had enough.”
“How do you see it playing out?”
“Look, the Sainters played in the last two grand finals so the firepower is still there, so to speak. It would be typical of the Dees to play them back into form. Personnel-wise, we have been decimated. The boys were roundly rubbished for their piss-weak effort against the Eagles - and they subsequently rose to the occasion against the Crowbots. Perhaps they’ll respond in the same fashion this week. Mind you, my tipping has been errant all year.”
Professor Duritz nodded his head noncommittally. After a quick glass of Sangiovese, we strolled back to the fresco.
I resumed my inspection. A figure that had escaped my attention hitherto – standing beside the Blonde Idol - now swarmed into view. He was tall and lanky with a yokel look on his face. His deepset eyes precluded him seeing anything from the side. A mullet warmed his neck. Indubitably, he was more accursed than his blonde neighbour. But in one hand, he held a demon’s pitchfork that had been bent in half; his other arm was raised in triumph.
“This is not going to end well,” I muttered grimly to myself.
Sainters by one point.
Biffinator.
“Biff, I know this is not a good week to ring you,” he said apologetically, “but I have major news. Prepare to be electrified!”
“What, you’ve located the intestinal fortitude that has been missing from the Dees for so long?” I commented sourly.
“No, shit no,” Professor Duritz replied with a chuckle. “Biff, you’re a global expert on Dante. As you know, there’s been no major discoveries in this field for centuries. New interpretations, yes; transformations, no. The text is the text. But it is all about to change.”
I pulled over in excitement. “What’s happened?”
“Biff, as you know, the Thirteenth Century Monastery of St Bumbora is closely associated with the great Italian poet. Recently a decision was made to return the chapel to its former glory. That involved removing the plaster off one of the walls – it’s been whitewashed for centuries. As we progressively removed it, a fresco came to light. We have been able to trace it back to one of Dante’s contemporaries. It’s the earliest representation of the Divine Comedy in the world. It has an amazing depiction of Hell with – wait for it: not Nine Inner Circles, but ten!”
I was on the next plane out of Melbourne. I flew my favourite airline: Cathay Pacific. Its hostesses were grace personified. I was feeling refreshed indeed when I strode up to the gates of the Florentine monastery where Professor Duritz awaited me. He led me directly to the fresco.
“Well Biff, as you can see we have uncovered three quarters of the fresco. It can be dated to Dante’s lifetime. To our minds, it could represent a first draft of the Inferno – or perhaps a variant which Dante himself countenanced. But we can’t make much sense of this Tenth Ring – that’s where we need your expertise!”
The canonical Nine Rings of Hell are well known: they are reserved for, respectively, the Souls in Limbo; the Lustful; the Gluttons; the Greedy, the Angry; the Heretics; the Violent; the Fraudulent and the Treacherous. Satan himself is enchained to the Ninth Ring, where he unceasingly mauls Judas Iscariot, Cassius and Brutus for eternity and beyond. But here, before my very eyes, was a Tenth Ring. What was I to make of it?
The Tenth Ring itself lay beneath Satan’s bum hole. Its ceiling was emblazoned with various stars and constellations. Professor Duritz read my mind:
“We have already looked into the Zodiac, Biff,” he said. “Whatever transpires in this ring is subject to its dictates. By any measure, it is ill-omened. Anything that occurs in the months of September or October is accursed beyond redemption.”
I stared at the inmates of the Tenth Ring. Legion in name and in number, the Damned had been depicted in shades of black, white and red. Some of them had a heraldic shield on their breast-pocket. Most of them looked plebeian in the extreme. Some figures stood out from the crowd: a Blonde Idol has been placed directly under the aforesaid zodiac – he was a wounded Fisher King of some kind - and there was nothing he could do to nullify its influence. To his left stood an older figure with a full set of hair and two devilish medals around his neck; he too, in his own way, was a contagion. To the right, another figure stood with a glum, if not sulky look on his face; he was lost in thought, as if contemplating a treasure that had been temporarily in his hands and then snatched away remorselessly, Four other Idols (the first was tall and mute with a dumb look on his face, the second was dark-skinned, while the remaining pair were runts) were revelling in sinfulness: rape, robbery and unnatural vice to the acclaim of the rank and file. But even here, their desperation was self-evident as if a wider prize lay forever out of reach.
“Biff, look in this corner,” the good Professor urged. “The artist has included his own version of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but in this instance, it is a quartet of anti-popes saying a Black Mass. The first has permed hair and his face is covered with some sort of white powder as if he was the Pale Rider himself; the second, as you can plainly see, is a short squat little man with no eyes who is standing in some sort of wagon; the third – pestilence itself – wears a broad-brimmed hat; the last of the quartet is holding a pack of cards – presumably tarot; his hair is fake and so is the whiteness of his fangs.”
I took a step closer to soak in the detail. The quartet’s malignancy was indisputable – but were they the source of the curse or an attenuation of it? I asked Professor Duritz for his thoughts.
“Biff, from what I can tell, endless hunger is the primary punishment that has been inflicted on this Circle by the Almighty. Look here, here and here! See, the crowd is athirst for sustenance, but it will be forever denied to them. This Tenth Ring bears comparison with the Third and Fourth Rings, but to my mind, it is an intensification of the punishment. Notice also the ravaged forest in the background as if its wood has been commandeered for some nefarious reason.”
I felt sick in the stomach. We are all sinners, but who among us would warrant such treatment? Professor Duritz drew my attention to a figure near the epicentre.
“And behold, here is their general. Platitudes are constantly issuing forth from his mouth which only add to the torment of the rank-and-file. He refers to ‘the Saints this, and the Saints that’. He too, is subject to the Zodiac. All in all, it is deeply mysterious.”
I drew my thoughts together.
“Esteemed Professor, you are dead right. This changes everything. Your indicative thoughts are meritorious. But you cannot expect me to come up with an overarching interpretation on the spot. This fresco will repay close inspection. I suggest we retire for lunch.”
The monks were hospitable. Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the monastic dining hall with a steamy bowl of minestrone each.
“Biff, thanks for coming all this way at short-notice. I hope I didn’t drag you away from anything!”
I shook my head.
“Nah, I have been moping around the house, ever since we lost to Norf.”
Professor Duritz had not been keeping up with the AFL so I gave him a rundown of the season thus far. I added at the end.
“My beloved Demons are playing the Sainters this week,” I added. “If we lose, Bailey will be firmly buckled into the ejector-seat within an hour of the siren, even if the decision to push the button comes much later. We all expected that our boys would be somewhat up and down this year, albeit without the listlessness that was on display against the Eagles in particular. But we’ve had enough.”
“How do you see it playing out?”
“Look, the Sainters played in the last two grand finals so the firepower is still there, so to speak. It would be typical of the Dees to play them back into form. Personnel-wise, we have been decimated. The boys were roundly rubbished for their piss-weak effort against the Eagles - and they subsequently rose to the occasion against the Crowbots. Perhaps they’ll respond in the same fashion this week. Mind you, my tipping has been errant all year.”
Professor Duritz nodded his head noncommittally. After a quick glass of Sangiovese, we strolled back to the fresco.
I resumed my inspection. A figure that had escaped my attention hitherto – standing beside the Blonde Idol - now swarmed into view. He was tall and lanky with a yokel look on his face. His deepset eyes precluded him seeing anything from the side. A mullet warmed his neck. Indubitably, he was more accursed than his blonde neighbour. But in one hand, he held a demon’s pitchfork that had been bent in half; his other arm was raised in triumph.
“This is not going to end well,” I muttered grimly to myself.
Sainters by one point.
Biffinator.
