Tender is the Flesh(19)
He had to fire Ency because someone who’s been broken can’t be fixed. He did speak to Krieg and make sure he arranged and paid for psychological care. But within a month, Ency had shot himself. His wife and kids had to leave the neighbourhood, and since then Manzanillo has looked at him with genuine hatred. He respects Manzanillo for it. He thinks it’ll be cause for concern when the man stops looking at him this way, when the hatred doesn’t keep him going any longer. Because hatred gives one strength to go on; it maintains the fragile structure, it weaves the threads together so that emptiness doesn’t take over everything. He wishes he could hate someone for the death of his son. But who can he blame for a sudden death? He tried to hate God but he doesn’t believe in God. He tried to hate all of humanity for being so fragile and ephemeral but he couldn’t keep it up because hating everyone is the same as hating no one. He also wishes he could break like Ency, but his collapse never comes.
The shorter applicant is quiet, his face is pressed up against the window and he’s watching the bodies being cut in two. There’s a smile on his face that he no longer bothers to hide. He wishes he could feel what this man does. He wishes he could feel happiness, or excitement, when he promotes a worker who used to wash blood off the floor to a position of sorting and storing organs in boxes. Or he wishes he could at least be indifferent to it all. He looks at the applicant more closely and sees he’s hiding a phone under his jacket. How could this have happened if security pats them down, asks for their phones and tells them they can’t film anything or take pictures? He goes up to the man and grabs hold of the phone. He throws it to the ground and breaks it. Then he grabs him forcefully by the arm and, containing his fury, says into his ear, “Don’t come here again. I’m going to send your contact info and photo to all the processing plants I know.” The man turns around to face him and at no point does he show surprise, or embarrassment, or say a word. He looks at him brazenly and smiles.
15
He takes the applicants to the exit. But first he calls the head of security and tells him to come get the shorter man. He explains what happened and the security guard tells him not to worry, he’ll take care of it. They’ll need to have a talk, he tells the guard, since this shouldn’t have happened. He makes a mental note to discuss it with Krieg. Outsourcing security personnel is a mistake, he’s already told Krieg this. He’ll have to tell him again.
The shorter applicant is no longer smiling, but neither does he put up a fight when he’s taken away.
He says goodbye to the taller man with a handshake, adding, “You’ll be hearing from us.” The man thanks him without much conviction. It’s always this way, he thinks, but any other response would be abnormal.
No one who’s in their right mind would be happy to do this job.
16
He steps outside for a cigarette before going up to give Krieg the reports. His phone rings. It’s his mother-in-law. He answers the call and says, “Hi, Graciela,” without looking at the screen. On the other end there’s silence, at once serious and intense. That’s when he realizes it’s Cecilia.
“Hi, Marcos.”
It’s the first time she’s called since she went to stay with her mother. She looks haggard.
“Hi.” He knows it’s going to be a difficult conversation and takes another drag on his cigarette.
“How are you?”
“I’m here at the plant. What about you?”
There’s a pause before she answers. A long pause. “I see you’re there,” she says, though she’s not looking at the screen. For a few seconds, she’s quiet. Then she speaks, but she doesn’t look him in the eye. “I’m not well,” she says, “still not well. I don’t think I’m ready to come back.”
“Why don’t you let me come visit?”
“I need to be alone.”
“I miss you.”
The words are a black hole, a hole that absorbs every sound, every particle, every breath. She doesn’t answer.
He says, “It happened to me too. I lost him too.”
She cries silently. She covers the screen with one hand, and he hears her whisper, “I can’t take any more.” A pit opens up and he’s free-falling, everywhere there are sharp edges. She gives the phone to her mother.
“Hi, Marcos. She’s having a really tough time, forgive her.”
“It’s okay, Graciela.”
“Take care, Marcos. She’ll get there.”
They hang up.
He stays where he is for a little while longer. The employees walk by and look at him, but he doesn’t care. He’s in one of the rest areas, outdoors, where you can smoke. He watches the treetops move in the wind that alleviates the heat a little. He likes the rhythm, the sound of the leaves brushing against each other. There are only a few trees—four surrounded by nothing—but they’re right next to each other.
He knows Cecilia will never get better. He knows she’s broken, that the pieces of her have no way of mending.
The first thing he thinks of is the medicine they’d kept in the fridge. How they’d brought it home in a special container, taking care not to break the cold chain, hopeful, deeply in debt. He thinks of the first time she asked him to give her an injection in the stomach. She’d given millions of them, trillions, countless injections, but she’d wanted him to inaugurate the ritual, the start of it all. His hand had trembled a little because he hadn’t wanted it to hurt, but she’d said, “Go on, dear, just put the needle in, go on, you’ve got this, it’s no big deal.” She’d grabbed a fold in her stomach and he’d put the needle in and it had hurt, the medicine was cold and she’d felt it enter her body, but she’d hidden it with a smile because it was the beginning of possibility, of the future.