Tender Is the Flesh

by Agustina Bazterrica

“Okay. Take care.”

  When he gets home, he hugs Jasmine and whistles “Summertime” into her ear.

  17

  His sister has called countless times to organize the farewell service. She’s clarified she’ll take care of everything, “even the cost.” When he heard her say this, he smiled at first, but then he was overcome by the feeling that he never wanted to see her again.

  He wakes up early because he has to get into the city on time. Before he leaves, he showers with Jasmine to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. Then he gets her room ready, cleans it, and fills the bowls with food and water so she’ll be fine for a while. He checks her pulse and blood pressure. When he learned she was pregnant, he put together a complete first-aid kit, picked up books on the subject, brought home a portable ultrasound machine, one of the ones they use at the plant to check impregnated females before they’re sent to the game reserve. He trained himself to care for her and follow the stages of her pregnancy. Though he knows it’s not ideal, it’s the only option available to him because if he were to call a specialist, he’d have to register the pregnancy and provide documentation for the artificial insemination.

  He puts on a suit and leaves.

  While he’s driving, his sister calls again.

  “Marquitos, are you on your way? Why can’t I see you?”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Oh, okay. When will you be here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “People are starting to arrive. I’d like to have the urn here, as you can imagine. Without the urn there’s no point.” He hangs up without saying anything. She calls back, but he turns off his phone. Then he slows down. He’ll take all the time he needs.

  When he arrives at his sister’s house, he sees a group of people going inside. They’re carrying umbrellas. He gets out of the car, opens the trunk, and places the silver-plated urn under his arm. Then he rings the bell. His sister answers.

  “Finally. Is something wrong with your phone? I couldn’t call you back.”

  “I turned it off. Take the urn.”

  “Come in, come in, you don’t have an umbrella again. Do you want to get yourself killed, Marcos?”

  His sister says this and looks up at the sky. Then she takes the urn.

  “Poor Dad. A life full of sacrifice. And in the end, we’re nothing.”

  He looks at his sister and thinks there’s something strange about her. Then he looks more closely and realizes she’s wearing makeup, has been to the hairdresser, and has on a tight black dress. None of it’s over-the-top, so as not to show a complete lack of respect, but she’s sufficiently put together to look good at what is without a doubt her event.

  “Come in. Help yourself to whatever you like.”

  When he goes into the dining room, he sees that the guests have gathered around the table. It’s been pushed up against the wall and different dishes have been placed on it so people can serve themselves. His sister carries the urn to a smaller table where there’s a transparent box that looks to be made of etched glass. She places the urn inside the box carefully, with a degree of grandiloquence, so people can see how much she respects her father. Next to the box is an electronic picture frame with images of him changing on the screen, a vase of flowers, and a basket full of party favors with his photo and the dates of his birth and death on them. The photos have been retouched. He can’t recall there being any shots of his father with his sister and her family, or hugging her kids, because they never went to see him at the nursing home. In another photo, his sister and father are at the zoo. He remembers that day, his sister was a baby. She’s erased him from the photo and inserted herself into it. People approach her and offer their condolences. She takes out a handkerchief and raises it to her tearless eyes.

  He doesn’t know anyone. And he’s not hungry. He sits down in an armchair and looks at the people in the room. He sees his niece and nephew in a corner, dressed in black, looking at their phones. They see him but don’t greet him. He doesn’t feel like getting up to talk to them either. People look bored. They eat things from the table, talk quietly. He hears a tall man in a suit, who looks like he might be a lawyer or an accountant, say to another guest, “The price of meat has really dropped recently. Special beef goes for a lot less than it did two months ago. I read this article that said the drop in prices has to do with the fact that India’s officially decided to sell and export special meat. It was prohibited before and now they’re selling it for hardly anything.”

  The man he’s talking to, who’s bald and has a forgettable face, laughs and says, “Well, yeah, there are millions of them. Wait till people start eating them, and then the prices will stabilize.” An older woman stops in front of his father’s urn and looks at the photos. She picks up one of the party favors and inspects it. She smells it and then tosses it back into the basket. The woman sees a cockroach on the wall. It’s crawling very close to the electronic picture frame where the fake photos of his father continue to change on the screen. She panics, steps back, and leaves. The cockroach crawls into the basket of party favors.

  Except for him, there isn’t a single person in the place who knows his father was captivated by birds, that he was passionately in love with his wife, and when she died something in him went out for good.

  His sister walks back and forth with short, quick steps, taking care of the guests. He hears her talking to someone and saying, “It’s based on the technique of death by a thousand cuts. That’s right, it’s from that book that just came out. The best seller. I have no idea, my husband’s the one who takes care of it.” What could his sister possibly know about a form of Chinese torture? He stands up and moves closer so he can keep listening, but she heads to the kitchen. When he goes over to the food table, he sees a silver platter containing an arm that’s being filleted. He doesn’t doubt that the arm is oven-roasted. It’s surrounded by lettuce and radishes that have been cut to resemble tiny lotus flowers. The guests try the arm and say, “It’s exquisite, really fresh. Marisa’s such a great hostess. You can tell how much she loved her father.” Then he remembers the cold room.

  He goes toward the kitchen, but in the hallway he runs into his sister.

  “Where are you going, Marquitos?”

  “To the kitchen.”

  “Why are you going to the kitchen? I’ll get you anything you need.”

  He doesn’t answer and keeps walking. She grabs him by the arm, but then lets go because the person who was calling her from the dining room has just come up to her to talk.

  When he reaches the kitchen, it’s as if he’s been struck by a smell that’s rancid, if fleeting. He walks toward the door to the cold room. He looks through the glass and sees a head without an arm. So she got herself a female, that skank, he thinks. Domestic head are a status symbol in the city; they give a household prestige. He looks at the head more closely, and when he makes out a few sets of initials he realizes she’s an FGP. Off to the side on the countertop, he sees a book. His sister doesn’t have books. The title is Domestic Head: Your Guide to Death by a Thousand Cuts. There are red and brown stains in the book. He feels he might vomit. Of course, he thinks, she’s going to carve the head up slowly, serving pieces every time she hosts an event. The death-by-a-thousand-cuts thing must be some sort of trend, if all her guests are talking about it. An activity for the whole family, cutting up the living being in the fridge, based on a thousand-year-old form of Chinese torture. The domestic head looks at him sadly. He tries to open the door, but it’s locked.

  “What are you doing?”

  His sister has returned, holding an empty platter in her hands, and taps the floor with her right foot. He turns around and sees her there. That’s when he feels the stone in his chest shatter.

  “You disgust me.”

  She looks at him, her expression between shocked and indignant.

  “How can you say that to me, today of all days? And what’s been going on with you lately? You’ve had this preoccupied look on
your face.”

  “What’s been going on with me is that you’re a hypocrite and your children are two little shits.”

  He shocks himself with the insult. She opens her eyes and mouth, and for a few seconds doesn’t say anything.

  “I understand you’re stressed because of Dad, but you can’t insult me like that, you’re in my house.”

  “Can’t you see you’re incapable of thinking for yourself? The only thing you do is follow the norms imposed on you. Can’t you see that this whole thing is a superficial act? Are you even capable of feeling something, really feeling it? I mean, have you ever cared about Dad?”

  “I think a farewell service was called for, don’t you? It’s the least we could do for him.”

  “You don’t understand anything.”

  He walks out of the kitchen and she follows, saying he can’t leave, what will people think, he can’t take the urn now, he could at least give her this, the house is full of Esteban’s colleagues and his boss is here, her own brother can’t embarrass her like this. He stops, grabs her by the arm, and says into her ear, “If you keep fucking with me, I’ll tell everyone how you did nothing when it came to Dad, understood?” His sister looks at him in fear and takes a few steps back.

  He opens the front door and leaves. She runs after him with the urn and reaches the car just before he gets in.

  “Take the urn, Marquitos.”

  For a few seconds, he looks at her in silence. Then he gets into the car and closes the door. His sister stands there not knowing what to do until she realizes she’s outdoors and doesn’t have an umbrella. She looks up at the sky in fear, covers her head with her free hand, and runs into the house.

  He starts the car and drives away, but first he watches his sister enter the house holding an urn full of dirty sand from an abandoned zoo with no name.

  18

  He accelerates and heads home, turns on the radio.

  That’s when his phone rings. It’s Mari. The call strikes him as odd because she knows he’s at his father’s farewell service. Mari knows this because she phoned to ask for permission to give his contacts to his sister, who wanted to invite them to the service. He of course said no and told Mari he didn’t want to see anyone he knew.

  “Hi, Mari. What’s going on?”

  “I need you to come to the plant now. I know it’s not the best timing, I apologize, but we’ve got a situation here that we can’t handle. I’m asking you to please come now.”

  “Hold on, what happened?”

  “I can’t explain, you’ll have to come see for yourself.”

  “I’m not far, I was on my way home. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  He speeds up, thinks he’s never heard Mari sound so worried.

  When he nears the plant, he sees what looks like a trailer truck in the distance. It’s stopped in the middle of the highway. When he’s a few meters away, he sees bloodstains on the pavement. When he gets closer still, he can’t believe his eyes.

  A cage trailer has overturned on the side of the highway and been destroyed. The doors either got smashed on impact or were torn off. He sees Scavengers with machetes, sticks, knives, ropes, killing the head that were being transported to the processing plant. He sees desperation and hunger, rabid madness and ingrained resentment, he sees murder, he sees a Scavenger cutting the arm off a live head, he sees another Scavenger running and trying to lasso an escaping head as though he were a calf, he sees women with babies on their backs wielding machetes, cutting off limbs, hands, feet, he sees the pavement covered in guts, he sees a boy who’s five or six dragging an arm. He hits the accelerator when a Scavenger, his face wild and splattered with blood, yells something at him and raises a machete.

  He feels the shards of stone in his chest move through his body. They burn, they’re candescent.

  When he arrives, Mari, Krieg, and several employees are outside the plant watching the spectacle. Mari runs over and hugs him.

  “I’m sorry, Marcos, I’m so sorry, but this is insane. Nothing like this has ever happened with the Scavengers.”

  “Did the truck overturn on its own or did they do it?”

  “We don’t know. But that isn’t the worst part.”

  “What’s the worst part, Mari, what could be worse than this?”

  “They attacked Luisito, the driver. He was injured and couldn’t get out in time. They killed him, Marcos, they killed him.”

  Mari hugs him and doesn’t stop crying.

  Krieg comes over and holds out his hand. “I’m sorry about your father. I apologize for calling you in like this.”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “Those degenerates killed Luisito.”

  “The police will have to be called.”

  “We’ll get to that. What we need to do now is find a way to stop those fuckers.”

  “They have enough meat for weeks, if they want.”

  “I told the workers to fire but not kill them, to scare them off.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. It’s like they’re in a trance. Like they’ve become these savage monsters.”

  “Let’s talk in your office. But I’ll get some tea for Mari first.”

  They go into the plant. He hugs Mari, who can’t stop crying and says that of all the drivers, Luisito was one of her favorites, that he was a good kid, not even thirty and so responsible, the father of a family, of a beautiful baby boy, and what about his wife, what was she going to do now, life’s not fair, Mari says, the Scavengers are filth, scum that should have been killed long ago, fuckers who are always lurking around like cockroaches, they’re not humans, she says, they’re degenerates, wild animals, and dying like Luisito did is an atrocity, his wife won’t be able to cremate her own husband, and how come no one saw this coming, she says, all of them are at fault, and which god should she pray to if her god lets things like this happen.

  He sits her down and gets her a cup of tea. She seems to compose herself a little and touches his hand.

  “How are you holding up, Marcos? You seem different, more tired than usual. For a while now. Are you sleeping okay?”

  “I am, Mari, thanks.”

  “Your dad was a wonderful person. So honest. Have I ever told you that I knew him before the Transition?”

  She has told him, many times, but he says she hasn’t and looks surprised, like he does every time.

  “It was when I was young. I worked as a secretary at a tannery and I spoke to him whenever he came in for meetings with my old boss.”

  And then she tells him again that his father was very charming, “Like you, Marcos,” she says, and that all the women at the tannery had their eyes on him, but that he never did anything, not even look at them. “Because you could tell your dad only had eyes for your mom, you could see he was in love,” she says. He was always so pleasant and respectful, you could tell from a mile away that he was a good person.

  He takes Mari’s hands carefully and kisses them.

  “Thank you, Mari. You’re looking a little better, do you mind if I go talk to Krieg?”

  “Go ahead, love, this needs to be dealt with, it’s urgent.”

  “I’m here if you need anything.”

  Mari stands up and she plants a kiss on his cheek and hugs him.

  He goes into Krieg’s office and sits down.

  “This is a disaster,” Krieg says. “The head amount to a huge loss, but what happened to Luisito is horrific.”

  “Yeah, we have to call his wife.”

  “The police will take care of that. They’ll let her know in person.”

  “Do we know what happened? Did the truck overturn on its own or was it the Scavengers?”

  “We have to go over the security footage, but we believe the Scavengers are responsible. There was no reaction time.”

  “Was it Oscar who let you know?”

  “Yes, Oscar is on duty. He saw the truck and called me. Not five minutes had passed before those shits
were killing them all.”

  “So it was planned.”

  “That seems to be the case.”

  “They’ll do it again now that they know it’s possible.”

  “I know, that’s what I’m afraid of. What do you think we should do?”

  He doesn’t know what to say, or rather he knows perfectly well what to say, but doesn’t want to. The pieces of stone blaze in his blood. He thinks of the boy dragging the arm along the pavement. He’s silent. Krieg looks at him anxiously.

  When he tries to say something, he coughs. He feels the pieces of stone accumulate in his throat. They’re burning it. He wishes he could escape with Jasmine. He wishes he could disappear.

  “The only thing I can think to do is go over there now and kill them all. That’s what needs to be done with degenerates, they need to be disappeared,” Krieg says.

  He looks at Krieg and feels a sadness that’s contaminated, furious. He can’t stop coughing. He feels the pieces of stone break down into grains of sand in his throat.

  Krieg hands him a glass of water. “Are you okay?”

  He wants to tell Krieg that he’s not okay, that the stones are scorching his insides, that he can’t get the boy who was dying of hunger out of his mind. He takes a sip of water, he doesn’t want to respond, but does. “What we’ll have to do is get some head, poison them, and give them to the Scavengers.”

  Doubtful about how to proceed, he’s silent again, but then continues, “I’ll give the order in a few weeks. We’ll have to wait until they eat the meat they stole and don’t suspect anything. It would be strange if we gave them some head now, right after they’ve attacked us.”

  Krieg looks at him nervously, thinks it over for a few seconds, and then smiles. “It’s a good idea.”

  “This way when they’re poisoned to death, people will think it was the meat they stole. No one will accuse us.”

  “It’ll have to be done by people who can be trusted.”

  “I’ll take care of it when the time comes.”

  “But the police will be here soon, they’ll likely arrest them. I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”