Henning Koch - The Maggot People

“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 Barcelona. 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.”

Michael sat still, listening to the waves.

I’ll slip away when they’re not looking, he told himself. I’ll play the innocent but I’ll do what they say. Afterwards I’ll go to the Greek islands. I’ve got fifteen years of life left in me; I’ll fish and sleep in a cave and then when my time’s up I’ll swim out and drown myself.

His reverie faded and he was aware of O’Hara waiting for his response.

“Sure,” said Michael. “It’s easy. I just pull the trigger, that’s all.”

The Cardinal held the gun under Michael’s nose. “Keep pulling it until the target looks like a shredded puppy.”

Almost before he knew it, he was in an air-conditioned coach crunching across the gravel, leaving St. Helena behind. He’d been given a full collar shirt and cassock to wear, and they were quite unbearable in the heat. But as he sank into his seat and the cool air streamed over his flaming red face, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

The brothers and sisters of St. Helena in their sandals and white cloaks had come to wave them off.

Mama, standing at the head of the assembled group, had put on a colorful embroidered belt to set her apart. Elvira stood beside her, dressed in gray now to indicate she was close to blooming. Three white doves, attached to her by long red silk ribbons, pumped their wings frantically overhead as she strode forward ceremoniously, lifting her hand in a parting salute.