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Authors: Dean Vincent Carter
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mind, straining to be heard but achieving only pain. I rubbed my temples as it subsided, and concentrated on the tank. The Ganges Red was simply awesome, and if I hadn’t gazed upon it with my own eyes I’d have had a hard time believing the size of the creature.
It stopped hovering and attached itself to the glass panel, perhaps to get a better look at us. The oversized body of the insect was a deep, glistening red, a colour that seemed to indicate danger. On her abdomen were several wide, broken black stripes. Even her long, needle-like feeding tube was red, making me wonder what a sight she must be after feeding.
‘Quite the study in scarlet, isn’t she?’ Arms folded, Mather stood watching me, relishing my reaction. I might have been shocked, perhaps even scared to begin with, but I couldn’t help but admire the unique beauty of the creature.
‘She’s incredible. I didn’t think it was possible for a mosquito to be so big.’ She could have wrapped herself around a tennis ball and been able to cross her legs. Her wingspan alone must have been over twenty centimetres. I turned my attention to the lid of the tank, feeling a momentary sense of panic.
‘I don’t think I will ever tire of looking at her,’ Mather said, clearly enraptured.
There came a scratching at the window. I turned to see a rather dirty and dishevelled-looking cat. Its fur was damp and matted in a number of places and half its right ear was missing. I was about to mention the visitor to Mather when he spoke.
‘That,’ he said, clearly unimpressed at the sight of the animal, ‘is Mr Hopkins. The rather scruffy bane of my existence.’
‘He’s not yours then?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mather replied, as if insulted. ‘I would never associate with such an unpleasant animal.’ He walked over to the window. For a minute I thought he might shout or bang on the pane, but he just stood there glaring at the poor creature. ‘He must have sneaked onto the island by stowing away on my boat.’
Mr Hopkins remained on the window ledge, his forlorn expression matching his physical appearance. He seemed about as impressed with Mather as Mather was with him.
‘Why do you call him Mr Hopkins?’
Mather turned his attention away from the mangy feline, and replied, ‘Because he reminds me of a neighbour I had many years ago. Awful man. Couldn’t keep his nose out of my business. He was a scruffy ratbag too.’
I thought the animal possessed a certain charm, but being a cat-lover I was biased. Mr Hopkins pawed at the glass again and seemed to look directly at me.
‘Blasted animal,’ my host erupted, perhaps concerned that the cat was trying to steal the show. He knocked three times on the pane. The cat merely blinked and continued eyeing me.
I winced as another sharp pain shot through my head. Looking back at the mosquito, I noticed that its head was tilted in the direction of the window. A strange thought occurred to me, something that I now find very hard to put into words. I knew that the bizarre situation might have been affecting my judgement, but even that didn’t feel like a sufficient explanation for what I was feeling. It was as though I had stumbled into the middle of a conversation that I was unable to comprehend.
To clear my head a little I excused myself and returned to my room to retrieve my Dictaphone. I actually felt a little more positive about my trip. The insect was remarkable. I couldn’t wait to get some photographs of it, and could imagine it gracing the magazine’s front cover. Returning to Mather’s room, I sat at his desk to begin the interview.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked, indicating the recording device.
‘Oh no, not at all,’ he replied, lingering by the window, where he could keep an eye on the cat.
‘So where did you find her?’
‘Mmm? Oh, I have a number of acquaintances – fellow collectors, you might say – in various countries. An old friend of mine in Zaire wrote to me some years ago with the
It stopped hovering and attached itself to the glass panel, perhaps to get a better look at us. The oversized body of the insect was a deep, glistening red, a colour that seemed to indicate danger. On her abdomen were several wide, broken black stripes. Even her long, needle-like feeding tube was red, making me wonder what a sight she must be after feeding.
‘Quite the study in scarlet, isn’t she?’ Arms folded, Mather stood watching me, relishing my reaction. I might have been shocked, perhaps even scared to begin with, but I couldn’t help but admire the unique beauty of the creature.
‘She’s incredible. I didn’t think it was possible for a mosquito to be so big.’ She could have wrapped herself around a tennis ball and been able to cross her legs. Her wingspan alone must have been over twenty centimetres. I turned my attention to the lid of the tank, feeling a momentary sense of panic.
‘I don’t think I will ever tire of looking at her,’ Mather said, clearly enraptured.
There came a scratching at the window. I turned to see a rather dirty and dishevelled-looking cat. Its fur was damp and matted in a number of places and half its right ear was missing. I was about to mention the visitor to Mather when he spoke.
‘That,’ he said, clearly unimpressed at the sight of the animal, ‘is Mr Hopkins. The rather scruffy bane of my existence.’
‘He’s not yours then?’
‘Certainly not,’ Mather replied, as if insulted. ‘I would never associate with such an unpleasant animal.’ He walked over to the window. For a minute I thought he might shout or bang on the pane, but he just stood there glaring at the poor creature. ‘He must have sneaked onto the island by stowing away on my boat.’
Mr Hopkins remained on the window ledge, his forlorn expression matching his physical appearance. He seemed about as impressed with Mather as Mather was with him.
‘Why do you call him Mr Hopkins?’
Mather turned his attention away from the mangy feline, and replied, ‘Because he reminds me of a neighbour I had many years ago. Awful man. Couldn’t keep his nose out of my business. He was a scruffy ratbag too.’
I thought the animal possessed a certain charm, but being a cat-lover I was biased. Mr Hopkins pawed at the glass again and seemed to look directly at me.
‘Blasted animal,’ my host erupted, perhaps concerned that the cat was trying to steal the show. He knocked three times on the pane. The cat merely blinked and continued eyeing me.
I winced as another sharp pain shot through my head. Looking back at the mosquito, I noticed that its head was tilted in the direction of the window. A strange thought occurred to me, something that I now find very hard to put into words. I knew that the bizarre situation might have been affecting my judgement, but even that didn’t feel like a sufficient explanation for what I was feeling. It was as though I had stumbled into the middle of a conversation that I was unable to comprehend.
To clear my head a little I excused myself and returned to my room to retrieve my Dictaphone. I actually felt a little more positive about my trip. The insect was remarkable. I couldn’t wait to get some photographs of it, and could imagine it gracing the magazine’s front cover. Returning to Mather’s room, I sat at his desk to begin the interview.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked, indicating the recording device.
‘Oh no, not at all,’ he replied, lingering by the window, where he could keep an eye on the cat.
‘So where did you find her?’
‘Mmm? Oh, I have a number of acquaintances – fellow collectors, you might say – in various countries. An old friend of mine in Zaire wrote to me some years ago with the
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