Rain fell. Rain gushed. It pounded on the dirty, slate roofs of the city. It slid down eaves, sputtered from gutters and filtered through leaf-choked drains. Autumn rain, heavy with the acrid breath of chimneys. Water spewed from the clouds, leaving the grubby streets filthier still. The paving was smeared and damp, and it steamed slightly in the moonlight. The alleyways and public thoroughfares; the streets, lanes and muddy tracks on the outskirts. All were silent, dark and damp. The limbs of the city sprawling.
And the city sat. An overfed body, wallowing in fetid bath water.
In the dark, foul-smelling centre of this miasma, beneath another grey roof, a building slept. Its dark, musty rooms were vacant, but the musk and film of human feet clung to the floorboards. Traces of life. Traces of bodies. An invisible imprint. The smell of stale sweat, polished wood and flatulence.
It was here, on the second floor, in a sleepy space near the skin, beneath a thin wisp of muslin that he nestled. Basking in the faint golden aura of sweat and perfume.
Women, thought Marcus, as he readied himself for the first bite of the evening, taste better than men.
He breathed in, deeply. His whole, tiny body quivered with anticipation, from antenna to abdomen.
Marcus was a cosmopolitan flea. And he preferred to be called by his Latin name: Pulex Irritans. He was a thoroughly unusual parasite. An insect like no other. Unique.
Unlike his vulgar, biting brethren (he would often think to himself) he did not simply slurp and suck up blood like an inferior vacuum. God forbid he should hoover up his meals like a nit, or a nasty little mite, or even, that dreadful and most lowly of bloodsuckers – a country tick on the thick, stinking pelt of a sheep or some other mindless ruminant.
Marcus was a thinking man’s parasite. He had always preferred beasts with the capacity for abstract thought.
Marcus was a gourmet, a connoisseur.
He sipped. He sniffed. He dipped. He savoured the unique bouquet.
Then, finally, he gorged. Until there was no more Marcus left, only the exquisite, perfect, pungent red nectar. He became one with his meal. Each bite was a waltz, a life-affirming dance.
He chose his victims with care. The way some men choose their lovers.
Following his infallible nose.
Sometimes he would go weeks without drinking a drop. He would scale whole mountain ranges of skin, valleys and oceans of flesh. Male and female; of every hue; of all ages. Sometimes the flesh would be clean and sweet smelling; sometimes a little un-scrubbed; occasionally smooth, plump and unblemished; often gnarled and pocked, or punctuated with freckles and scars. No two people were alike.
While he was particular, he was by no means a snob. Marcus had long since seen through the charade of class. He had been on straw mattresses and feather beds. He had found slim pickings in fine suits, leather riding boots and in the under-skirts of silk dresses supported by expensive crinolines. While, swaddled in limply hanging, ill-fitting garments of coarse cloth that scratched the skin and itched worse than he did, there was nectar. The most monstrous wrappers could, in his urbane opinion, hide the sweetest of wines.
Marcus had scaled the heights and depths of humanity. Always tirelessly seeking.
Until he found it.
Blood you could really get drunk on.
He would be weak, half-dead. But he would always find it. And that night, half-dead, he would know what it meant to be truly alive.
Yes, he thought, oblivious to the rain as it pummelled the roof making the dark room resonate around him. Women definitely tasted better. He nestled, moving this way and that, traversing the scented, plump globe. Looking for the perfect spot. The perfect place to gorge. The place where the skin was finest and thinnest.
Marcus was no longer a flea. He was a smile. His tiny body as it twitched, bounced and bounded, a cipher of happiness.
Tonight Pulex Irritans would finally feast. Above him the sky was muslin and taffeta. And below him was bliss. An infinite scarlet river, flowing silently through the night. Swathed in soft, feminine curves. Softly pulsing. Like a celestial beacon. He could smell it in the air all around him.
He pursed his proverbial lips and leaned in…
…The horror of the moment was indescribable.
A traveller in the desert, Marcus had seen the lake lined with budding date palms become a parched bowl of windswept sand. There was grit on his tongue, and the bitter, hot bile of disappointment in his thirsty throat.
He gagged and bounced an inch into the air. He would have bounced higher had the muslin dress fabric not barred his way.
He spat. He gurgled.
The taste was incomprehensible.
Not human. Not animal.
It escaped his palate and his vocabulary.
He whirled and jumped in complete confusion.
And then it dawned on him.
He had been so hungry that it had escaped him before. The close, unaired room full of the remnants of scent, trails of hundreds of passing humans, had deceived him. Horribly.
The drowning man had cried for help and someone had tossed a sponge into the swirling waters.
There it was.
Yes, there. The note he had chosen to ignore. The smell he had told himself he had imagined. The foul, putrid effluvial stench! The cold, polluted vapour like swamp gas now rising up and choking him.
How could he not have seen it! How could he have been so mindlessly anosmic?
Wax.
Somehow, inexplicably, in his hungry daze, Marcus had wandered into the vaults of the Musée de Grévin – the Parisian temple to facade, theatre and spectacle; a world-famous hall of mirrors and human trickery. He was feasting on a doll, a puppet, a mere reflection. With no veins. Let alone blood in them.
Marcus despaired at the perfidy of the human race. They tasted like heaven, divine nectar straight from the Almighty Himself. But they played devilish games. Their cruelty took his breath away. They played their games and his life would be the price of their amusement. It would take time to find his next meal. Time Marcus knew he did not have.
With his mouth full of wax, he lay under the muslin sky, breathing barely perceptibly, waiting for death. There was no flesh around. Not so much as a night watchman. He had already been fasting for too long. He could feel his joints weak, the pulse of his life uncertain.
In these last moments, his life flashed before his eyes.
He remembered his first, perfect meal in the city.
A society ball. The soft skin at the nape of a debutante’s neck. Spotted with tiny, silken hairs. The flowing auburn mane that spilled around him had smelled of lilies. He wished he had known her name.
Now it was too late.
Outside, in the city, the rain poured ceaselessly.
It did not stop till morning.
And the city sat. An overfed body, wallowing in fetid bath water.
In the dark, foul-smelling centre of this miasma, beneath another grey roof, a building slept. Its dark, musty rooms were vacant, but the musk and film of human feet clung to the floorboards. Traces of life. Traces of bodies. An invisible imprint. The smell of stale sweat, polished wood and flatulence.
It was here, on the second floor, in a sleepy space near the skin, beneath a thin wisp of muslin that he nestled. Basking in the faint golden aura of sweat and perfume.
Women, thought Marcus, as he readied himself for the first bite of the evening, taste better than men.
He breathed in, deeply. His whole, tiny body quivered with anticipation, from antenna to abdomen.
Marcus was a cosmopolitan flea. And he preferred to be called by his Latin name: Pulex Irritans. He was a thoroughly unusual parasite. An insect like no other. Unique.
Unlike his vulgar, biting brethren (he would often think to himself) he did not simply slurp and suck up blood like an inferior vacuum. God forbid he should hoover up his meals like a nit, or a nasty little mite, or even, that dreadful and most lowly of bloodsuckers – a country tick on the thick, stinking pelt of a sheep or some other mindless ruminant.
Marcus was a thinking man’s parasite. He had always preferred beasts with the capacity for abstract thought.
Marcus was a gourmet, a connoisseur.
He sipped. He sniffed. He dipped. He savoured the unique bouquet.
Then, finally, he gorged. Until there was no more Marcus left, only the exquisite, perfect, pungent red nectar. He became one with his meal. Each bite was a waltz, a life-affirming dance.
He chose his victims with care. The way some men choose their lovers.
Following his infallible nose.
Sometimes he would go weeks without drinking a drop. He would scale whole mountain ranges of skin, valleys and oceans of flesh. Male and female; of every hue; of all ages. Sometimes the flesh would be clean and sweet smelling; sometimes a little un-scrubbed; occasionally smooth, plump and unblemished; often gnarled and pocked, or punctuated with freckles and scars. No two people were alike.
While he was particular, he was by no means a snob. Marcus had long since seen through the charade of class. He had been on straw mattresses and feather beds. He had found slim pickings in fine suits, leather riding boots and in the under-skirts of silk dresses supported by expensive crinolines. While, swaddled in limply hanging, ill-fitting garments of coarse cloth that scratched the skin and itched worse than he did, there was nectar. The most monstrous wrappers could, in his urbane opinion, hide the sweetest of wines.
Marcus had scaled the heights and depths of humanity. Always tirelessly seeking.
Until he found it.
Blood you could really get drunk on.
He would be weak, half-dead. But he would always find it. And that night, half-dead, he would know what it meant to be truly alive.
Yes, he thought, oblivious to the rain as it pummelled the roof making the dark room resonate around him. Women definitely tasted better. He nestled, moving this way and that, traversing the scented, plump globe. Looking for the perfect spot. The perfect place to gorge. The place where the skin was finest and thinnest.
Marcus was no longer a flea. He was a smile. His tiny body as it twitched, bounced and bounded, a cipher of happiness.
Tonight Pulex Irritans would finally feast. Above him the sky was muslin and taffeta. And below him was bliss. An infinite scarlet river, flowing silently through the night. Swathed in soft, feminine curves. Softly pulsing. Like a celestial beacon. He could smell it in the air all around him.
He pursed his proverbial lips and leaned in…
…The horror of the moment was indescribable.
A traveller in the desert, Marcus had seen the lake lined with budding date palms become a parched bowl of windswept sand. There was grit on his tongue, and the bitter, hot bile of disappointment in his thirsty throat.
He gagged and bounced an inch into the air. He would have bounced higher had the muslin dress fabric not barred his way.
He spat. He gurgled.
The taste was incomprehensible.
Not human. Not animal.
It escaped his palate and his vocabulary.
He whirled and jumped in complete confusion.
And then it dawned on him.
He had been so hungry that it had escaped him before. The close, unaired room full of the remnants of scent, trails of hundreds of passing humans, had deceived him. Horribly.
The drowning man had cried for help and someone had tossed a sponge into the swirling waters.
There it was.
Yes, there. The note he had chosen to ignore. The smell he had told himself he had imagined. The foul, putrid effluvial stench! The cold, polluted vapour like swamp gas now rising up and choking him.
How could he not have seen it! How could he have been so mindlessly anosmic?
Wax.
Somehow, inexplicably, in his hungry daze, Marcus had wandered into the vaults of the Musée de Grévin – the Parisian temple to facade, theatre and spectacle; a world-famous hall of mirrors and human trickery. He was feasting on a doll, a puppet, a mere reflection. With no veins. Let alone blood in them.
Marcus despaired at the perfidy of the human race. They tasted like heaven, divine nectar straight from the Almighty Himself. But they played devilish games. Their cruelty took his breath away. They played their games and his life would be the price of their amusement. It would take time to find his next meal. Time Marcus knew he did not have.
With his mouth full of wax, he lay under the muslin sky, breathing barely perceptibly, waiting for death. There was no flesh around. Not so much as a night watchman. He had already been fasting for too long. He could feel his joints weak, the pulse of his life uncertain.
In these last moments, his life flashed before his eyes.
He remembered his first, perfect meal in the city.
A society ball. The soft skin at the nape of a debutante’s neck. Spotted with tiny, silken hairs. The flowing auburn mane that spilled around him had smelled of lilies. He wished he had known her name.
Now it was too late.
Outside, in the city, the rain poured ceaselessly.
It did not stop till morning.
