“Kill how?” Greta said.
“Well,” Sabine said slowly. “We’re going to have to open the hatch.”
“Honestly? I’d rather eat shit.”
“I mean, we’ll have to open it just enough to fit a can of Raid in there. One of us will hold the hatch open while the other sprays. I’m guessing we’ll have to empty two full cans. Or maybe we can do some kind of bomb thing.”
“In other words, it’s going to be raining maggots,” Greta said. “In the kitchen. Where we eat.”
Sabine shrugged. “What else can we do? We have to kill them before they… transform.”
Greta felt an overwhelming need for sleep and began climbing the stairs.
“What were you going to tell me?” Sabine said casually. “You said you needed to confess.”
“Never mind,” Greta said.
14
Now that Sabine was back in the house for good, roaming around like a ghost at all hours, Big Swiss no longer felt comfortable having sex in Greta’s room, not even in the antechamber, and neither did Greta, who didn’t mention the maggots. Airbnb was too much trouble, not to mention traceable, and so they were forced to meet in bars.
Greta liked to think of herself as having experienced everything except childbirth, enlightenment, prison, one or two other things, but going to bars with Big Swiss was entirely new. It was like having drinks with a Richard Serra sculpture. Big Swiss was commanding enough to alter the space in any room, which in turn affected how people behaved around her. Most became clumsy or visibly self-conscious. One needed to view her from different vantage points to fully understand her—or, as Greta liked to think, to recognize that she wasn’t as complex as she seemed—and so even if the bar was mostly empty, Big Swiss was often surrounded by a small cluster of people pretending not to stare at her, or pretending to be annoyed that she was in their way, while others, mainly male tourists of a certain type, approached her brazenly, demanding to know where she was from, what she was made of, their thoughts written plainly on their faces: Is this slab of steel for real? Look at that, she bends. I’m going to fuck this piece as soon as I figure out how to transport it back to my Airbnb. God, this bitch is heavy.
Greta often felt like the little placard next to the sculpture, glanced at out of politeness or mild curiosity, or consulted simply because they wanted more information, but like most gallery text, Greta was usually ignored altogether—that is, until they noticed Big Swiss’s wedding band and realized she was married, possibly to Greta, at which point Greta felt like a layer of bumpy rust on Big Swiss’s side. To get at Big Swiss, they had to deal with Greta, and not only was she difficult to get rid of; she stained whatever she touched. Most men backed off—too messy, too much work—unless they were German.
Last week, Big Swiss had been approached by a German tourist on the patio while Greta was inside getting drinks. He was a sculptor, he said, and his work was being shown at a gallery down the street, and he wanted Big Swiss to be his special guest at the opening. He lived in Paris and had come all this way just to meet her. “Koo-duh-FOO-druh,” he’d said.
“What’s that?” Greta asked Big Swiss.
“Love at first sight,” Big Swiss said. “He’s practicing his French.”
Greta sighed. She’d been gone fifteen minutes. She placed their fresh drinks on the table, but the man didn’t move, not one inch, and in fact seemed welded to Greta’s seat. The patio was crowded, the music loud, and the man was alone.
“What’s your name?” Greta said.
“Ree-schtard,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Ree-tard,” Greta said.
“Ree-schtard,” he repeated. “Ree-schtard.”
“You know, like Richard,” Big Swiss said to Greta.
Ah, like Richard Serra himself, only not as old. But just as willful, apparently. He was tall, slender, overdressed in an austere black suit.
“You are the waitress?” he said to Greta.
“Take a walk,” Greta said.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“You heard me,” Greta said.
“She is your mother?” he asked Big Swiss.
“You’re in my seat,” Greta said.
He stood and gestured grandly for Greta to sit. “Here, yes, you look very tired.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Greta said.
“Where do I go? Tell me, please.” He looked around as if they were locked in a cell together. “You are the police?”
It was as if he’d called her a cunt or a cow. Her right arm felt suddenly spring-loaded and five times more muscular than her left.
“What?” Greta muttered into his ear. “What, motherfucker?”
“What your problem is?” he said. “I am talking to Lahbia.”
“It’s Flavia,” Greta said, and laughed.
“But I am not talking to you. I am trying to have private conversation—”
“What!” Greta shouted.
He pointed to his head. “Maybe you need psychologie.”
“Maybe I do,” Greta said and shrugged.
He scowled and walked away. Greta looked around. Everyone was staring, of course, and having a great time, except for Big Swiss, who eyed Greta suspiciously.
“What’s happening to you?” Big Swiss asked.
“I’m mutating.”
“Again?” Big Swiss asked.
Naturally, the maggots came to mind. The day before, Sabine had brought home a jumbo can of Raid Concentrated Deep Reach Fogger. Greta had held the hatch open—just a crack—while Sabine emptied most of the can into the hive. Of course, about a hundred maggots squirmed out and fell to the floor, wriggling for cover. A few of them had bounced off her shoulders. She’d been under the impression that maggots were blind, but, according to the internet, they had eyes not only in the back of their heads, but all over their disgusting bodies. Not eyeballs, but primitive eye structures that were sensitive to light, especially bright ultraviolet light, which caused maggot death. Hence their tendency to squirm and wriggle when their bodies weren’t buried in fruit or flesh.
Greta squirmed, too, when she wasn’t buried in Big Swiss’s fruit or flesh. She wished her jealousy were more light-phobic. Why couldn’t it die of exposure? It seemed to thrive out in the open, in broad daylight, as well as inside her body. It was parasitic. How long had it lurked in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to take her as its host? Now it was feasting on her red blood cells. Now it was invading her heart. But jealousy didn’t kill its host, right? It just felt that way. Eventually, it would pass out of her body completely.
But not yet, apparently, not while Big Swiss crossed and uncrossed her legs in her short black miniskirt. Her crotch shimmered like a mirage. Greta glimpsed actual heat waves, along with red lace. Her vision tunneled. Big Swiss’s mouth kept moving, but Greta heard nothing but blood rushing.
“Are you trolling me?” Greta asked.
“Try breathing through your nose.”
Big Swiss flashed her again. Greta’s heart raced.
“Who’s that for?”
“You,” Big Swiss said.
“Is it? Because I’m not the only one seeing it.”