Black Jaguar with Quai Saint-Bernard

Behind the Fauverie a crawl of quayside traffic while Aramis roars for his food, the air turbulent as he opens his jaws in a huge yawn. If I hold my breath, half-close my eyes and listen hard — there at the tongue’s root, in the voicebox of night, I might hear the almost-vanished. He’s summoning his prey, this lord of thunderbolts, calling to ghosts of the Lost World, with this evening chant to scarlet macaw, tapir, golden lion tamarin. Until everything goes slow and the rush-hour queue of scale-to-scale cars is one giant caiman basking on the bank. The jaguar’s all swimming stealth now — no sound — a stalker camouflaged by floating hyacinths, senses tuned only to the reptile of the road. Then, with one bound, spray scatters like glass, as Aramis lands on the brute’s back and bites its neck.