The Maggot People (14 page)

“Why should I believe you?”

“You believe the one who tells the truth,” came the answer.
“‘Multi multa sciunt et seipsos nesciunt.'
It's Pseudo-Bernard: ‘Many know many things yet know not themselves.' Very true, particularly of you, Michael.”

“Now what?”

“Turn round, go back towards the doors. Stop by the first window. Good. Now look to your right. See that little painting of Joseph and Mary? Go there. Move yourself! Press the frame on the top left side.”

Michael hurried over, pressed the frame and heard a click as the outline of a door revealed itself.

“Go through and close it behind you. They're coming through now.”

At the other end of the room, a key was turned in the lock and the double doors started swinging open.

Michael slipped inside and pushed the secret door into place behind him as quietly as he could.

25
.

“I should introduce myself. My name is Wizard. That's the short version. My full name is Wizard of Oz.”

Abbot Giacomo leaned back in an ergonomic office chair and seemed to be enjoying his own joke. He was a portly man dressed in a beige, rough-spun alb girded with a cincture, the whole thing spectacularly stained with specks of oil and tomato sauce. His delivery was rapid and witty, like a forties movie star.

“Let's see, first things first and last things last. You've brought a weapon, I assume? Otherwise what the hell are you doing here?”

Awkwardly Michael got out his gun and put it on the table. He felt ashamed of himself.

Giacomo's eyelids fluttered disapprovingly. “You poor little dumb shit running round the world doing the bidding of disgusting flesh-heads.” Using a small paper knife, Giacomo slit his skin enough to show a seething mass of maggot underneath, then said: “I am maggot. O'Hara isn't maggot. Do you understand?”

“Why would he do that? Come to St. Helena and go to such extreme lengths to fool people?”

“He didn't fool anyone. They all knew. There's a quota. The only one who was fooled was you.”

“What quota?”

Giacomo sighed. “Where do you think St. Helena gets its money from? How much money do you imagine it takes running a place like that?”

“They sell drugs.”

“Most of their money comes from the Vatican and in return they provide a certain number of specialists to Rome every year. Mainly assassins to deal with the odd difficult banker or heads of small African states or uncooperative tribal chiefs who resist progress. O'Hara recruits for Rome. It's generally acknowledged that maggot people make better killers. O'Hara must have liked you an awful lot, only he's not supposed to kill off people like me. He knows that. I'll give him a good deal of trouble for this.”

“He'll deny it.”

“Of course he will. But he's not the only clever bastard in the world.”

“And I hope I'm not the only stupid one.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. You weren't to know.”

“He said you'd be tricky. He said you'd try to fool me.”

“Now you really are being a fool. He hates us maggots; it's a well-known fact.” He paused. “Luckily for you, we were tipped off.”

“Who by?”

“Günter. He made contact a few days ago from Rome to tell us he'd packed you off to Janine, one of the worst ‘procurement cunts' in Christendom. That's in his own words, I stress. She pretends to be a drug dealer.” Giacomo looked up. “So let me ask you something; what did you think of O'Hara?”

It was the first time in a long time that Michael had been asked anything at all as if his opinion mattered.

“I thought he was an unbearable shit. I suppose I just assumed anyone who's climbed to the top of the greasy pole has to be a bit of a bruiser.”

“Or a very devout person, has that occurred to you?” Giacomo shrugged. “Let me ask you something else. Try testing your intuition. Do you like
me?”

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.”