Henning Koch - The Maggot People

The two men took the elevator up and, at the approach of midnight, eased their tired, millennial knees onto the venerable slabs of St. Peter’s.

Although it was half past two in the morning and Rome lay in deep mist, O’Hara was awake in his rib-shaped cell, clutching a bottle of single malt to his heart.

Outside the bars stood a hawk-like ecclesiast with an unpleasant intelligence about him as he perused the Irish renegade within. O’Hara kept pacing to and fro, compulsively swinging his head like a captive bear. His two-day stubble and too-much darting eyes did not impress. The ecclesiast, Sergio Rodriguez, was the Vatican’s maggot liaison officer and a man of power. He had a condescending tone when addressing O’Hara, whom he viewed as damaged goods.

“Patrick, you’ve asked me here and I’ve come at considerable inconvenience, but, given the circumstances, I’ve tried to be obliging. My assumption, based on your own words, is that you… wish to talk about the problem of Monsignor Giacomo.”

“Correct,” said O’Hara savagely. “And I need your help… your authority… to start dealing with it in a forceful manner. Basically, he needs bumping off.”

“Dear God, where do you think you are? We don’t bump people off. We may in exceptional cases remove them, but that’s quite different. Do also bear in mind that you’re no longer one of our congregation. Technically, I no longer have jurisdiction over you.” The liaison officer gave him a troubled, lingering stare. “You have joined the subterranean branch, Patrick; you have very publicly taken their vows and drunk from the Holy Grail and at this very moment you are in a devotional cell, preparing for enshrinement.”

“Don’t!” cried O’Hara, “Please don’t use that damned word. Even linguistically I’m dead set against these people.”

“I don’t think they are so very concerned about that,” Rodriguez observed drily.

“If we don’t deal with this hooligan, he and his little friends will bleed us dry. The Church will fall into ruin.”

“Oh, come now, the subterranean branch has always played its little apocalyptic games, neutralizing people here and there and hiding them in boxes. No one ever took it very seriously. This Giacomo is a gluttonous, simple man. As long as he’s supplied with sucking pig and harlots he won’t give us any trouble, you’ll find.”

“Are you aware of his plans for China?” O’Hara asked. “He’s set on wiping it out. Also America.”

Rodriguez’s eyes flickered pedantically. “You mustn’t put so much emphasis on people. Salt cod and virgin oil are purchased by the barrel, but people are not quantifiable numerically. Most of them are rotten, and many so deeply flawed that converting them to fertilizer is a rather attractive proposition, and also morally advisable. Don’t you see this, Cardinal?” He waved his hands expressively, as if to introduce a note of practicality and logic. “I have to say in many respects I have a great deal of admiration for the maggot church. It is working its way through some of the world’s most distasteful elements — criminals, drug addicts, tramps, refugees, prostitutes, squatters, and other ne’er-do-wells — removing them from circulation and taking away their ability to produce delinquent children. I might also add that His Holiness agrees with me, heavy though it is for him to admit it.”

“Monsignor, I am sorry, but you are missing the point.”

This time Rodriguez sucked in his breath and could not quite keep his composure, but before he could reopen his mouth there was a tap on the door behind him and his private secretary popped his head through. “Your Eminence, there’s absolute mayhem upstairs. They’re sending out search parties but they can’t find Him. The cavern is empty and…”

“Oh, do go away! We already know all about this little Michael fellow,” said O’Hara.

“I don’t mean the young Englishman,” said the secretary, turning to Rodriguez. “I mean Jesus! He’s gone. His tomb’s empty and they don’t know where He is.”

“How can that be?” Rodriguez propped himself up against the bars.

O’Hara saw hundreds of tiny bright lights dancing like fireflies in front of him. He grabbed Rodriguez and spat his booze-smelling words into his face: “I warned you, you stuck-up Spanish git. I told you to deal with that corrupt, fat swine. Why didn’t you have Giacomo killed? Why?”

“In fact it was your job, wasn’t it? And you failed,” Rodriguez spat back.

O’Hara released his grip on the maggot liaison officer and took another slug at his bottle. “You never listened to me, did you? Oh no, you were always against me. Just because you could see others ridiculing me you had to do the same. You never had a mind of your own, you’re a trivial little shit. You empty the pontiff’s chamber pot and this makes you feel important. You’ll go down in history as one of the idiots who misplaced our Shining Star, our Lord.” He stopped to regain his breath, then opened his mouth wide and cried: “Whose responsibility was it to keep a close eye on the Maggot Church and ensure the safekeeping of our precious Holy Lord? It was yours, you snail-eating Spanish fuck. You failed to…”

But his sentence was cut short. While he’d been raging, Rodriguez had popped his head out of the door and ordered a guard inside to perform a little task.

O’Hara didn’t see it coming.

He never had the vaguest presentiment of mortality as he launched into his attack on Rodriguez. Why not release his pent-up fury? He was finished anyway. This Spaniard was not ever going to see it his way. All that awaited O’Hara now, at best, was a return to Limerick, where he would spend his last days staring idly at the shamrock etched into the thick white foam of his pint.

When he looked up, something came whistling through the air, hitting him very hard in the face and knocking him over. He enjoyed a momentary, close-up perspective of the fibrous weave of a rug, which struck him as fascinating.

It occurred to him that he should have spent more time in his life looking at the tiny things.

The resurrection of Jesus had taken place as follows:

On the third day of their vigil by the steel doors, Michael and Ariel had hidden in a side passage when they saw a procession of women in white robes moving towards them with lit candles. They shuffled along as if tranquilized — utterly catatonic, singing torpidly while their eyes gazed into infinity.

When the serpentine procession reached the steel doors, two stout Teutonic maids with tresses like golden loaves of bread stepped up to the scanners and pressed their palms to the glass screens.

There was a rumbling sound as the steel doors rolled aside for them like the waters of the Jordan.

Michael and Ariel had simply joined the tail end of the line as it curved into the Lord’s chamber.

The women did not hang about once they got inside. Within seconds they were burning incense, sweeping, mopping, sprinkling the floor with essential oils and opening the Lord’s sarcophagus and rubbing ointments into his skin.

Ariel grew conscious of a great inner turmoil. She sat down and pressed her palms against her temples. Thoughts bubbled up in her, and she would have loved to turn off what felt like a churning radio inside her head.

Michael seemed to be having the same problem. He paced about, muttering: “What do we do now? We have to do something.”

Ariel closed her eyes and felt herself falling into a trance. She smelled damp soil under trees, heard wind rustling through overhead leaves. The physical world beyond this place, the wheeling stars, the operation of the Earth — these were the images that ran through her mind.