by Henning Koch
Michael shivered: he would have liked to pour gasoline on them and torch the little bastards.
“Hear that?” said Mama. “In spite of all your aggression, your hatred and your vengeance, I’ll explain it to you. This is actually the song of the maggot. Shakespeare knew it well. He eulogized the maggot; it was the great leveler to him. He referred to it as the worm; did you know that?”
“Sort of,” said Michael.
“To Shakespeare the worm was always a symbol of what lies beyond. And the ultimate meaningless of anything we try to do on this Earth. Whether we’re kings or paupers there will always be a worm waiting for us, even from the very moment of our birth. You, for instance; as usual your mind is absorbed with self-importance. But do you have any idea of how long you are destined to stay here among us?”
“No one does.”
“That’s right. No one does. Only I know. I know how much time should be allotted to everyone and that is why people do what I tell them to do. I make a judgment on their viability.” Her fish-eyes revolved as she chuckled and held up a key. “In our group we refer to this as the passepartout, the master key. Shall I show you why?” She smiled with genuine amusement. “For goodness sake don’t be so afraid, Michael; it’s only your little life at stake, your little ego. The world will still be here after you’ve gone.” He felt his hackles rise, but before he could say anything, she put her hand on his wrist and squeezed. “If you want to live, Michael, do what I say. And don’t use bad language.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Bad thoughts are a hundred times worse than words and you are a very transparent sort. Also a very lucky one. You’re due for renewal and I’m going to give it to you.”
“Renewal?”
“Shut up,” said Janine. “Listen to her.”
“There’s a cycle,” said Mama. “So we’ve learnt to breed the maggots and keep them in perfect condition.” She walked over to the vat and peered inside with an expert eye. “This batch is perfect. Very young and pristine, very healthy, with a life expectancy of around fifteen years. Are you interested, Michael?”
He flushed. “I’m not getting this. What do I have to do?”
She grabbed him by the neck. “Look, my friend. I’ve got the measure of you, I know how to determine a person when I see him and you don’t have much time, you’ve used up too much of it with all your narcotics and drink. In a month or two they’ll stop moving inside you and then you’ll be gone. Why do you think Janine is still alive?” She looked across at Janine, who grew pale. “Because she does what we say and we reward her.”
There was a long silence with nothing but the indistinct hissing from the vat, which seemed to be growing in intensity. Michael peered over at Janine, standing to one side with her face deferentially turned to the ground.
“So. What I’d like you to do now is undress and come here.”
Janine whispered urgently: “Hurry up!”
Michael took off his robe and left it folded on the floor.
To one side of the vat was a strange adjustable rack, with two padded, curved prongs that fitted comfortably round one’s neck. Michael reversed into it, and Mama adjusted the height of the prong so that it held his cranium tightly. There was a metal-tipped nozzle attached to a heavy duty rubber hose, which she sprayed with some sort of lubricant, then fed it unceremoniously into his anal cavity.
“What a nice uncorrupted young man.” Mama sniggered at Janine. “His sphincter’s like a rubber band…”
A machine was turned on—like a vacuum cleaner. He felt his innards gently sucked out until he hung there by the neck like a rag doll. Within seconds his brain grew light and ethereal and he sensed the eternal emptiness whispering at him. Through his fatigue and desperation he saw Mama’s face looming before him.
“Now tell me you love me,” she said. “Tell me you love me and I will hold that as a mark of your allegiance.”
Michael tried to open his mouth, but the muscles refused to work. He managed to push some air out and make a croaking sound, which seemed to satisfy her though she took her time about it and raised her eyebrows pointedly as she made her way over to an instrument panel and flicked a switch. A bubbling stream of maggots filled him, maggots fresh and bursting with life; maggots intent on breathing, feeding and propagating.
Michael opened his mouth and took a breath, like someone surfacing from under water. “Thank God,” he said.
“You have to thank Mama for the life you have,” Janine corrected him, with a servile look at her mistress.
Once he’d been refilled, Mama checked a gauge to make sure the pressure was correct, then pulled out the nozzle.
“Now for the cakes and ale, dear boy. You must spend the night with a meat-girl and induct her. We’ve kept one by for you and you have to lie with her tonight. If you don’t, you won’t survive. You’re stuffed with vibrant new maggots intent on life and they’ll have what they want even if you do rather make a point of avoiding your own desires.”
He wanted to run at her and beat her with his fists, then stamp her into the ground.
For the first time, Mama Maggot seemed to find his rebelliousness amusing. She had a slightly magisterial tone: “Listen carefully now. Injecting yourself with heroin won’t help at this point; they’re far too libidinous. So stay off the dope for a few days.”
“This is a bloody disgrace.”
“Oh, no doubt about it,” said Mama, with a wry smile. “Except there’s no blood with us. We’re not fans of the stuff. We’re the keepers of the life force, my little man. You may be a giver of roses but you forget roses also have thorns.” She looked at him almost with affection. He noticed she had a very upper-class English accent, which came out particularly when she grew verbose. “Anyway, we gave up on grace a long time ago.”
“I can see that.”
“And you should, too. There is nowhere else to run, no more quaint notions for you. The perfume has run out, my little fool. You must come and show me what you’ve got; you must drop your pants, my dear, and reveal your equipment. Lead on if you please.” She maintained her clawlike grip on his neck as she opened the door for him then shepherded him out into the brightening morning. “It’s time for pudding…”
19.
Inside the enclosure, the Tantric orgy had descended into sedate conversation and herbal tea-drinking. Entwined, temporary lovers now waited for the sun to rise over the sea. In the windless air, acrid cannabis fumes hung over their bubbling water-pipes.
The Buddhists, of course, had not yet realized the Earth-shattering implication of their lovemaking. They felt themselves at home among these hospitable and libidinous strangers, this lavish complex by the sea with servants and even a plentiful supply of weed brought by a wisecracking black maid who, during the night’s revels, had also revealed herself in her full vigor. One or two of the men had never before had sex with a black woman, and, to their surprise, had found she was much the same as a white one—undeniably with the same anatomy, although there was a kind of power in her haunches, a heat that spoke (to their projecting minds) of thousands of years of burning African sunlight.
But when the reed screen slid open to reveal Michael standing there in ceremonial robes, the Buddhists looked up with a slight sense of trepidation. Surely the amusements were over and done with?
Maggot Mama pulled the robes off his shoulders and let them fall in a heap to the floor. There was a sense of dismay among the Buddhists, which rapidly turned to relief when it grew clear that they were not expected to participate in what followed.
Michael was led very slowly towards a young Sophia Loren lookalike in the corner—Elvira—who, at the beginning of the night’s revels, had single-handedly extracted orgasms from the three men and also fired up the three women with deep kisses and dexterous handiwork. The rest of the group had sat thoughtfully watching her expertise as if it were a performance of rare art. Which, in a way, it was.
In spite of her willingness earlier,
Elvira was reluctant to participate. She held out her hands defensively. “Please! No, Mama.” Something in her voice made them fearful. There was a plea in it, a timbre that connected them to the ancient fear of dying. “I’m sorry, Mama. I love you, I really do love you utterly, Mama. Without you I’m nothing.”
She sank down on a cushion and started to cry. Mama nodded at her followers. Elvira’s light cotton tunic was removed. By now she was limp and weeping uncontrollably, her face creased with pain and anger. But she was picked up by strong arms and positioned in a leaning stone chair at the edge of the terrace, with a narrow ledge for the buttocks and leather straps on the armrests and at the base of the legs. In no time at all she was secured in the contraption, her legs prized wide apart so that she immodestly revealed herself.
The Buddhists snuggled together, trembling and asking themselves how they came to be here in this place, among these people they did not even know?
Mama walked up to Elvira. Cupping her hands, she could not resist nibbling her luscious little earlobes one final time, whilst whispering audibly: “Prometheus, the rider with his lance, you must have seen him in the paintings? He does not ride out to kill the monster, my darling girl. Prometheus does not save you. He is not the prince. He is the monster and you are the sacrifice. Do you understand?”
“Oh, shut up, you crazy old lesbian! I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” screamed Elvira with all the force she had left in her lungs. Mama Maggot pulled back abruptly, her ears ringing. Then she motioned for Michael to be brought forward.
He, meanwhile, was almost swooning, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His body was bloated like a gammon left over-long in brine, and he felt the maggots swarming against the outer reaches of his brain. By some preternatural ability the maggots seemed to be sensing what was about to happen. They moved ferociously inside him; making it clear to him that if he did not steer himself towards Elvira—if he did not allow them passage—he would be burnt up and consumed. He took one step, then another—like a prisoner walking the plank with a sword poking into his back. Even his eyes were pushing outwards, as if about to pop out of his skull.
Elvira pleaded with him, but there was no way back for him. Strangely enough he felt no remorse as he quickly moved closer to her and without a second thought plunged into her and—while Mama’s lips murmured into Elvira’s ear—spent himself. His spasms repeated again and again until he thought he’d die with the exertion of it—continuing for as long as it took the sun to rise, spreading an oily redness over the spent waves, rising and falling indecisively like aimless afterthoughts.
20.
The next morning, after hanging around for as long as he dared on the beach, angrily throwing stones, he sneaked into the canteen, where he saw Elvira in a hooded black robe. She was sitting in a corner with Janine. Her skin looked very pale, and as he drew closer he realised it was because she’d been dusted in wood ash. Her hair had been shorn; her scalp was pockmarked and sickly gray.
As soon as Elvira caught sight of him she turned away, making it clear that she had no wish to speak to him. Janine stared at him. “It’s okay, Michael,” she said in a flat, expressionless voice. “She knows it wasn’t your fault. But she doesn’t want to speak to you. Anyway, you don’t need me anymore; you have to listen to others who are more important than me. I’m just a courier, Michael; I thought that would be good enough for you, but apparently not.” She paused, frowning at Michael, who stood there overwhelmed by the awfulness of what had happened last night. “Just go. Spare us the theatrics.”
At the other end of the canteen, Mama Maggot was holding court to two high-ranking police officers in uniform and a delegation from the Vatican fronted by a cardinal in purple robes. When she noticed him hovering by the hot drinks counter, Mama waved Michael over and introduced him. Monsignor O’Hara was a tall, slightly stooped Irishman, his silvery hair shot through with insipid streaks of yellow. There was a fixed, glazed leer on his face: a sense of outrage, also an unwholesome fascination with the absurd—to him, all things that were not his own thoughts were a huge absurdity.
“Ah, so here he is, the fellow you’ve prepared for me.”
O’Hara picked up his briefcase and shambled off towards the sunbaked terrace overlooking the sea, apparently expecting Michael to follow him. He spoke grandly and remotely, though with a lilting Irish accent.
“Wonderful place you have here. There’s something almost Homeric about these waves, the way they wash in all pure and selfless. Christ would have lived here. Christ would have understood this. What a pity we cannot dwell on such things, what a pity we must concern ourselves with finalities.”
They sat on a stone bench. Just ahead of them the volcanic rocks plunged steeply into the sea and shoals of glittering fish moved lazily through the green-blue depths.
As soon as their refreshments arrived, O’Hara tucked into coffee and biscuits and figs, making smacking noises as he sucked his fingers. His gold crucifix glittered. All the while, his shrewd, sick gaze lingered on Michael as if analyzing his every nuance. There was not a trace of self-consciousness about this examination—only fevered desire bursting out of him like bats spilling out of a cave—desire for the fulfillment of his purpose, whatever it was.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Michael cautiously. “Why are you here? What would a cleric want with us?” He felt his voice becoming tremulous when he spoke. O’Hara seemed pleased about his question.
“Do you think you are so evil that you’re beneath our attention? God is concerned with all things, God is in all things, even in you.” O’Hara’s absentee smile returned, full of delight at this mental game, and noting with satisfaction that Michael was at a loss.
“Actually, yes. I think I am evil,” said Michael after thinking it through. “I think we all are. I think we forgive ourselves and excuse ourselves. But, based on what I’ve seen, also what I’ve done… I’d say there’s something evil at work here, and it’s actually inside of us.”
“Of course. Any fool can see that,” said O’Hara. “Any goodness down here must fight a long, hard battle to win through. So don’t judge yourself so hard in spite of the shameful things you have done. Consider a little more your actual survival in this place. I assume like most people you have a desire to continue breathing the sweet air of this planet and walk barefoot in the grass and wake up in the mornings?” He stopped for a finely weighted pause. “Where do I begin, talking to someone who knows so little? There has always been a maggot element in the Vatican, almost from the first moment the blessed Baptist started walking the hills. But there’s rivalry between us and the flesh-bound priests. They don’t much like us, though we can’t see what’s so special about them just because they have hearts and lungs and stomachs and theoretically the freedom to procreate, which we don’t. We’re regulated in the downstairs department,” he added jauntily, then stopped and resumed his perusal of the waves. “But I’m surprised that you should begin by asking about me. Are you not more concerned about yourself, your own existence?”
“Not really,” said Michael. “I’m rapidly losing interest.”
“Very astute of you. Losing interest is often the best way of getting on in the world. Because you’re no longer taking things so damned seriously. People like you have to learn to catch a decent wind when it comes along. And get those damned sails up.” He glowered at Michael across the bony ridge of his wavering nose. “Because if you miss it, you could be stuck here for a bloody long time. In fact you may never leave at all. And between you and me,” he whispered, “this place is just a coven of hags.”
Michael sighed. “It is.”
O’Hara nodded. “Excellent. Common ground is always welcome. But I can get you out of this place; I can give you freedom.
Would you like that?”
“Yes,” said Michael, forgetting his misgivings. “How?”
“We’re having some problems, in the form of a flesh-head, an abbot outside B
arcelona. A disreputable type. He’s threatening to spill his guts, tell the world about the maggot.”
“Why? What’s he hoping to achieve by it?”
“Why?” The outrage on his face redoubled. “My word, what a question to ask! Let me see now. First I suppose he’s embittered and second of course he’s full of self-importance. He’s been overlooked, he feels slighted. This way he can hold us to ransom in the name of morality.” O’Hara shook his head disapprovingly and moistened his lips with sweet wine. “I’m going to tell you something, Michael, because I see promise in you, and I can respect that. This Elvira, who you supposedly deflowered last night. She’s been a maggot for years.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“It’s an old trick and you’re a very young man. They deflated her beforehand, she was nigh on half-full; that’s why they tied her to the stone seat; she could hardly stand on her own two legs. Then you came along. But you never transformed her; the work had already been done for you.” O’Hara leaned forward and shook him hard by the shoulder: “These people are playing with your mind, for what purpose God only knows. I don’t seek to do that. All I am saying to you in a very straightforward manner is that there is something I want you to do for me. Unlike them, I don’t want to destroy you or use you or steer your steps. I have work for you, it’s as simple as that.” He stopped. “There’s some danger involved, I admit it, but the rewards are great. Afterwards you can go overseas. We’ll furnish you with money to keep you ticking over.”
Michael focused his energies. “What exactly would you have me do?”
“Ah yes.” He put his briefcase on his lap and unlocked it, then took out a pistol with a silencer, which he pointed at Michael’s face. “I want you to go to the offending Abbot. I will have you furnished with letters of recommendation from Rome. He will have no choice but to take you on as a novice. When you get the chance you put a bullet in his head. If at all possible, get your hands on as many of his documents as you can, which may be rather difficult as he’s bound to have them secreted or locked away in strongboxes. Search his quarters, search his office. Oh, and don’t concern yourself about the police. Once the Vatican machine finds out he’s been murdered all the details will be duly covered up; that’s standard practice.” He paused. “Have no fear of divine recrimination, either. We’ve all agreed it’s the only thing to be done, and you have absolution.”
