Urlet’s nails graze his hand again and he shudders. He thinks he can hear the scratching under the man’s skin, the contained wail, the presence that wants to get out. He swallows the “fresh fingers” because he wants this to be over with, to leave as quickly as possible. Urlet’s false theories are not something he cares to argue about. He’s not going to tell the man that a sacrifice generally requires consent from the person being sacrificed, nor will he comment that everything contains death, not just this dish, and that he, Urlet, is also dying with every second that passes, like all of them.
To his surprise, the fingers are exquisite. He realizes how much he misses eating meat.
An assistant brings out a single plate and serves it to the hunter who killed the musician. Solemnly the assistant says, “The tongue of Ulises Vox marinated in fine herbs, served over kimchi and lemon-dressed potatoes.”
They all applaud and laugh. Someone says, “It’s a privilege to eat Ulises’s tongue. You’ll have to sing one of his songs afterward so we can see if you sound like him.”
They all burst into laughter. Except for him. He doesn’t laugh.
The rest of the diners are served the heart, eyes, kidneys, and buttocks. Ulises Vox’s penis is placed in front of Guerrero Iraola, who requested it.
“Looks like he had a big one,” Guerrero Iraola says.
“What, are you a fag now, eating a dick?” one of the hunters says to him.
They all laugh.
“No, it makes me more potent sexually. It’s an aphrodisiac,” Guerrero Iraola answers seriously, and looks with contempt at the man who called him a fag.
They all go quiet. No one wants to contradict him because he’s a man with a lot of power. To change the subject and release the tension, someone asks, “What’s this we’re eating, this kimchi?”
There’s silence. No one knows what kimchi is, not even Guerrero Iraola, a man who’s had some education, who’s traveled the world, who speaks different languages. Urlet does a very good job of hiding his displeasure at dining with the uncultured, unrefined people that surround him. But he doesn’t hide it completely. There’s a hint of disdain in his voice when he answers. “Kimchi is a food prepared with vegetables that have been fermented for one month. It’s Korean in origin. The benefits are numerous, among them that it’s a probiotic. Nothing but the best for my guests.”
“We’re getting probiotics from all the hard drugs Ulises injected,” one of them says, and they all laugh loudly.
Urlet doesn’t respond, just regards them with a half smile stuck on his face. He looks at Urlet and knows that the entity, whatever it is that’s in there, scratching at the man’s skin from the inside, wants to howl and slice through the air with a sharp, cutting wail.
Guerrero Iraola gives them a look that restores order, and asks a question: “How was Ulises Vox hunted?”
“I caught him off guard in what appeared to be a hiding spot. He had the bad luck of moving just as I walked by,” the hunter says.
“Right, with your bionic ear, no one gets away,” says the man who shot the pregnant female.
“Lisandrito is a master,” Guerrero Iraola says, the last word in English, “like all the Núñez Guevaras. The family’s got the best hunters in the country.” He points his fork full of flesh to the hunter and says, “Next time Urlet has a celebrity for us, leave him for me, kid.” It’s a clear threat and Lisandrito lowers his eyes.
Guerrero Iraola raises his glass and they all toast Lisandrito and his lineage of first-class hunters.
“How many days did he have left?” someone asks Urlet.
“Today was his last day. He had five hours left.”
They all applaud and clink their glasses.
Except for him. He’s thinking of Jasmine.
6
He knows he’ll be home late. It’s a long drive, but he doesn’t want to stay in a hotel like he used to, before Jasmine. He’s been on the road for several hours and knows it’ll be night when he gets in.
He passes the abandoned zoo but doesn’t stop because it’s dark and because he never wants to return. The last time he was there he didn’t yet know that Jasmine was pregnant. He needed to clear his mind and wanted to go to the aviary. As he neared the building, he heard shouts and laughter. The sounds were coming from the serpentarium. He approached slowly, rounding the aviary to see if he could find a window so he wouldn’t have to go inside.
One of the walls was broken. He went up to it cautiously and saw a group of teenagers. There were six or seven of them. They were holding sticks.
The teenagers were in the puppies’ serpentarium. They’d broken the glass. He could see that the puppies were in there, curled up against each other, trembling, whimpering with fear.
Weeks before, he’d petted those puppies. Now he saw a teenager grab one of the four brothers and throw him into the air. Another teenager, the tallest of the lot, hit the pup with a stick as though he were a ball. The creature struck the wall and fell to the floor, dead, very close to one of his brothers, who had already been killed.
They all applauded and one of them said, “Let’s smash their brains against the wall. I wanna see what it feels like.”
He grabbed the third puppy and struck the animal’s head repeatedly against the wall. “It’s like smashing a melon or a piece of shit. Let’s see what happens with the last one.”
The last puppy tried to defend himself, to bark. That’s Jagger, he thought, while his rage ate away at him because he knew he couldn’t save the pup, because he wouldn’t be able to stop them on his own. Jagger bit the hand of the teenager who was about to throw him into the air. As he looked on at the scene, he felt a sense of pleasure at Jagger’s small revenge.
The teenagers laughed, at first, but then they grew still, silent.
“You’re gonna die, idiot. I told you to grab it by the neck.” The teenager was quiet, he didn’t know how to react. “Now you have the virus.”
“You’re contaminated.”
“You’re gonna die.”
The others all took a few steps back in fear.
“The virus is a lie, dickheads.”
“But the government—”
“What about the government? You don’t actually believe that lot of corrupt leeches, the fucking motherfuckers we have for a government.”
While the teenager was saying this, he shook Jagger in the air.
“No, but there were people who died.”
“Don’t be an idiot. Can’t you see they’re controlling us? If we eat each other, they control overpopulation, poverty, crime. Do you want me to keep going? I mean, it’s obvious.”
“Yeah, like in that movie that was banned where at the end everyone’s eating each other and they don’t know it,” the tallest one said.
“What movie?”
“The movie was… it was called Destiny Is Catching Up to Us or something dumb like that. We saw it on the dark web, it’s hard to find because it’s banned.”
“Oh yeah, man, I remember it. It’s the one where they eat those green crackers that are really made of people.” The teenager holding Jagger continued to shake the puppy in the air, with more force, and shouted, “I’m not gonna die for this piece-of-shit of an animal.”
He said it with resentment and fear, and threw Jagger hard against the wall. Jagger fell to the floor, but was still alive, crying, whining.
“What if we light it on fire?” another one asked.
And he couldn’t watch anymore.
7
Every so often, an inspector from the Office of the Undersecretary for the Control of Domestic Head shows up at his house. He knows all the inspectors, all those who matter, because when they shut down the Faculty of Veterinary Sciences, when the world was in chaos, when his father began to want to live inside books and would call at three in the morning asking to speak with the Baron in the Trees so that the man could help him get into the pages, when his father later told him that books were spies from a paralle
l dimension, when animals became a threat, when at a chilling speed the world was put back together and cannibalism was legitimized, he worked there, at the undersecretary’s office. They’d recruited him based on the recommendation of employees from his father’s processing plant. He was one of the people who drafted the regulations and rules, but he lasted less than a year because the salary was low and he had to put his father in the nursing home.
The office first began sending inspectors a few days after the female was brought to his house. The female, who at the time had no name, who was a number in a registry, a problem, one domestic head like so many others.
The inspector was young and didn’t know he’d worked for the undersecretary. He took the man to the barn where the female was lying on a blanket, tied up, naked. The inspector didn’t seem surprised and only asked if she’d been given the required vaccines.
“She was a gift and I’m still getting used to her being here. But she’s been vaccinated, I’ll get the papers for you.”
“You could always sell her. She’s an FGP, she’s worth a fortune. I have a list of interested buyers.”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet.”
“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. My only suggestion is to clean her up a little to prevent disease. Remember that if you decide to slaughter her, you’ll need to contact a specialist who’ll verify you’ve done so and notify us for our records. The same goes for selling her, or if she escapes, or if anything else happens that should be recorded, so we don’t have any issues down the road.”
“Okay, everything’s clear. If I want to slaughter her, I’m certified to do so. I work at a processing plant. How’s El Gordo Pineda doing?”
“You mean Señor Alfonso Pineda?”
“Yeah, El Gordo.”
“No one calls him that, he’s not fat, and he’s our boss.”
“So El Gordo’s a boss. That I can’t believe. I worked with him back when we were kids. Send him my regards.”
After that first visit, El Gordo Pineda himself called to say that the next time an inspector stopped by they’d only ask for his signature, so as not to bother him.
“Hi, Tejito. Imagine you of all people with a female.”
“Gordo, it’s been ages, man.”
“Hey, I’m not fat anymore! The wife’s got me drinking juice and other crap that healthy people eat. Now I’m thin and miserable. When are we gonna have ourselves a barbecue, Tejito?”
El Gordo Pineda had been his partner back when they’d started carrying out inspections of the first domestic head. The owners knew what was prohibited and what wasn’t, but they didn’t expect visits from inspectors and the two of them witnessed all sorts of things.
The regulations were adapted on the job. He remembers one case where a woman answered the door. They asked the woman about the female in the home; they needed to see her papers, verify that she’d been vaccinated, and take a look at her living conditions. The woman got nervous and said that her husband, the female’s owner, wasn’t home, and that they’d have to come back later. He looked at El Gordo and the two of them had the same thought. They moved the woman aside as she was trying to close the door and entered the house. She shouted that they weren’t allowed to come in, that it was illegal and she was going to call the police. El Gordo told her that they were authorized to do so and said she could call the police if she wanted to. They went from room to room but the female wasn’t there. Then it occurred to him to open closets, check under beds. Eventually they looked in the couple’s room. Underneath the bed was a wooden box with small wheels that was big enough to hold a person lying down. When they opened it, they saw the female, in what looked like a coffin, unable to move. They didn’t know what to do because regulations hadn’t been drafted for a case of this nature. The female was healthy, and though the wooden coffin wasn’t a conventional place to keep her, it wasn’t reason enough to fine the owner. When the woman walked into the room and saw they’d discovered the female, she broke down. She began to cry and told them that her husband had sex with the head and not with her, that she couldn’t take it anymore, she’d been replaced by an animal, and couldn’t bear the idea of sleeping with that disgusting creature under the bed. She was humiliated and if they sent her to the Municipal Slaughterhouse for being an accomplice she didn’t care, all she wanted was to go back to a normal life, to life before the Transition. With that statement, they were able to call the team in charge of examining head for evidence that they’d been “enjoyed,” which was the official word used in such cases. The regulations specify that reproduction of head is only permitted by artificial means. Semen must be purchased in special banks, and sample implantation must be carried out by qualified professionals. The whole process has to be documented and certified so that if a female is impregnated, the fetus already has an identification number. As such, domestic females should be virgins. Having sex with a head, enjoying her, is illegal and the sentence is death in the Municipal Slaughterhouse. The special team went to the house and confirmed that the female had been enjoyed “in every possible way.” The owner, a man of around sixty, was sentenced and sent directly to the Municipal Slaughterhouse. The woman was fined and the female confiscated and sold for a low price in an auction because of what is officially referred to as “proscribed enjoyment.”
He’s only had a few hours of sleep after the long drive from the game reserve when he wakes with a start. A car horn is honking. Jasmine, who’s at his side, looks at him, her eyes open wide. She’s used to keeping still, to watching him, because she sleeps all day and at night he needs her not to move much. That’s why he started tying her to the bed, and she got used to it. He doesn’t want Jasmine wandering through the house when he can’t keep an eye on her. He doesn’t want her to get hurt or for something to happen to his child.
He jumps out of bed and moves the curtain aside. A man in a suit is standing next to a car with the door open and bending down periodically to honk the horn.
It’s an inspector, he thinks.
He opens the front door, in pajamas, his face twisted with sleep.
“Señor Marcos Tejo?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m from the Office of the Undersecretary for the Control of Domestic Head. The last inspection was almost five months ago, is that right?”
“That’s correct. Show me where to sign so I can go back to sleep.”
The inspector looks at him with surprise at first, and then with authority, and, raising his voice, says, “Excuse me? Where’s the female, Señor Tejo?”
“Look, El Gordo Pineda called to tell me that you’d only need a signature. The last inspector didn’t have a problem.”
“You mean Señor Pineda? He doesn’t work in the department anymore.”
A shiver runs along his spine. He tries to think. If the inspector finds out that Jasmine is pregnant, they’ll send him to the Municipal Slaughterhouse. But worse still is they’ll take his child away.
He tries to buy himself some time to figure out what to do. “Why don’t you come in for some mate, I’m half asleep,” he says. “Just give me a few minutes to wake up.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have to get going. Where’s the female?”
“Come on, just for a bit. You can tell me what happened to Pineda,” he says, sweating, trying not to show he’s nervous.
The inspector hesitates and then says, “All right, but I can’t stay long.”
They sit down in the kitchen. He lights the stove and puts the kettle on the burner. As he’s getting the mate ready, he rambles on about the weather, and about how bad the roads are in the area, and asks the inspector if he likes the work. When he hands the man the mate, he says, “Will you give me a few minutes to wash my face? I got back from a long drive yesterday and I’ve had almost no sleep. You woke me up with all your honking.”
“But before I honked I was clapping my hands for a while.”
“Really? I apologize. I’m a de
ep sleeper, I didn’t hear a thing.”
The inspector is uncomfortable. It’s clear he wants to leave, but Pineda’s name drew him into the house and that’s what’s keeping him there.
With the inspector in the kitchen, he goes to his room and sees that Jasmine is still in bed. He closes the door and, as he walks to the bathroom to wash his face, thinks: What should I do? What should I say?
He returns to the kitchen and offers the inspector some biscuits. The man accepts them with distrust.
“Did they get rid of El Gordo Pineda?”
The inspector doesn’t answer right away. He tenses up. “How do you know him?” he asks.
“I used to work with him back when we were kids. We’re friends, we were inspectors at the same time. We did your job when hardly any of the regulations had been finalized, we were the ones who adapted them.”
The inspector seems to relax a little and looks at him with different eyes. With a degree of admiration. He helps himself to another biscuit and there’s a hint of what could be a smile on his face.
“I just started, I’ve been doing this for less than two months. They promoted Señor Pineda. I never worked for him, but I’m told he was a great boss.”
He’s relieved, but hides it. “Yeah, El Gordo’s something else. Just give me a second,” he says, and goes to his room to get his phone. He dials El Gordo’s number and returns to the kitchen.
“Gordo, how have you been? Look, I’m here with one of your inspectors. He wants me to show him the female, but the thing is I haven’t slept and she’s out in the barn, and I’d have to open it up—it’ll be a whole ordeal. Didn’t I just have to sign and that was that?”
He hands the phone to the inspector.
“Yes, sir. Of course. We hadn’t been informed. Right, from now on. Consider it taken care of.”
The inspector places the mate off to the side, searches in his briefcase, and pulls out a form and a pen. He smiles in a way that’s artificial, tense. It’s a smile that hides several questions and one threat: What are you doing with the female? Are you enjoying her? Are we talking illegal use of another’s property? Just you wait until El Gordo Pineda isn’t around anymore. Just you wait, you with your special privileges, you’re going to pay.
Tender Is the Flesh Page 12
