The dwarf watchman. He makes an appearance in this city, not a butt of jokes as in Cibeurit but a petty rajah. King Rat. May observes the staff in his hand. A crystal globe sits on its tip. It looks like a miniature disco ball.

May’s heart pounds. She thinks that Cibeurit has been obliterated, but its characters live on, forcing their way into her place of refuge. They have found her out. Cleverly, he has disguised himself as a fortune-teller. Though a little afraid, May wants to approach him to ask a question – or more accurately, to demand an answer, as when Maimunah whispered to her lover, ‘Tell me what the future holds.’

But the dwarf remains motionless, preoccupied with a martini, and doesn’t even glance in her direction. May gives the shirt that he is wearing a once-over. The words ‘Little Johnny’ are emblazoned across it. She comes crashing to earth.

She finishes her drink, laughing at herself for believing that the uneffaced remnants of Cibeurit have suddenly appeared in a Manhattan club. What a fool. He is Johnny, not Jaja. Swallowing back her disappointment, either because she feels stupid or because Jaja apparently is Johnny, May turns her attention to the crowd on the dance floor. The clubbers cheer when the DJ they’ve been waiting for mounts the stage. The music throbs like the raucous cries of thousands of famished rats. The club goers pump their arms in the air, entrusting their happiness to the skilled hands of the DJ.

The man next to May disappears. Now Little Johnny is on stage, beside the DJ, dancing with an extremely tall blonde. May takes a breath, feeling a second slap. The dwarf and the long-legged woman are part of tonight’s show.

Perhaps Longlegs is the dwarf’s lover. For some reason May is jealous, wondering why she is always the odd one out in a ménage à trois.

At that moment May understands that she is a firefly swirling like a disco light. It’s time to go. She weaves through the crowd of dancers, looking for the exit. She passes the club’s bouncer; some people are still queuing up to see the DJ. She wants to run, to rush, to damn the firefly, to await the attack of plague that obliterates all.

But she is a cold-blooded killer, and she is haunted.

On the Chinatown sidewalk, now growing quiet at one in the morning, something stays her steps. Not a firefly but Little Johnny standing before her, wiping away spittle at the corner of his lips.

The dwarf who only takes away the dead.

In front of the man with his bristly moustache, May stands like a statue. She cannot believe what she hears.

Where have all the rats gone?

—

Author’s acknowledgements

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