Tender is the Flesh(13)

Nélida goes to get the forms.

His father barely speaks now. He emits sounds. Complaints.

The words are there, encapsulated. They’re rotting behind the madness.

He sits down in the armchair and looks out the window. Then he takes his father’s hand. His father looks at him as though he doesn’t know him, but neither does he pull his hand away.





9




He arrives at the processing plant. It’s isolated and surrounded by electric fencing. They had it put up because Scavengers kept trying to get in. Before the fence was electrified, the Scavengers would break it, climb over it and cut themselves just to get fresh meat. Now they make do with the leftovers, the pieces that don’t have commercial use, with the diseased meat, with what no one would eat, except them.

Before going into the plant, he sits in the car for a few seconds and looks at the complex of buildings. They’re white, compact, efficient. There’s nothing to indicate that inside them, humans are killed. He remembers the photos of the Salamone Slaughterhouse his mother showed him. The building was destroyed, but the fa?ade remains intact, the word “Slaughterhouse” striking out in silence. Huge and alone, the word resisted, didn’t disappear. It held out, refusing to be broken down by the weather, by the wind that perforated the stone, by the climate that ate away at the fa?ade that his mother told him had an art deco influence. The grey letters stand out against the backdrop of the sky. It doesn’t matter what the sky looks like, if it’s an oppressive blue, or full of clouds, or a rabid black, the word remains, the word that speaks to the implacable truth behind a beautiful building. “Slaughterhouse” because there, slaughter took place. His mother had wanted to renovate the fa?ade of the Cypress Processing Plant, but his father wouldn’t agree to it. He felt that a slaughterhouse should go unnoticed and blend in with the landscape, that it should never be called what it really is.

The security guard who works mornings, a man named Oscar, is reading the paper. When Oscar sees him sitting in the car, he closes the paper right away and waves nervously. Oscar opens the door for him and says, in a voice that’s a bit forced, “Good morning, Se?or Tejo, how are you doing?” He acknowledges the security guard with a movement of the head.

He gets out of the car. Before going in, he has a smoke, his arms propped up on the car roof, still, watching. He wipes the sweat off his forehead.

There’s nothing in the vicinity of the processing plant. Nothing that can be seen with the naked eye. There’s a space that’s been cleared except for a few solitary trees and a rank creek. He’s hot, but he smokes slowly, stretching out the minutes before he enters the plant.

He goes straight up to Krieg’s office. A few employees greet him on the way. He responds almost without looking at them. He kisses the secretary, Mari, on the cheek. She offers him some coffee and says, “I’ll get that for you in just a second, Marcos, I’m really glad to see you. Se?or Krieg was starting to get nervous. It happens every time you’re on the meat run.” He enters the office without knocking and sits down without asking permission. Krieg is on the phone. He smiles and motions that he’ll be right with him.

Krieg’s words are hard-hitting but scarce. He says little and speaks slowly.

He’s one of those people who’s not made for life. His face looks like a portrait that turned out all wrong, one the artist crumpled up and tossed into the dustbin. He’s someone who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere. He’s not interested in human contact, which is why he had his office remodelled. First he isolated it, so that only his secretary could hear him and see him. Then he added another door. The door opens to a staircase that takes him straight to the private car park behind the plant. The employees see him infrequently, or not at all.

Working for Krieg, he’s seen how the man runs the business to perfection: when it comes to numbers and transactions, he’s the best. If it’s a question of abstract concepts, market trends, statistics, Krieg excels. He’s only interested in edible humans, heads, the product. What he’s not interested in is people. He hates saying hello to them, making small talk about the cold or the heat, having to listen to their problems, learn their names, keep track of who’s on leave or who’s had a child. That’s why Krieg needs him. He’s the one they all respect and like because none of them knows him, not really. Few of them know he lost a child, that his wife has left, that his father is collapsing into a dark and demented silence.

No one knows he’s incapable of killing the female in his barn.





10




Krieg hangs up.

“I have two job applicants waiting. Didn’t you see them when you came in?”

“No.”

“I want you to give them the test. I’m only interested in hiring the better of the two.”

“Got it.”

“When that’s done give me the updates. This is more pressing.”

He gets up to leave but Krieg motions for him to sit down again.

“There’s something else. An employee was found with a female.”

“Who?”

“One of the night guards.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it. They’re not my responsibility.”

“I’m letting you know because I’m going to have to change the security company again.”