by Beat Sterchi
‘Aha. Your Spaniard is waiting,’ said Gfeller.
‘Yes, he didn’t want to come in. Must be our beer he doesn’t care for.’
Armin Gfeller sidled nearer and smiled. ‘You know, Hans, before you go, there was something... Well, I wanted to ask, how about, well, what do you say, look, the mayor, he said to me yesterday, and seeing as you’re here in the Ox, it’s about, say what you think... Would you have any hay left?’
‘Hay? Me? What for?’
‘Hah, what for? I miscalculated. It happens.’ Gfeller’s mouth was a thin slit stretching from one ear to the other. ‘I took on too much livestock for fattening. The two cattle from the Boden farmer, that ox of yours, they make a difference. In fact they’re eating the roof off my head at the moment. I can’t just shovel PROVIMIN into their cribs, and my grass, well, it’s coming on, but slowly, and so I thought, instead of mowing too much early on, I thought, well, it’s only a couple of bales I need, and if the mayor says... Well, what’s your answer?’
Knuchel went red. As though his hayloft hadn’t been swept bare for at least two weeks now, but was still full to the rafters of last season’s hay, he thought, appalled: Am I going to let his sorry cows eat my hay?
Gfeller, raising the glass to his mouth, but then straightaway putting it down on the table again, and scratching his ear, continued: ‘With that ox last autumn, you know, we came to an agreement pretty quickly, and I remember saying to my wife at the time, that Hans Knuchel’s a nice fellow to do business with, that’s what I said. So how about it? I could come and pick it up.’
‘Hay for sale! Dear me, no, Armin!’ said Knuchel, and thought: That Galgenhubel farmer can finger his ears and tug at his earlobes as long as he likes, but here he is now, trying to play the trader. What a stupid notion, everyone wanting to flog things off to everyone else, and preferably without lifting a finger, make such a heavy profit they should be ashamed of themselves, but work, actual work, no one was interested in that. ‘No, Armin. I’m not a travelling hay salesman,’ said Knuchel. ‘I plough my land, I sow, I mow grass and I harvest for our farm and our cowshed, not for trade, not for switching things round hundreds of times this way and that, that isn’t my line. All I have to sell is my milk, livestock now and again, a pen full of pigs, or a calf, and in the autumn what we can bring in by way of barley, rye, hops and potatoes. Not hay.’
‘But why, Hans?’ Gfeller’s voice quavered. ‘You’ve got your animals out grazing already, and you’ve got more than enough land, but I never said anything, I only asked, and there’s no law against that.’ However, he thought, he wasn’t going to take a lecture from someone who practically dislocated his shoulder in getting his purse out because he was so worried about spending the odd fiver too much that he kept it buried in his back pocket under three pairs of trousers.
That was all right, said Knuchel, he wasn’t going to take it amiss, and it was true, he had to admit that his cows had been out in the pasture for a while now, but that was the fault of the weather, it seemed to be smiling on him just at the moment, and it was good for the animals, they were doing themselves proud out there, and, he added after a pause, the sound of the bells on the meadow below the farm, that didn’t bother him at all, no, not in the slightest, his wife would occasionally complain when one or other of the cows acted up, but otherwise, no, and he was looking forward to the warmer weather coming, when he could leave them out all night, and perhaps it wasn’t too far off, what with all the cowtail clouds in the sky. They were a sure sign, he finished emphatically.
When the waitress came. Farmer Knuchel exchanged a few friendly words with her, he inquired what had kept the landlord away that evening, and, banteringly, whether he would have to pay for Blösch’s use of the parking space outside, and, getting to his feet to return his purse to his back pocket, under the overtrousers, he said, looking down to Gfeller: ‘Oh, I’m looking forward to it. You sleep sound at night when you hear them grazing. I don’t think there’s anything better than having your animals outside in the meadow at night! Now then. I’ve got to go, my Spaniard’s waiting, and I think my cow prefers standing in the straw at home to standing in front of the Ox.’
‘Yes, of course, you’ve got your Spaniard,’ said Gfeller, no longer making any effort to smile. His cheeks sagged loose and pink, but he was grinding his teeth, and when Knuchel started to take his leave, to nod, and to shake hands, he asked him aloud, ‘How’s it all working out, then? You pleased?’
‘What with?’ asked Knuchel.
‘Oh, with your Spaniard. You don’t regret having him come here?’ Gfeller sipped at his beer, twitched his left shoulder, and scratched his left knee under the table with his left hand. He was eyeing Knuchel, who smiled complacently before answering: ‘Oh, it’s going well. I’m very pleased with him indeed, he’s willing, and he can milk as well as anyone from round here. As for complaining, you never hear a word, he does what he’s told, and he does it the way you show him. And he’s just as good with the animals, and with the children too, so I’ve really nothing but good to say of him.’
‘Yeah, we’ve noticed he’s settled in here,’ the cheeser joined in, whereupon the co-op manager forgot to deal the cards. ‘The little bugger feels quite at home here in the Ox too,’ said Armin Gfeller. Most of the clients were now squinting in the direction of Knuchel, who scratched his throat, and backed towards the door. He seemed to be swaying, so emphatically did he move his weight from one foot to the other. When young Eggimann piped up, loudly and stammeringly, that b-b-bugger Sp-p-paniard already felt s-so at home, it’s as though he thought he’d b-b-been b-born here, then Knuchel put on his cap, scratched the hair under it, and said: ‘But look, he’s working here in the highlands with us, I’m only saying, but anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ve got the cow waiting.’
‘Never mind how long he stays and works here, he’s still a stranger,’ said the co-op manager who was now dealing the cards, and rapped the table with his knuckle for each one. ‘Just because no one’s saying anything, that doesn’t mean anything.’
That was right, the cheeser backed him up, because if someone came to the cheese dairy wearing the green, then maybe it wasn’t too much to ask that he should at least learn the language. ‘That’s the least of it,’ cried Armin Gfeller.
‘Now damn it all!’ Knuchel took another pace back, and cursed the tightening that had begun in his chest, and now so constricted his throat that he could hardly speak. ‘The language isn’t easy for him, and he’s small, that’s right, but he’s wiry. Yes, he’s a wiry little fellow! And whether you believe it or not, he’s never one to hold back at work, he’s not worried about breaking sweat every now and again, and I know one or two who could learn something from him in that regard! But it’s time to go, all right, I’m off now. So, good night! See you around, all of you, adieu Fräulein!’
No sooner had Knuchel clicked the door in the catch than the noise swelled behind him, and the laughing and swearing could be heard out on the staircase.
Yeah, roared someone, that little Spanish bugger was wiry all right, they’d seen that when he’d picked a fight. Everyone talked at once, trying to outdo one another with abuse and denigration. Yes, but the boys had salted his bacon for him, had shown him who was in charge here, and they had to when foreigners didn’t understand how to behave themselves here, and were they just expected to stand and watch, and what else were they expected to put up with from them, no, you could say what you liked, but the next time his sort tried anything at the Ox, he would be flung into the nettles, or dunked in the well till he saw stars! That wasn’t enough, came another loud voice, they would smash a hole in his head, big enough for Knuchel’s prize cow to drink out of. Another calmer voice pointed out that while the field-mouser had tended to drink too much before, still, he had become much worse, and a year ago he hadn’t been nearly so talkative, and if that wasn’t the fault of the foreigners.
But Knuchel strode through the village, behind Blösch, whom Ambrosio was
leading. He could hear only the clopping of hooves on the asphalt. Yes, the best cow in the village, and they couldn’t produce one like her from their sheds, no, they only had large cattle units! Knuchel would have loved to swear loudly into the night, but all his endeavours were in vain, for a long time he couldn’t make a sound, his throat was choked tight. And he’d left his pipe behind, left it lying in the ashtray. Once more he couldn’t swear.
When they had passed through the village, and could see to the left below them the silvery-black buildings of the Boden farm and above them on the right, the dark heights with five bright gunshot holes where the targets for the shooting range were placed, then Knuchel stepped up his pace, first caught up with Blösch and patted her neck, and then with Ambrosio, to whom he remarked: ‘Those village farmers! The blockheads!’ Ambrosio didn’t understand the farmer. Nor did he understand it when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the lane, stood with feet apart, and shouted up at the village, through cupped hands: ‘For Chrissake! Jesus! Large cattle units and milking processes! Have none of you got a brain left in your heads?’
Just before the little wood, the farmer stopped again. He pointed to the roadside, where, in spite of the darkness, several dandelions could be seen, and said, ‘Pretty aren’t they? The cowflowers.’
Once back in the farmyard, Ambrosio led Blösch to the well, then took her into the cowshed and tied her up for the night. The farmer, scraping his soles clean by the kitchen door, wished Ambrosio a good night.
The railing of the external staircase was trembling slightly when Ambrosio touched it. He could feel through the wood that the farmhouse beams were once again being shaken by the mysterious banging. When he got up to his room, he could hear it very clearly. Boom, boom, boom! it went, coming from downstairs.
6
DID I FORGET to knock?
Frau Spreussiger jumped, her swivelling chair squeaked, a mirror flashed under her desk. Herr Rötlisberger! Oh, you gave me quite a turn!
—So I see. Rötlisberger stood with his thumbs hooked behind the bib of his burlap apron in front of Bössiger’s secretary in the abattoir offices. Making use of her boss’s absence, Frau Spreussiger had just rubbed some ATRIX into her hands, and quickly, mirror, mirror in my hand, who’s the loveliest in all the land, inspected lips, complexion and hair.
—Do you want a word with Bössiger? Or not? I’ll give him a bell. He’ll hear a cheep on his bleeper, she said as she reached for the telephone and dialled a number. But what about you, Herr Rötlisberger, how are you? You don’t look well.
—What’s wrong with me?
—Well, you don’t look very healthy to me.
—Old, don’t you mean?
—Now, Herr Rötlisberger! I didn’t mean it like that! A man like you in his best years. Please sit down! Rötlisberger remained standing. Behind the desk he could see a pair of knees pressed together, and nylon-stockinged, only half-covered thighs.
—I always said I should have worked in an office, sighed Rötlisberger.
—Did you now? said Frau Spreussiger coquettishly, and without lowering her bosom, and keeping her pelvis forward and her skirt tight, she swivelled round on her own axis. She knew how to move with elegance among the shiny dust-free surfaces of office machinery and office furniture.
—Yes, by God, an office, that would have been something else! Rötlisberger took off his cap and scratched his hair. But what can you do? Then again. I’m sure you have some pretty rough times in here too. Am I right?
—Herr Rötlisberger, if only you knew! That business yesterday, ooh! And I’m the one that gets yelled at. If he catches that student, that Lukas, she said, half whispering, then there’ll be trouble. That’s for sure.
—That’s good, because Lukas will be coming round today again. That’s good.
—Ah, there you are. Come into my office! The door had burst open, and Bössiger was suddenly in the room. A flood of excess energy preceded him. His open office coat flapped round his legs, making him look bigger and broader than he really was. The bleeper in his breast pocket was still going. In three strides, Bössiger was behind his desk in the next-door room, he dropped his big black book down on it, and pointed a forefinger at Rötlisberger, who had followed him only as far as the doorway.
—You’re to start acquainting Fernando with all aspects of tripery work right away. We need you elsewhere, Rötlisberger! Bössiger was speaking loudly. We’ve got a responsible job for you!
Rötlisberger took a step backwards.
Frau Spreussiger’s fluent movements came to a stop. Her red skirt suddenly seemed even tighter round her bum.
The bleeper was still sounding.
—What do you say? How long will it take you to get Fernando familiarized with the work? It won’t have to be done as scrupulously as it was in your time. The tripes that we sell fresh on the day, they don’t take long to scrub. Make it a bit easier for him than you made it for yourself. Show him a few short cuts. Can we say three days? Will that be sufficient? Of course it will. Fernando’s been with us for years.
—He can’t do it, said Rötlisberger, scratching his hair again.
—Bah! Of course he can!
—And what if the tripes stink? Or if they’re completely green? How is someone going to learn that in three days? My God, Herr Bössiger, you need to develop a feel for it. You don’t do that in three days.
—A feel! You just need to show him very clearly how it’s done. Write down the temperatures and boiling times. After all, Fernando’s the best of our Italians.
—Fernando’s Spanish.
—Rötlisberger! No snail-dances! Spanish, Italian, Yugoslav, Portuguese, Turk, who cares? He’s reliable, and he’s got the hang of it faster than a few of the trained butchers. I’ll give you the rest of the week if you like. But we need you in the intestine-washing department. And as soon as possible. We’re reorganizing. You’ll be taking over in a supervisory capacity.
—Aha? A supervisory capacity? Rötlisberger took a step nearer the desk. Is that meant to be a promotion?
—That’s right. Lighter duties, less exhausting. Bössiger sat down and switched off the search device.
—It’s that chest! muttered Rötlisberger but Abattoir-Marshal Bössiger said:
—At the moment we are losing too much in the intestine-washing department, we need someone there with a sense of responsibility.
—Load of rubbish. You’re not promoting me onto the dungheap. No thanks. Whenever there’s one of those crates standing round in the corridor, it means you want to try and turn me out of the tripery. I’m not playing! Rötlisberger turned and left the office.
—Will you stay here, ordered Bössiger, so decisively that the triper stopped in his tracks.
—Today’s Tuesday. I want you in the intestine washery on Friday. Understood? Straight after the nine o’clock break, you’ll be taking Fernando into the tripery.
—Like that, is it? I see. If someone does a job well all his life, that’s nothing. He’s shunted around like a potato. Just like that. All at once, a stooge is good enough to do his job. Yeah. Just move on, old fellow.
—Rötlisberger! Listen. And shut the door. Bössiger spoke quietly. No one doubts you. You’re a first-class triper. You do the work of two men. When we wanted to put someone in under you, you weren’t having it. You wanted to do it all by yourself. And you do it well. Right. We’ve never had any complaints about the tripes. But you’re getting older too, Rötlisberger. You too. You need to move on to some lighter task, before we lose you altogether. The intestine-washing department today is rational and mechanized and we’re going to be expanding it. You won’t be under the same strain there, you won’t be made to lift and carry any more.
—Don’t kid me. In that box out there, you’ve got one of those robots, and you want to put me on him. You want to turn me into a machine-minder if it’s the last thing you do. Why else call it a supervisory capacity? But, Herr Bössiger, I’ve learned a trade, I’m a butcher an
d sausage-maker, OK, and I’ve worked with tripes for over thirty years! And as far as the machine goes, no, let me finish, if you didn’t know already, I’ll tell you now; machines don’t get on well with me! Not at all. On the contrary, when I touch one, it’s apt to break. It gets stuck, my God, machines have caught fire under my hands, one machine even blew up, like this! Rötlisberger raised his arms, clenched his fists, and flung them asunder. Just like that! Bang! Blown to Buggery!
—End of discussion, said Bössiger. On grounds of organization and hygiene, Fernando is taking over your job, and you’re moving to casings.
—What? Hygiene as well?
—Isn’t that your BRISSAGO out on the doorstep? Be sensible! Have you any idea how many complaints we’ve received about your smoking? You don’t even bother to conceal your BRISSAGO any more. The chief inspector wanted you thrown out ages ago. It’s only because the director had a word with him personally that you’re still here. But this is it. You won’t be hiding out in the tripery any more. And while we’re on the subject, do you know that people have been saying you’re inciting the Italians, and that it was you who brought in that student Lukas? And what about yesterday? What happened yesterday? Where were you yesterday? Where, Herr Rötlisberger? Can’t you see that we have only your best interests at heart?
—I don’t need anyone to have my best interests at heart, or anywhere else. I do my job, and now you want to stick me on a machine, but I’m not a push-button butcher, I’m sixty-three, for Christ’s sake, leave me alone. God, why not fix the pot where it leaks, as if there weren’t more important things needed doing than chasing me out of the tripery.
—Please, calm down! What have you got to object to? Firstly, a machine like that is quite idiot-proof, it won’t jump at you, and secondly in the intestinery you will still be doing important, respected and well-paid work.