by Beat Sterchi
‘Is he temperamental?’
‘No, quite the opposite, but he is incredibly big and wide. The time it would take to get him unchained.’
The policeman climbed onto one of the trailer wheels and peered over the side. ‘Ah yes, I see. Well, he must have a bladder like an elephant,’ he said, and pointed back down the road: ‘You see that dark streak, going back all the way to the corner? You see how wet that is?’
‘Oh now, you know if he drinks he piddles!’ Schindler scratched his belly through his smock.
‘But not on our roads!’ the policeman snapped. ‘What if everyone just started fouling the roads like that! Now you open up the back, if you won’t unchain him.’
Schindler climbed down off the tractor and let the back of the trailer down.
‘Right,’ the policeman reached for his leather wallet. ‘As I thought. No container provided for urine or excrement. I’ll have to take your name!’
‘Oh officer, please. This is the first bull I’ve ever taken. I’m a calf-trader by profession. This trailer doesn’t even belong to me!’
But the fine was meted out. Red with rage, Schindler took the slip of paper and folded it, and went on folding it until he couldn’t fold it any smaller, only crush it, and the policeman had long since disappeared in his white VOLKSWAGEN.
‘That bastard! For a bit of bull’s piss!’ muttered Schindler. Before he closed the back of the trailer again, he rearranged the handful of straw under the bull’s hindquarters, and said: ‘Now mind you piss on the straw, you fool!’
At the outskirts of the city, there was a sign announcing a diversion for livestock traffic. ‘That’s what we want,’ Schindler turned to Ambrosio. ‘First we’ll flog off Pestalozzi to some foreigner, then we’ll take you round to the slaughterhouse.’
Ambrosio nodded.
The bull market was held on common land that was also used for military exercises, sporting events and as a children’s playground. There were hundreds of bulls standing in rows or being led, snorting and heavy-headed, by rings, poles and chains. The drumming of their hooves, as they were led down steep ramps from trailers and lorries, sounded like salvoes of gunfire.
From the approaching tractor, Ambrosio could see a red-and-white sea of massive necks and backs, and the acrid sexual smell of bulls filled his nostrils.
A pent-up restraint emanated from the powerful animals. They were chained according to age groups, with up to fifty bulls standing side by side, but positions were still being changed as the judges in their long white coats worked to produce an order of merit based on appearance and performance.
Their decisions were not uncontroversial. Dealers and farmers stood in groups, expressed laconic opinions, behaved formally, shook hands with newly arrived acquaintances – long and hard they shook hands – then went back to gripping their own cowherd’s smocks, the lapels of their tunics, digging their thumbs under their collars as they looked over the judges’ shoulders, and, depending on what they saw there, either nodding in agreement or muttering in dissent.
Buyers were apprehensive about rising prices. They were convinced that the bull they were interested in couldn’t possibly deserve such a high ranking.
Owners, on the other hand, found that their own bulls had been unfairly treated. Wasn’t he the most splendid bull in the whole park? Standing there on his pillars of legs, on hooves the size of soup plates! And how good the leather harness with its little embroidered flowers and crosses looked on his head! What other bull had been so lovingly curry-combed, even under the tail?
They frowned in dissatisfaction, got down to peer under the bulls’ bellies themselves and examined the high-ranked animals with an especially critical eye. ‘He flatters to deceive,’ was said of this bull or that one. Whoever doubted the measurements would stand next to the animal, take a step back and say: ‘That’s about right,’ or again: ‘The bugger’s short! Hardly reached up to my armpit!’
The toughest judgements were passed by those farmers and dealers who were neither buying nor selling. According to them, the one bull was too upright, the other too low slung, a third had uneven horns, the ankles of a fourth were too thick, on the fifth someone pointed to hooves that hadn’t been greased, and said: ‘They didn’t even bother to put polish on his shoes!’ the sixth had forequarters too large, with the seventh it was the hindquarters, the eighth didn’t have enough flesh on his scrotum, the ninth was suspected of having a shot of cross-bred blood in his veins, and the tenth was either bandy-legged or stiff-legged, and thus according to the observer, his hindquarters had either collapsed, or they were too elevated.
Miming disappointment, these unpartisan critics turned their backs on the bulls and gave vent to their poor opinion of the whole: ‘That’s what you get with artificial insemination, an elite but no class!’ and they looked out for acquaintances among the other visitors. An old farmer in a linen-mixture suit said: ‘Yes, before my boy took over the farm, I always used to go up to Knollenfing. Those were real bulls there, ooh, yes!’ Another, even older farmer, rammed his stick into the ground and said: ‘Yes, Knollenfing. But on foot, eh!’ and after a pause: ‘Hey, Fritz, let’s have a talk and a bottle of wine in the pub. We never used to have the time, now we do.’
The arrival of Schindler with Pestalozzi created the biggest stir of the day. Even as they were unloading, people milled round the great bull-transporter, craned their necks and said: ‘Yes, there’s one, that’s what I call a bull!’ And someone squinted at Ambrosio and laughed: ‘And a tiny wee bugger of a farmhand!’
When Schindler led Pestalozzi across the market terrain, he was greeted on all sides, conversations were interrupted, and heads turned to watch the dealer with the Innerwald bull.
At the assembly point for five-year-olds, Schindler smacked his forehead. ‘Hah, made a mistake,’ he called out, and led Pestalozzi right the way back across the market to the four-year-olds, where a judge came towards him, unbuttoned his white coat, pulled out a red handkerchief, buried his face in it, blew his nose long and loud, then folded his handkerchief up again and asked: ‘Who’s that you’ve got there?’
‘That’s Pestalozzi,’ said Schindler.
‘Ah, yes. Thought so. With those curls. The son of, er, what’s his name?’
‘Son of Jean-Jacques.’
‘That’s right.’ The judge took a walk round Pestalozzi and asked: ‘Do you just want to get him a prize, or is he up for sale?’
‘Well...’ Schindler hesitated. ‘If someone could lay the money on the table, why not?’
‘Then chain him up right at the front,’ instructed the judge.
‘Come on then!’ Schindler pulled lightly on the bar. Pestalozzi, frothing from the nostrils, lowered his head and mooed. When the bull was finally standing in the sawdust, tethered round the horns and chained in first place in the four-year-olds category, a young farmer in green overclothes came away from one group and went up to Schindler. He nudged the calf-dealer with his elbow, jerked his chin in the direction of Pestalozzi and asked: ‘Why don’t they want him any more up in Innerwald?’
Schindler cleared his throat, raised his hand, his nails were already poised to scratch his neck, but then he dropped his hand again. ‘Well, you know! It’s the mountain air! Some do well on it, others don’t. And then besides, they’ve still got Gotthelf up there too.’
‘Isn’t he getting on a bit?’
‘Who?’
‘Well, Gotthelf.’
‘Hm. Hardly.’ Schindler rubbed Pestalozzi’s curly head.
‘He’d be too expensive for us in the Oberland anyway,’ said the young farmer. ‘We still breed our own. But round here, they say everything’s going to be beefed again.’
‘Well, if they’re not wanted any more, or only the very best of them.’
‘But there are supposed to be some gentlemen from abroad here too. They say they’re buying everything over 1000 kilos for their insemination stations back in Holland and Austria. Oh, they’ll pay somethi
ng for him. I’m sure.’
‘Oh, but he’s worth it,’ said Schindler.
‘Yes, that Pestalozzi,’ replied the young farmer, jabbed Schindler in the ribs again, and laughed.
Ambrosio, who had watched the whole thing and interpreted it as a coming to terms, went into the festival tent, sat down at a wooden table and ordered a beer. ‘A spezial,’ he said, half in Knuchel German, half in Spanish.
10
AND ALL OVER the slaughterhouse behind the high fence at the edge of the beautiful city, things were happening with a vengeance. With all the driving and shooting and sticking and bleeding, the men were swearing and spitting till their throats were dry. Their shoulders ached, and their hips, and their backs. They had visions of a cigarette, or a cool beer. They suppressed sighs.
Ernest Gilgen – still in his street clothes – strode along the rows of half cows hanging in storage in the cattle-freezing-room. No, I’m not changing today. Not today. My rags are staying in my locker. With every step he punched one of the cows. The carcasses shook on their spreaders. Gilgen smashed the congealed-fat layer of well-fleshed animals.
Hugentobler! Hugentobler! You deaf bastard! he yelled. Where are you? Where are you keeping your great wooden blockhead? Nom de Dieu, show yourself! The shouting wouldn’t quite come. However Gilgen exerted himself, his words didn’t acquire the resonance that he liked to feel filling his own ears, and that was the fault of the roaring of the mighty air-coolers in the ceiling, and a cooling-plant works to lower the temperature in an enclosed space, or that of objects, especially highly perishable goods; generally a heat-insulated room in which the temperature is lowered by a refrigerator plant, and in the face of their massive assault on the undesirable livelihood of microbes, even the great Gilgen was forced to silence.
He bent down and looked under the dangling cows for Hugentobler’s legs, but he saw only a thicket of stiff fraying necks. Nom de Dieu! Where’s he got to? When you need him...
Hugentobler was pushing yesterday’s pigs out of the second freeze room. Their split carcasses were hung up on hoists. Hugentobler leaned his shoulders against the sides of bacon. Gilgen had to roar to get his attention.
—Hey, Hugentobler, how cold is it now in the blast-freeze tunnel?
—What’s that? Hugentobler fumbled with his fur cap and brought out an ear.
Gilgen repeated his question.
—That’s the thermometer over there. The gloved hand was slowly raised. It pointed to the entrance of the ante-chamber to the blast-freezing plant.
—Don’t be so ratty, how cold is it there?
—Cold.
—How cold?
—Didn’t you hear me? I said it was cold. Hugentobler’s face barely moved as he spoke: he sounded unclear, slurred, like a man with a hare-lip.
—Arsehole. A man who doesn’t know which way he’s looking. Forget it then. You won’t stop me, though, you can bet your life on it.
A row of heavy, matted army coats hung on the wall, next to the entrance to the freezers. Gilgen threw one across his shoulders, and pressed down the lever to open the insulating door. The layers of ice around it cracked apart. Gilgen lowered his head. It was a low door. Flakes of man-made snow caught in his hair and splintered onto his coat. A wave of cold air washed over his shoes, and bit into his feet and legs. Merde, ce n’est pas drôle. Next to the doors to the various deep-freeze rooms, the walls were covered with switches and little control lights which bathed the ante-chamber in a matt reddish fog. Where was the overhead light switch? Which of the doors led to the freezing-tunnel? Crusts of ice gleamed like red glass. The empty ante-chamber trembled with machine noise. Everywhere ice-covered pipes, white rods and tubes. Gilgen turned round. The light had come on. Hugentobler was standing behind him.
—Why didn’t you shut the door behind you?
The two men faced each other silently. Stretched tight in the dangerous stillness, leaning forward as though to land a blow or an insult, instinctive and alone, like hostile animals.
With his heavy legs and bad Bang’s back, Hugentobler couldn’t stand there as insolently and provocatively as Gilgen. But his shoulders were mightily inflated by the refrigerating-room gear he was wearing, and the army coat thrown over them made him an imposing sight as well.
Away from the cooling-plants at the slaughterhouse, Hugentobler was always extremely quiet. As soon as he left his place of work, he saw the world as shyly as a child. As if the city, the streets, the shops, the public buildings and institutions only existed for other people, people in other professions, other classes, people of a different appearance.
And now this shy man stood challengingly in front of Gilgen. Here I stand. Immovable. As if he had built all the deep-freeze rooms with his own hands, and could dispose of every gram of what was stored in them as he saw fit. This is mine. For once, his eyes looked straight out of his angular face. He didn’t make the slightest attempt to justify his risky attitude. He mentioned neither the weight of responsibility for the unnumbered tonnes of meat that were in his charge, nor the scale of work he did here. He didn’t have to say I have, I do, if it wasn’t for me, if I hadn’t. He didn’t brag about the two thousand sides of bacon that he had stacked in the third deep-freeze room, under arctic conditions, to save precious space elsewhere. He had no figures or formulae to hand. He didn’t even think of trying to demonstrate the value of what he did. The housewife, unthinkingly reaching for her plastic-wrapped roast, never crossed his mind. Whether there was someone outside, on the other side of the slaughterhouse walls, the other side of the high fence, whether there was someone who thought highly of his labour, and who was selling it to whom, and at what price, all these questions were far removed from him. Once again, here was a case of someone remaining silent, using all the words he didn’t know, and under ‘freeze’ it says: to solidify a liquid, for purposes of preservation, by cooling it to below its freezing point: with organic substances, especially food, also cell-tissue, the freezing point of water; and he didn’t say either that he, Christian Hugentobler, had never been to prison, and that was something not everyone at the abattoir could say of themselves. And if the fact had occurred to him that he’d never missed a day’s work in his life, then that wouldn’t have struck him as being in any way remarkable either.
Still, Ernest Gilgen understood. He wasn’t just in any cold, any ante-chamber, any refrigerator installation. This particular biting cold, the whole of this ante-chamber where he found himself confronted with such resolution and hostility, the cooler-rooms this side of it, and the freezer-rooms beyond, they belonged, with all their contents, to Hugentobler. And Gilgen stepped back. As he cautiously withdrew the challenge from his posture and his expression, until he stood there with his tail between his legs, like a dog who has strayed deep into the clearly marked territory of another, so too Hugentobler’s gaze lost its menacing sharpness. The eye muscles tensed again, the pupils flickered and quivered towards the nose, and the sight axes crossed again.
Gilgen looked for a conciliatory tone:
—You see – it’s just about this – I wanted to, oh, surely it’s all right to ask. I wanted the key. The key to the freezer-tunnel. I need it, and you’ve got to help me. Don’t you understand anything? Tell me how cold it is now, or aren’t I even allowed to know that? It’s true, isn’t it?
Hugentobler went on staring at Gilgen in silence, then he raised one foot, and started to move, stiff and angular as ever, and keeping Gilgen in view. What’s Big G doing coming on like a shy secretary? What’s he up to? Instead of getting changed, as though there was no meat left to dress. Hugentobler turned several knobs, and pulled a key from his coat pocket. It was tied to a bone, a hollow grey marrow-bone. The door grated, as if it was made of glass, and a freezer-tunnel is a long chamber where storage goods are exposed to forced-air circulation, and thereby rapidly cooled.
—A blast-freezer, said Hugentobler proudly.
—Whorish cold, said Ernest Gilgen.
—Wai
t, that’s nothing. The machine isn’t even on. Hugentobler pressed a button. A hellish din started up, and a tornado of cold air whisked the few ice particles out of the tunnel.
—Nom de Dieu! Regarde ça!
—Minus 36. Goes down to minus 44.
—Hey, a man would cool down pretty quickly in there, wouldn’t he?
—If he stays in there, he’ll be dead within two hours.
Hugentobler locked the door again. That showed him. He seemed to think it was a toy or something. As though the machines were there to show off with, but that’s how they are, no idea what a plant like that can do, now he’s looking like a monkey bit him, and he’s cold. That’s shock-freezing, and you’ve got to understand it, otherwise something’ll go wrong, and the cell structures of plant and animal tissue have their cellular fluid torn by freezing, and as a result, frozen good when they’re thawed, make a soft, ‘floppy’ impression which is not the result of any process of chemical decay, and Hugentobler, who also attracted attention outside the cooling-plant by seeming to be unable to adjust the loudness of his voice to other conditions, now screamed at Gilgen, entirely suitably. Despite the roaring and thundering of the cooling equipment, every word was clearly audible:
—If there’s something you want, Gilgen, the key or whatever, then you know where to find me.
—Can that door be opened from the inside too?
—No, only from the outside.
—And if someone’s really feeling a bit hot, how long would it take to cool him down, and still leave him able to walk out?
—That depends if he’s really boiling or not. Ten minutes might not do him any harm.
—Ha, you see!
Together the two men left the ante-chamber and took off their heavy army coats. The second cooling-room, where Gilgen had interrupted Hugentobler as he was pushing out pigs, seemed warm by comparison, and low temperatures destroy certain parasites in meat, e.g. tapeworm larvae, by freezing.