by Beat Sterchi
*
And in the little slaughterhouse caff, Rötlisberger grinned, took the BRISSAGO out of his mouth, rested it in the ashtray, rubbed his palms over the pimpled rubber mat used for playing cards on, and said: Aschi, that’s exactly what happened to me. God! No sooner had the little bugger bitten than I went weak at the knees. I felt like hurling my new rod miles away. I didn’t even dare to touch the little fishy. It went back into the lake, hook and all.
—You see, that’s how it is. Gilgen and Ambrosio laughed loudly. Rötlisberger laughed too, but his laughter soon turned into a giggle, then a wheeze. His eyes became smaller and the lids grew puffy. A coughing fit shook the old triper. In order to get the better of the spasms in his chest, Rötlisberger slid his chair back, leaned his arms against the edge of the table, and bent down. His wooden soles scraped on the floor. The cap fell off his head. His face went from red to blue under the grey stubble. The inflated cheeks were white. Bloody saliva ran down his chin and dropped onto the burlap apron between his knees.
—Nom de Dieu! What’s the matter? Gilgen smacked Rötlisberger between the shoulder blades. Rösi, a schnapps, quick! Fritz swallowed something the wrong way. And a couple for us too! No? What do you say?
—Sí, sí, uno más, said Ambrosio.
Frau Bangerter, who had gone on wiping at a beer glass that was well dry already, frowned and sucked in her cheeks. She gulped.
—Another schnapps? What if it takes him like Schindler? she asked.
—Here come on, get on with it!
—Well, if you say so, but I don’t know. She pushed the wrapped flowers that Ambrosio had brought to one side, wiped all round the rubber mat, and put three little glasses down in front of the men. There, cheers! she said.
—This’ll do you good, Fritz. Gilgen nudged Rötlisberger with his elbow. Have a sip, it’ll stop you coughing.
Rötlisberger was wheezing. His face had swollen up. He tipped his schnapps down his throat, shuddered, and pointed with his empty glass at Ambrosio’s tinder lighter.
—You know, that I can well understand. You’ve used up your tinder and now you want to go home, and you’d be a fool not to. But just one thing: when you’re down there, don’t drag us all through the dirt! You understand? Spain’ll be the same as here, there are people like that, and there are the others, and then there are the workhorses. But we don’t even talk about them, eh Aschi!
—You’re a gut mann, said Ambrosio, as Rötlisberger was laid low by another fit of coughing. Ambrosio drank to the old triper. But if he had had the words, Ambrosio would have done more than listen and laugh, and more than chip in a wonky sentence or two. Instead of pulling faces, he would have liked to tell them about how he had arrived in their country. And Rötlisberger and big Gilgen would have got the point about the red cow too. If he’d had the words, these two would have listened and understood. He knew that, he felt it. Gilgen and Rötlisberger would have laughed with him about the crazy Innerwalders, the midwife, the field-mouser. Farmer Knuchel, his cows and their dung. These two wouldn’t have gone straight onto the defensive if Ambrosio had told them about the Knuchel children, who would be grown up by now and proud of their flat-backed heads. And he could have told them about leaky Bossy, hairy May, stupid Baby, and Check’s map of a hide. And Blösch.
No, he hadn’t gone soft. Blösch was just a cow. Perhaps it was coincidence that she turned up here, but no one, not even Ambrosio, could be surprised that she would end in a slaughterhouse.
But caramba! The emaciated body that had been dragged out of the cattle-truck onto the ramp, that had mooed so pathetically into the morning mist, that body was also Ambrosio’s body. Blösch’s wounds were his own wounds, the lost lustre of her hide was his loss, the deep furrows between her ribs, the hat-sized hollows round her hips, they were dug into his flesh, what had been taken from the cow had been taken from himself. Blösch’s limping and dragging and hesitating, that was him, Ambrosio himself on a halter. Yes, he had laughed at Knuchel’s cows for their passivity and meekness, but the display of unconditional obedience, of obsequiousness and motiveless mooing that he had witnessed on the ramp, he had also witnessed them in himself, to his own disgust. In Blösch on that Tuesday morning, Ambrosio had recognized himself.
He would have liked to warn Gilgen and Rötlisberger in particular, but he had no idea how, not even in Spanish.
For Ambrosio there was no going back. Something inside him had pulled away and upset the scales. There were bound to be administrative problems at the office, and financial penalties, the party responsible for the immediate termination of the employment contract will be held accountable. In the case of the employee, his surety and outstanding holiday claims will be forfeited. He will in addition lose his current fortnight’s wage, and in some cases will be asked to make up for any losses accruing to the employer as a result, and that had previously deterred Ambrosio. After the loss of the finger he had gone back to work rather against his will, but then he hadn’t been willing to act so irresponsibly as to jeopardize his guest-worker status either.
Now, though, he didn’t see any insuperable obstacles, he would make up his lost pay somehow, in fact it was all extremely straightforward. The only thing that mattered was the good feeling he’d had for the last couple of hours, to which the alcohol now contributed.
—Olé! he said, and reached for his glass. Olé! He stood up and shook his limbs. Rötlisberger and Gilgen thought the little man was about to demonstrate to them for the third time by how much his children in Coruña had outgrown him, but this time Ambrosio didn’t stick his hand up in the air. He grabbed the sports bag under the table, unzipped it, and by a leather band colourfully embroidered with flowers and little bears and crosses, he pulled out a cow bell.
—B... b... but... stammered Frau Bangerter behind the bar. Rötlisberger stopped coughing. Gilgen lit a cigarette and laughed. He had won the bell some years previously, as a prize in a wrestling competition. Tailor-made for you, Arlecchino, he said as Ambrosio looped the band over his neck, tried out the clapper once or twice, and then stood on his chair, ringing it loudly and mooing at the top of his voice.
—Just like a young cow in front of an empty water trough, eh? Rötlisberger and Gilgen laughed. Hey, Arlecchino on heat, ha!
—I can just see him going up the mountain in spring, can’t you? asked Gilgen.
But Rötlisberger didn’t reply. Foreman Krummen was standing in the canteen doorway. He was soaked and out of breath, his chest heaving. The livid expression of his face was accentuated by the wet hair on his forehead. He cleared his throat to speak. His right arm swung out, the fingers were already spread to pince and grab. But after a faint hesitation, his hand didn’t bury itself in the seat of his pants as usual, it thrust forward and an accusing finger pointed at Gilgen and Rötlisberger and Ambrosio, who was still standing on his chair, with the cow bell round his neck. Only slowly, choking and swallowing, did Krummen find his voice:
—So there you are, you bastards! Sitting here drinking and arsing around! I can’t stand it! We’re left to drown in work! But we’re not having it! You can’t just turn up when you feel like it. Now I want you to wash that blood off the wall, yes don’t look blank, you know what I mean! Now get out of here, I want the three of you up in Bössiger’s office right away. Or else there’ll be so much fucking trouble you won’t believe it! I’ve had all I can take! This is the last time! He turned and stomped off. The muscles in his neck were twitching.
—Well, he knows all the tricks, doesn’t he! Rötlisberger picked up his BRISSAGO. You see how wet he was? By God, I think he must have been looking for us out in the rain.
—That Grummen allbays loco, said Ambrosio, taking the bell off and climbing down off his chair.
—Nom de Dieu, he’s going to catch it! said Ernest Gilgen.
*
Two thirty-three.
How time creeps.
That bastard Locher.
He’s hassling me the whole time. Kee
ps looking over my shoulder.
Always fighting.
Knife-fighting.
With pigs.
The minute hand has been there for hours.
The longest day.
Nothing but blood and sweat.
Locher shoots a pig, then stands there and expects me to stick it.
My knees are weak, I can feel every one of my vertebrae. My fingers are twitching.
Locher talks and talks. He smells.
Haven’t you got any eyes in your head? Come along here to catch up on your sleep, do you? Who goes and sticks a sow I haven’t shot yet? I could understand it if it was one of them Eyeties, but you!
But me?
I slipped a couple of times. Damaged the point. And there’s a blunt place where the blade curves.
I have to use strength to pierce the thick pigskin.
But the Lord is the shadow over thy right hand.
Watch it!
I jump to my feet.
A pig’s gone apeshit.
Some blood splashes up out of my basin.
Fucking hell, watch out!
Pasquale and Eusebio piss themselves laughing. I’ve drenched Locher. All down his apron. He’s standing there bellowing, with outstretched arms, and the gun in his right hand.
I carry on.
Backbreaking.
While the pig’s actually bleeding, I don’t have to bother about anything.
A pig pukes. Green spew down its chin. Some of them were fed grass to keep them quiet on the way here.
They get tranquillizers too.
I feel lumps in my throat and gut. And the twitching. In all my muscles. Watch the knife.
Where is the shadow over my right hand?
If only I was allowed to whet my knife.
No time. Locher gets the cartridges up out of his right pocket with such speed. Bang. The eyes close. The pig furrows his brow in thought.
Now they’re all puking.
The animals are supposed to be delivered here with empty stomachs.
Instead of going on shooting, Locher might take the hose and swill away some of that gravy.
In a corner of the killing bay, the last group out of this batch are huddled together.
One pig mounts another.
Is it trying to copulate?
Your bristly hide is just about to be singed off.
And my bristles?
A butcher has to have a bare neck. Part of professional hygiene.
But it’s my head and my hair.
On Saturday I hid my face behind a magazine at the gents’ hairdressers.
A tidy butcher has a tidy neck.
To have to spend my free time in a place like that.
The men who came in after me all got onto the chair first. The way they moved into position. As though it wasn’t a torture.
All of them knew the rules. The poise and practice with which they moved. The right expressions on their faces.
I was always horrified by the razors and scissors waiting for me. The blades on my neck. I distrust the cutting hands. Sitting there in neat rows. Like pigs out of the scraping machine.
Shaved, razored, scraped.
Bald.
In amongst them, the done-up cosmeticians. Smiling at the men with paint-patched faces, trimming their claws. Like china, their red red lips.
A tidy butcher has a tidy neck.
Get a haircut, will you.
I should have shouted: Stop! No entry! Private estate!
What business of Krummen’s is my neck?
In the corner, the castrated pig’s still trying. Grunting and foaming away, anyhow.
Why should I quarrel with Krummen over a haircut?
Over my haircut.
How randy pigs can get.
Here.
Like bulls.
The bulls caught in the act in the breeders’ journal.
I walked into the canteen, and saw everyone’s heads huddled together. Poring over a couple of colour photographs. Gawping.
Look at his.
What a pole.
And the way she’s taking it, woar!
I thought they must have got hold of a porn mag again. But no one tried to keep me away. I was allowed to see. They were pictures of bulls and cows. Stud bulls and prize cows, fucking al fresco.
Make sure you bleed that sow properly, or else Locher’ll be onto you again.
Shit.
After school we sometimes went to the piglet market. There was a lot going on in all the different squares. What interested us most were the animals, waiting in wooden cages for a buyer.
Rabbits. Hens. Doves. From time to time a calf, and in flat crates, under wooden slatted lids, pink piglets in straw.
Little piggies.
We would eye the dealers. When they were busy talking to farmers, and had their hands buried especially deep in their trouser pockets, then we would take the lid off one of the crates, and help one or two of the piglets to get away.
How the dealers in their blue smocks used to caper about, chasing them. Their huge hands kept clutching empty air. The squealing pink piglets proved elusive.
We ran off too. Slateboards rattling in our satchels.
And now here I am, killing them.
Fucking shitting killing bay.
Now another of those stupid sows is going crazy. Wriggling in rigor mortis.
*
And at the back, on the loading-apron, Weighmaster Krähenbühl leaned his rake in a corner, left the weighing office and locked the door, and trudged down the driving passage to the cattle slaughterhall. A train went by on the track outside. It was only raining a little. The sawdust on Krähenbühl’s boots stayed dry.
The lorry from the glue factory was due some time after four to pick up the week’s load of hooves, horns and bones. Krähenbühl had to be there for that. And then some culling cows had been announced. A whole goods-train full. More than forty head, he had been told on the telephone. In order to be able to accommodate these animals overnight, Krähenbühl had shovelled fresh sawdust into the pens, mucked out and cleaned up. Of today’s consignment, there’s only that one little Eringer left in pen two, thought Krähenbühl, an emergency slaughtering. As soon as they’re through with the pigs, they’ll come for her. She’d been weighed already, and the live weight registered in the control books long ago.
So Weighmaster Krähenbühl had a few minutes to go through the slaughterhalls and check that there wasn’t the odd forgotten bone-bin knocking around somewhere.
Immediately next to the guillotine at the entrance to the cattle hall, he found an iron container full to the top with hooves and horns. That would have to be taken to the collecting point next to the tripery at the back. Krähenbühl looked around for one of the trolleys that were used to move the containers. He couldn’t see one. He stepped out into the main passage, and a boy in glasses went up to him.
—I wondered... The boy stopped, looked down at Krähenbühl’s boots. I wondered, you see it’s for school, and are there any horns? The boy was sheepish. He peered up at the white pig halves which Luigi had pushed further out into the passage.
—Are there any horns? Weighmaster Krähenbühl asked in puzzlement.
—Yes, because we’re making masks in art. Big ones out of cardboard.
—Ah, you’re making masks. Of the devil and that?
—Yes, and ghosts and bulls and all sorts.
—Come along then, and we’ll see if we’ve got something for you. Krähenbühl went back into the cattle hall, and with wrinkled nose, started scrabbling about in the bone-bin. The boy followed, encouraged.
—Hm, not much worth having here. That machine there breaks it all. Krähenbühl nudged the bone-guillotine with his elbow.
—What about that one? The boy had stood up on tiptoe and pointed at a grey-black horn tip that poked out among dungy hooves in an unsightly mess of hacked-up cow parts.
—You mean this one? Krähenbühl pulled one of Blösch’s double-curved but
emaciated horns out of the bone-bin, first gazed at it sceptically, and then handed it to the boy. That must come from a very old cow. It’s nicely curved, though. Well, if you like it, we’ll look for the other one. Ah, there it is. You’re in luck, said Krähenbühl and pulled out the second of Blösch’s horns.
—Merci. Oh thanks tons, said the boy, and ran out of the hall with the horns under his arm.
—You’ll get your pullover dirty, Krähenbühl shouted after him down the passage.
*
Two forty-nine.