about the same number from the Order of Christ, the last of these is formed by monks who decide for themselves who can join their confraternity, although God has no wish to see defective animals on His, altars, especially if they are of the lower orders, so let Baltasar stay where he is, watching the procession go by, the pages, the choristers, the chamberlains, two lieutenants of the royal guard, one, two, in full dress uniform, which nowadays we would probably refer to as ceremonial dress, then the patriarchal cross, with blood-red whips hanging from one side, the chaplains carrying staffs crested with posies of carnations, ah, the sad destiny of flowers, for one day they will be attached to the barrels of rifles, then the choirboys of the Basilica of St Mary Major, which is both umbrella and basilica, with alternate sections in red and white, and in two or three hundred years people will start referring to umbrellas as basilicas, and you will hear them say, My basilica has a broken rib, I've left my basilica on the bus, I've had a new handle made for my basilica, When will my basilica at Mafra be ready, the King muses as he walks behind, holding one of the poles supporting the canopy, but first comes the cathedral chapter, the deacons in their white dalmatics, then the priests wearing chasubles of the same colour, and finally the church dignitaries with amice, cope, and silver plaque, what are the masses likely to know about these names, when it comes to the mitre, they are familiar with both the word and the form, for mitre is the pope's nose you find in the chicken's arse and the hat stuck on the canon's head, each canon in the procession is assisted by three members of his household, one with a lighted torch, another carrying the canon's hat, and both in court dress, while his train-bearer is dressed in coat of mail, now the Patriarch's entourage appears, first come six relatives of noble birth carrying lighted torches, then his beneficed assistant with the crozier, accompanied by another chaplain with the incense boat, followed by the acolytes swinging thuribles in wrought silver, two masters of ceremonies, and twelve pages who also carry torches, ah, you sinners, you men and women who spend your ephemeral lives courting perdition by fornicating and eating and drinking in excess, neglecting the sacraments, omitting to pay tithes, and speaking of hell with contempt and bravado, you men who at the slightest opportunity fondle women's buttocks in church, you shameless women who do everything in church short of fondling men's private parts, look at what is passing, the canopy supported by eight poles and I, the Patriarch beneath it, holding up the sacred monstrance, kneel, kneel, you sinners, you should castrate yourselves at once and fornicate no more, you should gag your mouths at once rather than contaminate your souls with so much food and drink, you should empty your pockets at once, because you will have no use for escudos in paradise or in hell, and in purgatory debts are honoured with prayers, your escudos are needed here on earth to purchase gold for another monstrance, to keep all these church dignitaries in silver, the two canons who raise the corners of my cape and carry the mitres, the two subdeacons who raise the hem of my vestments in front, and the train-bearers behind, which explains why they grovel so, this intimate friend who has the rank of count and carries the train of my cape, the two esquires with the flabella, and the mace-bearers with their silver staffs, the first subdeacon carries the veil of the golden mitre, for it must not be touched by hand. Christ was foolish never to have worn a mitre on His head, He may have been the Son of God, but He was somewhat gauche, for it is common knowledge that no religion can prosper without the wearing of a mitre, tiara, or bowler hat, had Christ worn any one of these three, He would have been made a high priest and been appointed governor instead of Pontius Pilate, just think what I should have escaped, and what a better world this might have been, had it turned out otherwise and they had not made me Patriarch, render unto Caesar what belongs to God, and render unto God what belongs to Caesar, then we shall settle accounts and share the money, one piece of silver for me and one for you, truly I say unto you, as say I must, Behold how I, your sovereign King of Portugal, the Algarves and all the rest, walk devoutly in the procession holding one of these gilded poles, and how a sovereign strives to protect his homeland and people both temporally and spiritually, I could have just ordered a footman to take my place, or have appointed a duke or marquis to take my place, but here I am in person and accompanied by the Infantes, my relatives and your masters, kneel, kneel, for the sacred monstrance is about to pass and I am passing, and Christ the King is inside the monstrance, and inside me is the grace of being king on earth, the king made of flesh, in order to feel, for you well know how nuns are regarded as the spouses of Christ, and that is the holy truth, for they receive me in their beds as they receive the Lord, and it is because I am their Lord that they sigh in ecstasy, clutching their rosary in one hand, mystical flesh, mingled and united, while the saints in the oratory strain their ears to hear the words of passion whispered under the canopy, a canopy stretched over heaven, for this is heaven and there is none better, and Christ crucified droops His head to one side, wretched fellow, perhaps overwhelmed by suffering, perhaps to get a better look at Paula as she removes her clothes, perhaps consumed with jealousy that He should be robbed of this spouse, a flower of the cloister perfumed by incense, adorable flesh, but that's that, I then depart, leaving her behind, and if she ends up pregnant the child is mine, no need to announce it a second time, there come the choristers behind, singing motets and hymns, and this gives me an idea, for kings are a veritable mine of ideas, how could they govern otherwise, so let the nuns of Odivelas come to sing the Benedictus in Paula's chamber as we lie in each other's arms, before, during, and after intercourse, amen.
Salvos rang out and rockets were fired from the ships, there was also a salute from the nearby fortress in the Palace Square, its echoes resounding far and wide, cannons were fired from garrisons and towers, the royal regiments from Peniche and Setubal presented arms, and formed ranks in the square. The Body of Christ is carried through the city of Lisbon, the sacrificial lamb, the Lord of all armies, unfathomable contradiction, golden sun, crystal, and monstrance that causes heads to bow, divinity devoured and digested until it becomes faeces, who will be astonished to see you hand in glove with these inhabitants, slaughtered sheep, devourers of their own devoured selves, which is why men and women drag themselves through the streets, strike themselves and others in the face, beat loudly on their breasts and thighs, stretch out their hands to touch the hems that pass, the brocades and lace, the velvets and ribbons, the embroidery and jewels,
It is getting late. In the sky there is the faintest light, almost invisible, the first sign of the moon. Tomorrow Blimunda will have her eyes, today is a day for blindness.
...
PADRE BARTOLOMEU LOURENCO has now returned from Coimbra with his doctorate in canon law, and de Gusmao has been officially added to his surname and signature, and who are we to accuse him of the sin of pride, better to forgive him his lack of humility for the reasons he himself gave, so that we might be forgiven our own sins, that of pride and all the others, for it would be much worse to change one's face or word than to change one's name. His face and word do not appear to have changed, nor has his name for Baltasar and Blimunda, and if the King has made him a chaplain of the royal household and an academician of the Royal Academy, these are faces and words that can be assumed and dropped, and together with his adopted name, they remain outside the gates of the Duke of Aveiro's estate and do not enter although one can imagine how these three would react if they were to confront the machine, the aristocrat would see them as mechanical inventions, the chaplain would exorcise the diabolical work there on display, and, because this was something destined for the future, the academician would withdraw and only return when it finally belonged to the past. However, this is today.
The priest lives in one of the houses overlooking the Palace Square, in apartments rented out by a woman who has been widowed for many years, and whose husband was a mace-bearer at the Palace until he was stabbed in a brawl during the reign of Dom Pedro II, an incident long since forgotten and only raised here because the woman happens to live in the same house as the priest and it would look bad not to give those few facts at least, even while withholding her name, which tells us nothing, as I have already explained. The priest lives close to the Palace, and just as well, because he goes there frequently, not so much because of his duties as a chaplain appointed to the royal household, for that title is honorary in the main, but because the King is fond of him and has not given up hope of seeing his enterprise completed, and since eleven years have already elapsed, the King inquires tactfully, Shall I see your machine fly one day, a question Padre Bartolomeu Lourenco cannot honestly answer except to say, Your Majesty may rest assured that my machine will fly one day, But will I be here to see it fly, May Your Majesty live almost as long as the ancient patriarchs of the Old Testament, and may you not only see the machine fly but fly it yourself. This answer borders on insolence, but the King does not appear to notice, or if he does, he chooses to be indulgent, or perhaps he is distracted as he remembers having promised to attend the harpsichord lesson about to be given to his daughter, the Infanta Dona Maria Barbara, that must surely be the reason, he invites the priest to join his entourage, and not everyone can boast of such an honour.
The Infanta is seated at the harpsichord, and although she is barely nine years of age, heavy responsibilities
