The Maggot People

by Henning Koch

  Michael looked at him: his quick, unflinching black eyes and the enlarged pores round his nose, each with an unctuous droplet emerging from it; an oil and garlic man, quick and fierce, probably also addicted to wine and chili peppers.

  “I don’t know you…”

  “Ah, you know me well enough.”

  “In that case yes. I suppose I sort of like you; I don’t know why.”

  “Good, that’s step one. Now you have to let go of the things you learned in Sardinia. Rome makes good use of this disgusting Mama woman. I ought to do something about her. I think I will, you know.”

  “A bit of rat poison in her tanks would sort her out,” said Michael, wincing with a sudden stab of pain as the words came out of his mouth.

  With a frown Giacomo nodded at the overhead monitors, on which they could see groups of armed men purposefully searching the room.

  “I wonder what’s going through their minds?” said Michael.

  “Oh not much, just another day at work. They’re looking forward to clocking off for the day, going home, having sausages and chips. They weren’t sent primarily to kill you, of course. I was the real target, although it wouldn’t have made much difference to you—you weren’t supposed to walk out of here, either. I think we’d better get out in case they find the door.” Giacomo yawned. “Have you eaten? I’m starving.”

  “I haven’t. We have to pick up a hooker I found in Barcelona. I like her very much. She’s waiting for me here in Ripoll.”

  “That’s fine,” said Giacomo. “We can pick her up on the way…”

  Giacomo

  26.

  Next morning, Michael woke to the sound of eggs frying.

  He could see Paolo, the monk he met yesterday, at the stove deftly manipulating strips of lard and cracking eggs into a black cast-iron pan of impressive size, where already mushrooms and tomatoes were sizzling.

  Paolo was wearing baggy underpants and flip-flops. Giacomo was smoking distractedly, waiting for his breakfast and looking out of the window.

  Michael yawned as he walked into the kitchen: “Where’s Honey?”

  “We locked her up. She tried to leave,” said Paolo. “I gave her the rest of the heroin. She’s more sedate now.”

  He put a plate in front of Michael, who chewed some of the fibrous lard, then spat it out. “Where do we go now? Where are we, come to think of it?”

  “Nowhere special,” said Giacomo. “Just a bolt-hole of mine in Barcelona. My public career is over. It doesn’t matter; I was tired of the whole thing. Hamming it up for the masses.”

  He threw a copy of La Vanguardia on the table. There was a photograph of him in full regalia, and a caption underneath: “Ripoll Abbot in Drugs and Prostitution Scandal.”

  “My escape must have annoyed them intensely. They hate bad publicity. Let’s face it, they’ve had enough of it, thanks to all those robed pedophiles.” He shook his head: “They did the obvious thing. They capitalized on the fact that I’d abandoned my duties and then the Press Department sprayed some other shit on me. Apparently I’ve been cavorting with prostitutes; how scandalous is that! I’m to be excommunicated.” He sniggered as he shoveled in another forkful.

  “Something you mentioned to me earlier, about Günter. Why did he tell me to go to Janine? And then tip you off?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” said Paolo. “We hate inquisitors like O’Hara and quislings like Mama Maggot.”

  “In fact we don’t actually hate them,” said Giacomo. “We’d just rather they weren’t here at all.”

  “That sounds very much as if you hate them.”

  “Not at all,” said Giacomo. “Extermination and hatred are two very different things. If you hate something you want to keep it alive. Hatred is a sort of fixed affection.”

  “Günter knew you’d end up in St. Helena with O’Hara, and he knew there was a good chance you’d be sent to assassinate Giacomo. Mama Maggot thinks she’s as inscrutable as the deep sea, but as far as we’re concerned she’s a puddle of piddle.”

  “But you don’t hate Günter, do you? And you don’t want to exterminate him?”

  Paolo and Giacomo burst into fits of giggles. “Günter, how could anyone hate him!” said Paolo. “A lovely Alsatian fellow with a sincere love of sweetmeats? He used to be a very devout person and for all I know he still is. Even Giacomo likes Günter, don’t you Giacomo?”

  “Yes, of course, our dear, hairy, clawed friend with his devotion to pretty Ariel.” Giacomo’s greasy lips opened like a ripe fig. “Michael, until you met me you didn’t know a damn about anything.”

  Michael gave him a weary stare. “Until I met you I knew what I was doing. I was putting a bullet in your head. What are you? Just some guy who spouts Latin and eats too much?”

  “‘Vos qui peccata hominum comeditis, nisi pro eis lacrimas et oraciones effuderitis, ea que in deliciis comeditis, in tormentis evometis’” Giacomo licked his fingers and translated: “‘You who feast upon men’s sins—unless you pour out tears and prayers for them, you will vomit forth in torment what you eat with pleasure.’ I have never been one to feast on sin; I just happen to prefer meat and bread.” Giacomo refilled his coffee cup and produced a small, leather-bound book from his dressing gown pocket. It was a selection from C.M Doughty’s Arabia Deserta. “Do you know, one of the problems of humankind is that we’re no longer masters of language and thus we find it almost impossible to understand ourselves? We fight over semantics; we’re stuck with clichés and bagatelles. This makes us gross; we can’t express who we are anymore. So Michael, if you forgive me I’m going to keep spouting my Latin; I’m a man of words and this is the only way we’re ever going to understand anything. Through words.” He opened the book with relish. “Listen to this: ‘A party of Turcomans have arrived, whose women wear tall red headdresses hung with cornelian-studded plaques of silver gilt…’” He shook his head. “Paolo, what’s a cornelian-studded plaque?”

  “How would I know?”

  “See. And how about this.” His stumpy fingers creased the pages in his eagerness: “‘…a medley of little houses…some of stone ravished from the monuments.’ Notice his use of the word ravished, that’s true genius.”

  From the back of the apartment came a sound of insistent hammering. Honey was banging the door, shrieking like a banshee.

  “Poor mite,” said Paolo. “She’s coming into flower and she doesn’t know what’s happening to her.” He looked at Michael. “You might have told her, you miserable fleshpot.”

  “She would have died if I hadn’t stepped in,” said Michael.

  “Oh, what difference does it make? There’s too much talk of life these days.” Paolo wagged his finger. “A sea urchin has life, an amoeba in the ocean has life. Life is holy, there’s no doubt about that, but we need more focus on soul.” He attacked his chitterlings with gusto, the impact of his muscular Vulcanic arms rattling the table, then continued: “This poor woman has misplaced her soul. As soon as she’s fully transformed we’ll have to teach her to fish for it.”

  “Let’s bring her along,” said Giacomo. “She seems a pleasant enough kid; I can get her a job as a costume girl at St. Peter’s. That’s settled, then. Now, Michael, you’re probably not aware of the fact that ‘Azerbaijan is a dun sweeping country like Spain in winter.’ I am, you see, and that’s because I spend at least an hour a day reading books that edify the mind… Paolo, what’s rogand?”

  “Shut up, idiot. How should I bloody know?” said Paolo, his face turning livid.

  “Shut up? Not very educated, are you, talking like that? Rogand, I’ll have you know, is a very nice rancid butter eaten in northern Persia.”

  Paolo thumped down his fist so the glasses jumped. “Giacomo. Can you put that book away and help me make a decision.”

  “Oh, what? You know perfectly well that we have to go back to Rome and flick O’Hara’s nose rather hard. But we’re certainly not going anywhere until after breakfast, maybe even after lunch… and I’m going
to insist that we’re driven there in a decent car with air conditioning. And until we leave,” he said petulantly, “I’m going to read my book.”

  “Rome?” Michael ventured. “What’s in Rome?”

  “The question is,” Giacomo pointed out, “what’s not in Rome?” Then continued: “‘A covert of poplars’—brilliant use of covert. Really sums it up, makes one…”

  “So… Rome, then,” Paolo interrupted as he rose to his feet. “I shall go and pack and it will take me exactly five minutes, because I own nothing.” He walked off, whistling.

  “How are you going to flick O’Hara on the nose?” said Michael. “He didn’t seem very ‘flickable’ to me.”

  “Using my thumb and my index finger.” He held up his hand and made a clicking sound. “Like this.”

  “But you’re not going to kill him, are you? Or ask me to kill him?”

  “Oh, what a concept.” Giacomo guffawed. “You can’t kill people, you know; you can only transform them.”

  “Rome? So you have somewhere we can stay there?”

  “Listen: ‘…roused by the muezzin’s unearthly treble… the clamor of vendors and the clatter of hooves will soon begin.’” Giacomo closed the book and continued, with unmistakable finality, like a French blind coming down for the night. “Yes, I have somewhere to stay. Rome is my only true home on earth and has been for about twelve hundred years.”

  Michael found Honey in a fetal position on the floor, scrabbling about in a pool of blood. “Where were you?” she whispered, lifting her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I feel weird. I’ve had a fucking stomachache since yesterday and really heavy bleeding—which is weird ’cause I had a hysterectomy last year.”

  “Why don’t you have a little talk with Paolo; he’ll fill you in,” said Michael. “Paolo is a real priest, not like me. He knows all about it.”

  She eyed him fiercely. “Something’s going on and you’re not telling me.”

  “I don’t quite know myself. I’m too ashamed to tell you,” said Michael. “And anyway you’d never believe me if I told you the truth.”

  “Yeah, right!” said Honey. “That’s what every liar says.”

  27.

  As ever, Rome was luxuriating in the velvety folds of its history. Past midnight, their tinted-glass limousine dropped them at the edge of an enormous plaza, empty but for lunar shadows cast by the columns. In the background lay the floodlit bulk of St. Peter’s, a huge illusory shape set against the sky.

  Giacomo stretched his back. “Ah, how good to be home.” He genuflected towards the dome, without any excessive show of emotion.

  Paolo, on the other hand, grabbed his rosary and, with mumbled incantations, fell to his knees.

  Honey would not leave Michael’s side; she was due to come into full flower that day. He sensed her tremulous presence just behind him, then her hoarse voice whispering into his ear:

  “Where the fuck are we going? What is this place?”

  “St. Peter’s. Heard of it?”

  “Not really. Some church. Who gives a shit?”

  Giacomo interceded, slipping his arm under her elbow and leading her on at a brisk pace. “Come child. Time to disseminate.”

  As they marched into deep shadow on the west side of the façade they saw men in dark suits and ear-mussels standing by the entrance to the crypts. Respectfully they got out of the way as Giacomo walked confidently towards them, brushing aside a dawdler on the stairs. Once inside, Giacomo and Paolo headed for the wardrobe, where they left their coats and trousers with a girl who gave them ceremonial robes.

  “I thought you’d been excommunicated,” said Michael.

  “Up there I have but not down here,” said Giacomo. “Our existence would be too disturbing for the world so we keep it to ourselves. We’re very considerate people.” He looked at the wardrobe girl and said, with a nod in Michael’s direction: “I’d say he needs an alb and a black stole, wouldn’t you? With some nice decoration… Ah yes, that one with the fish will be just fine, thank you, my dear.”

  “What do you do down here? Worship golden calves or something?” said Michael, nervously putting on his robes as he jogged along behind him.

  “For now, just be aware of this: ‘Ecce ipsi idiote rapiunt celum ubi nos sapientes in inferno mergimur. The unlearned themselves take heaven by force, while we wise ones are drowned in hell.’ St. Augustine, in case you were wondering.”

  “Don’t I get some clothes as well?” moaned Honey.

  Paolo, to keep her quiet, gave her a white cotton gown.

  They entered a candlelit vault, whose groaning pillars bore the full weight of the Basilica above them. There must have been a thousand people in the dim subterranean chapel. Their silence seemed to take the oxygen out of the air.

  The priest and his acolyte stood with their backs to the congregation; busily, they sprinkled holy water on the altar, accessed via a small bridge across a cistern of black undulating water reaching from one transept to the other.

  An unseen choir filled the air with wailing dirges. Not pleasant at all, thought Michael. As they were seated in the front pew, he noticed O’Hara at the back inside an island of men in purple robes. He stared bleakly at them across a sea of heads.

  The situation was already disturbing enough. But when Giacomo and O’Hara bowed respectfully to each other, it grew stranger still. “What are they doing?” Michael whispered to Paolo, who elbowed him jocularly and said:

  “Down here, we try not to be trivial.”

  “That man tried to kill us, and he’ll probably try again.”

  “So what?” said Paolo. “In killing us he would have been doing us a favor. Anyway, we would have come back another day.”

  “Some of us don’t believe in all that.”

  “Some of us are about to have their illusions shattered.”

  Honey pressed herself against him as hypnotic singing rose up from the cistern at the other end. “I’ve never seen a fucking church like this before. It’s like a nightmare; like a goddamn Tom Cruise movie.”

  A ceremonial golden barge came gliding in. Seven maidens in white tunics stood singing in it, holding out their hands imploringly towards the congregation, then lifting their tunics and revealing their dark, triangular pudenda.

  “What are they doing?” Michael whispered to Paolo.

  “Praying for fertility, which shall be denied the little slaves.”

  “So give them rubbers and they’ll be fine,” said Honey with a smirk.

  The doors flew open at the back. A procession of singing children with candles in their hands moved slowly through the congregation, lighting up the gnarled faces of clerics and cardinals.

  “They are the blessed ones,” Paolo explained. “They were never born.”

  Again Honey disagreed. “Sorry, father, but they look born enough to me.”

  The procession stopped when it reached the altar.

  The barge began to pull away, while the women on it dropped to their knees, wrung their hands and pulled their hair. They called out to the singing children standing on the footbridge as their craft passed beneath and then glided out of view. The children fell silent and blew out their candles. Darkness fell over the subterranean church, offset by a single candle of massive girth, still burning on its pedestal in the middle of the altar.

  Then, with ritual wails, the children filed out.

  The congregation was left hovering in a sort of thunderous silence, before the heavy artillery, a group of robed men behind the sanctuary broke into sonorous song to mark the end of the ceremony.

  Giacomo stood up and said briskly to Michael. “Would you like a tour before we go home?”

  “Okay, why not.”

  Leaving Honey and Father Paolo behind, Michael followed Giacomo into the atrium, where the worthies had gathered for conversation while wine and cakes were brought round. Unfortunately, O’Hara was waiting for them. Tall and dignified, intent on a bit of explication, he marched forward as soon
as he clapped eyes on them.

  “Giacomo, dear soul, will you forgive me,” he effused, offering his clammy hand. “I was lost; the Devil took me. If anyone knows the ways of the world, its pitfalls and traps, it must surely be you?”

  The two men faced each other, each with a sort of hovering moral scrutiny imprinted on his face.

  “So go with God, my brother,” said Giacomo ceremoniously, “and do not heed the Devil again.”

  O’Hara frowned. “Yet the Devil tells me I must have you in the vaults where I can venerate your memory—here in the World you stand in my way, my friend.” O’Hara threw Michael a sour glance. “And I confess I am dismayed to see this instrument of mine in your hands. His face reminds me of my own transgression.”

  “I’ll keep him, then,” Giacomo rejoined, with a glint of mischief. “As a reminder of your moral failings.”

  Michael found himself grabbed by the scruff of his neck and marched out by Giacomo, whose face, by now, had turned scarlet.

  “What’s going on?” Michael whispered.

  “Bloody hypocrites. Using Satan as an excuse. They are not worthy of their robes or their beards.”

  “What are those vaults he was talking about?”

  Giacomo stopped and recomposed himself. “Ah, yes, the vaults. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t see them; I think you’re ready.” He pushed open a side door and they went through a warren of changing rooms and properties stores—Michael saw rows of costumes on rails, pikestaffs and weapons of all descriptions, a wire net filled with stuffed swans; even, vaguely glimpsed as they passed, a cage of monkeys, one of them a noble old orangutan staring forlornly at a twig, as if longing for its home, far away.

  The virgins who had earlier exposed themselves and performed the ritual wailing, were now idly chattering, mere actresses removing their makeup in the dressing room.

  Giacomo stuck his head in.

  “Good work, girls. Excellent performances! You really caught the essence.”

  “Thanks, Giaconino! Are you coming out with us tonight? We’re off to have clam spaghetti.”