Henning Koch - The Maggot People

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.”

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.