The Shaman: And other shadows (3 page)

Suddenly smells and sounds come back, bovine eyes staring at me, a bloody mouth kissing me. I'm not in my apartment in Hell, but in the bed of the giantess. The thoughts are turned on, but I can't move. I'm naked, just as the hostess. She slams a big tit on my face. My lover has turned away now: I face her huge dancing ass.

Her triumphant flesh, her sexual moods fallen on my neck, on my chest.
But what it she doing? Is she sucking me?
I don’t feel anything, pleasure, pain, disgust: nothing. I get what she is doing only when her face rises up from my belly, where it had sank. Among her teeth there are pieces of me, soft stuff, but I can't figure out what she is chewing. Dark blood drips from her chin. She sucks her fingers and goes back down.

Her dancing ass is my gate to Hell.

Chopi is the shaman of the bones in Paris Sud 5. Bones, skulls, human remains found in the streets and in the trash comprise the piles above his ancestral altar. The people of the district rely on the shaman. They offer him a small donation and give him a photo of loved ones gone missing. Chopi puts everything inside a pumpkin, where he has trapped his magical wind. The shaman, who always wears a faded red shirt, begins to search among the heap of bones. He has only one eye, but they say it's the other one, apparently closed, to be able to see the other side, the other world.

Three kids crouched under the table blow, make verses, mimic the voice of the wind. One of them interprets the ride, and the other two kids slam pieces of metal together and grind their teeth. The clients, called “the seekers”, remain kneeling. Arms stretched over bones, waiting for the outcome. The lucky ones will bring home a piece of a husband, a wife, of a relative. Someone who is no longer there.

When the shaman recognizes a piece of someone, in the pile of bones, the kids start to croak like small frogs, stirring strange verses:
hmaa, hmaa, hmaa
, and
lek, lek, lek
. Chopi wraps the selected bones in a blue cloth and offers them to the seeker. The photo in the pumpkin dissolves. The frogs don’t sing anymore, they return to blend in on the leaves of the pond, that wet hole in the shaman four corners magic universe. Finally someone can bury something, crumbs of memories, of people.

Morgan walks down the Rue de Paradis. Soon he will be at Chopi’s magic table. He is searching for his daughter, Axelle, fifteen years old. He’s been looking for her for many days. She disappeared. He has one last hope: the magician of the bones.

Axelle, her soft molecules remained between the teeth of Paris Sud 5, the sharper ones of the clients of the Restaurant Deux Jambes. The chef Dorian Moreau and his team of kidnappers explore the alleys of the neighbourhood as the gold diggers. Nuggets of proteins. Special customers, special orders: human meat dishes.
Soft and youthful, this time, Dorian.

Morgan doesn’t know the truth yet. The Axelle's breasts and thighs have become a main dish, paired with two glasses of montrachet. Morgan continues to seek for her, barefoot. He forgot to put on his shoes. A seagull chases him, flying high. Morgan wishes he could see through the eyes of the bird, using its senses. He would like to observe Paris lying under the web of roads, the back of the Seine and the hatches of the alleys. The carcasses of the night and the fresh meat of the morning take turns.

He arrives at the Chopi’s magic table, and there is a row as usual. Morgan waits, looking at that pile of human remains.
An arm looks familiar...
No, it's too fresh, intact; the rats should have already gnawed the flesh of his daughter, after all these days.
Maybe that skull, smaller than the others...
It's his turn. Morgan hands to Chopi a recent photo of Axelle. The girl's eyes look like two Holtun cenote, those dark green pools, ready to take vertical shots. The sun and the life, to the zenith. Then, only a few days later, riddled by Chaoc, by the spears of the rain god. Actually, by the knives of Dorian Moreau proteins seekers.

Chopi observes the photography, carefully, holding a pepper in his hand. The photo of Axelle ends up in the pumpkin, at the mercy of the magic wind. The shaman begins to look into the pile of bones, gently moving his unsteady castle of ruins, threatening to dismount at any moment. The clients behind Morgan complain, pushing, cursing. The kids under the table are blowing strong, one of them whistles to accelerate the speed of the wind, to give a course to infinity and beyond.

Chopi shakes his head. He couldn’t find even a small piece of Axelle. He raises his old hand to proceed with a new seeker.

Morgan's feet are bleeding, fatigue and sadness join forces.
Axelle must be there, the shaman wasn’t able to find her.
Too many clients, not much time for the wind to move through the rotting arteries of Paris Sud 5. Maybe it bounced on something that has diverted its route. Morgan decides to do it himself. He promised his wife that he would have found something of Axelle, today. He grabs a small skull from the bones pile and runs along Rue de Paradis.

People abandon the row, chasing the thief of bones. The kids of the wind come out wondering what happened. Chopi doesn't move. He prays while biting his radioactive pepper. Morgan slips into an alley and hears the voices of the pursuers getting closer and louder:
That could be my son, you bastard!

A brick wall stops Morgan. The ruins of an old aqueduct, stuffed with colonies of cockroaches. He can't go beyond. A house, a door: Morgan knocks with all his strength.

From the window he catches a glimpse of a woman watching him. She puts a cockroach in her mouth and chews it. The seekers crash down on Morgan, the thief of souls. Kicks, punches, bites, blood splashing on wall. A man pulls out a knife and starts to stab. The small skull rolls away, but no one cares about it anymore. The group moves away slowly. Two men remain in the alley to work on the Morgan’s body.

They fill some plastic bags with small pieces of the thief of souls. The alley is back to its solitude. The wind now has disappeared.

The woman at the window opens the door, turns her eyes now to the right then to the left, comes outto pick up the little abandoned skull. She returns home immediately, and starts to munch on cockroaches Fluids are leaking on her couch, dripping out from the headless body of her son.

A cockroach tries to lay its eggs in an open lung. The woman grabs it, caresses its vibrating antennae, then crushes the insect between her fingers and goes back to the window, to observe Paris Sud 5, her apocalyptic neighbourhood.

Four miles to the west. Some kids are playing in the trash. Theo, the bigger one, finds an iron cross. He shows it to his friends, who become curious.
What’s that stuff?

They make a rudimentary slingshot out of it, to hit the black-billed seagulls.

A stone breaks the glass of a sunken church.

The yellow eyes of the sewers, behind the borders of sidewalks. Rectangular wells that observe shoes, legs, consciences. Souls ready to emigrate. The wolf licks the edges, the drain of the rain. He holds on the order of its owner: attack and chase. Sinks its teeth in the soft filling of the predestined. The list of the day, the customers of the Reaper.

The Reaper is hidden in the sewers, sinking her fingers into the black waters. She sucks experiences processed by human kidneys. Her wolf is back into the center channel. The great whore has been working in Milan for ten days, and is taking it too easy this time. They need to change the flock, canals and drains more quickly. The list is long.

So, skipping too many lines, going back and forth, you risk to make mistakes. Someone who lives for too long, creating a short circuit in the patterns of predestination. The congested corridors of Hell, whips directing an impossible traffic. Soft stuff crushed, before the time. Trembling jellyfish, souls who drag their long guts, still remembering everything of the past life. Unforeseen torture, floors of simmered neurons

It should not happen too often.

The wolf approaches the mistress, rubs its muzzle on her black robe; it wants to be reassured. A white hand touches its ears, then dwells at length on the rump. The scythe begins to groom the fur of the wolf, breaking the old blood clots, the sketches of the craft.

It’s time to go back to work. The muzzle of the wolf seeks the mouth of the lady: waiting for a sign. The muscles of the legs are loaded. The Reaper lingers. She sucks the black water again, flowing smelly gas puffing breathlessly. Ectoplasmic shit, green dreams come out from the assholes of millions of people. The Reaper seems to be decided, at last. She grabs the wolf by the neck, breathing in its senses. She gives him a map of scents, a dartboard without forms.

The wolf flies into the tunnel, its sharp nails digging horizontal shots on the rotten brick walls. A final check from the window of the sewers. It sees a lean woman seeking shelter from the rain, white ankles, red hair on her face.

The wolf growls, chews thoughts of cells, accompanied by the storm that sweeps the city, without stopping. The time of the hunt, of the blood, the prize of the mistress. Excitement. The wolf comes out, follows the smell of the woman, runs to the predestined. A subtle shadow, stagnant puddles, a sudden wind, ghosts clippings. All that human eyes can't see: the special view of the Reaper’s wolf.

The two sides of the avenue are combined, the speed breaks geometries, forming large inverted pyramids. A flight on all fours, towards the prey.

The woman is returning home. She is a hooker, but her price is different from the one of its mistress.

The bare thighs attached to the black jacket, the illusion of columns of meat that do not know what to support. The wolf speeds up, but the door of the building closes on its muzzle. The smell of pussy passes through the cracks: yellow, thick.

The animal licks the marble, waiting for someone to come out, to resume the hunt.

Finally, the door creaks, the wolf passes under the legs of a man with the umbrella. Its jumps on the stairs, the smell of the bitch is getting stronger. The elevator, an old fortress of iron, moves sliding on the old tracks. Boxes of souls, of metal and flesh. Cans.

The wolf brakes, straightens the tail: he looks at the old lady inside the iron cage. The smell of brand new shoes, of death, but it isn’t her moment yet. The predestination system works fine now.

Third floor, two hundred and fifty steps, transparencies. Layers of old skin. The animal scratches the door, furious. The hooker is changing her dress. She’s soaked by rain and cum. She can’t hear the beast, she couldn’t hear it in any case.

The wolf crouches, waiting. Soon it will have its reward, when he delivers to its mistress what she wants.

The hooker looks at her watch. She has gained too little tonight, just one hundred and fifty euros.
Damn fucking rain!
She must return on the street, extra turn. She must do her makeup again, to camouflages the white cheeks, hollowed out. Stuff that works well to hide the wounds on her face, on her neck. The clients shouldn't notice anything. They will not see the sores on her body, when they travel as fast as trains, driven by the engines of lust. A shitty job, it takes you to death too soon. The medicines cost a lot, even more the cocaine to keep her engine on. She is forced to work, to fuck, more and more.
Holy shit!

The streets are flooded. She didn't see anyone from the windows, no clients around. It will be hard to make some more money tonight. She will have to knock on the car windows, suck it for ten Euros. She will even have to sell the ghost of herself.

The hooker is ready, one last line of cocaine. She opens the door and smells a strange odor of rotten eggs. It must be the fool old lady who feeds the cats, that buys new shoes every day. She doesn't remember she has got hundreds of it, all the same, and only two old feet. She dresses the breastplate of madness.

Something growls, in the shadow.
But what the hell it is?
A client who drools, who has followed her all the way home? It would not be the first time. Masturbation on the stairs, on the floor below,  camps of voyeurs. They hope to see clients, glimpses of boobs, fucksmells, splashed out of her apartment.

Nobody wants to fuck at home; they all want to spend little money. They are in hurry, even though unemployed. It's easier to fuck in the car, with the ass planted on the seat of a fast sex-shuttle. Ten minutes, and it is already time to pull up the pants. Tissues, crushed leaking condoms. Hundredths of life.

The hooker enters the elevator, presses the button for the ground floor. Red polish, chipped on the edges of her nails.
Doesn't work, fuck!
The old lady must have left open the door below.
When will that old bitch go underground?
She is afraid that the old crazy lady will live longer than her. Soon her disease will take her off the street. Her corner, near the drugstore. It will end up in that way, among legions of sperm and overdue bills.

The hooker body shakes. Her heels are too high, just like her dreams. The stench of rotten eggs doesn't abandon her nostrils. She stops, sniffing her fur.
Is this that stinks?
Maybe someone threw something on her for fun, that group of kids who have been targeted her.

The wolf observes the woman's neck: he wants to hit the knotted jugular. He decides to bite her, sinking hard. Her roots are already weak; it will be easy to strip them away.

The hooker is not aware of anything: she feels a razor inside her head, her breathing becomes heavy, dizzy, then everything disappears, dissolves in a moment. Her disease makes jokes like that, fucking jokes. Is normal for her to feel that way, from time to time.

She continues to descend, but the stairs are endless. The ground floor no longer exists. The horror of the infinite opens its mouth, up and down.

The wolf holds the woman's soul between his teeth, blue blood dripping from the jaws, without ever touching the floor. It looks at the empty body of the hooker for the last time, then he runs to its mistress. She'll be waiting, anxiously, in its sewers.

The hooker takes off her shoes, she runs like mad, she wants to get to the exit, at all costs.
Jesus, it can’t be true be!
She keeps going down, lower and lower, infinite equal second floors, the elevator door always blocked. She rings all the doorbells, no one opens. She bangs her head on those same three doors. The madness, the despair of not being able to make even more noise. These are the labyrinths of the Reaper. Deafening explosions.

The wolf skips the headlights of the cars and descends into the sewers from a manhole. The Reaper, waiting on the edge of the channel, raises the black water and creates a imaginary bridge for the animal to cross. Dirty water becomes glass. The wolf springs his package in front of its dark mistress. This time it was smart and has not even eaten a piece. The Reaper collects the woman's soul, light blue fluid pieces illuminate the gallery. It is the neon of death. Intermittent lanterns burn the last reserves.

The mistress smells it carefully, then starts to chew. The soul is hard. It tastes like beatings, punches. The Reaper's face is bleeding. Her cunt feels screwed by all the city of Milan.  Dark organs, dirty t-shirts, lost saints. She swallows the last shred, then bends the legs. She has lived all the life of the hooker, in a few seconds.

The wolf is worried about its mistress. Every time it's worse, every time it seems to die, the Death. But then she always comes back, from that place. The Reaper resumes forces, stroking the nose of the wolf. She grabs the scythe, the animal closes its eyes. She opens in two parts the belly of the beast, which doesn't complain. Mucus and dust, dark cartilages.

She plucks a few hairs from the rump of her servant, then lets the wolf's body into the canal. Finally free from its drift, from its infinity run, from the labyrinths of the Reaper, from the billions of second floors, hookers, elevators, stairs without end. He got his reward.

The Reaper growls, takes off her black robe, lies on all fours: she is taking birth. She pushes harder and harder, screaming. It forms a dark waterfall between her legs. A clot of nerves trembles on the skin of the gallery. This incomplete structure slowly begins to form: ears, tail, teeth. The glossy black hair. The Reaper has given birth to a new wolf. A wonderful hunter. It will grow faster. Soon it will be ready, and it will learn not to eat the prey. It will take around its yellow eyes of the middle world.

The hooker, imprisoned in her impossible world, will continue to live on the second floor of the building, on millions of second floors, knocking on every door, forever. She’ll be waiting in vain for the exit. Soon she will be hunting for the Reaper, on all fours.

Cities, buildings, are screaming.