Tender is the Flesh(3)
He goes up to Se?or Urami’s office. There’s never a wait. Invariably two Japanese secretaries greet him and serve him red tea in a transparent mug, not bothering to ask if he’d like any. He thinks that Se?or Urami doesn’t look at people, and instead measures them. The owner of the tannery is always smiling and he feels that when this man observes him, what he’s really doing is calculating how many metres of skin he can remove in one piece if he slaughters him, flays him and removes his flesh on the spot.
The office is simple, sleek, but on the wall hangs a cheap reproduction of Michelangelo’s The Last Judgement. He’s seen the print many times, but it’s only today that he notices the person holding flayed skin. Se?or Urami observes him, sees the disconcerted look on his face and, guessing his thoughts, says that the man is Saint Bartholomew, a martyr who was flayed to death, that it’s a colourful detail, doesn’t he think. He nods but doesn’t say a word because he thinks it’s an unnecessary detail.
Se?or Urami talks, recites, as though he were revealing a series of indisputable truths to a large audience. His lips glisten with saliva; they’re the lips of a fish, or a toad. There’s a dampness to him, a zigzag to his movements. There’s something eel-like about Se?or Urami. All he can do is look at the owner of the tannery in silence, because essentially, it’s the same speech every time. He thinks that Se?or Urami needs to reaffirm reality through words, as though words created and maintain the world in which he lives. This he imagines in silence, while the walls of the office slowly begin to disappear, the floor dissolves and the Japanese secretaries vanish into the air, evaporate. All of this he sees because it’s what he wants, but it’ll never happen because Se?or Urami is talking about numbers, about the new chemicals and dyes being tested at the tannery, and telling him, as though he didn’t already know it, how difficult it is now with this product, that he misses working with cow skin. Although, he clarifies, human skin is the smoothest in nature because it has the finest grain. He picks up the phone and says something in Japanese. One of the secretaries comes in with a huge folder. Se?or Urami opens it and displays samples of different types of skins. He touches them as though they were ceremonial objects, explaining how to avoid defects when the lot is wounded in transit, which happens because human skin is more delicate. This is the first time Se?or Urami has shown him the folder. He looks at the samples of skins that have been placed in front of him, but doesn’t touch them. With his finger, Se?or Urami points to a very white sample with marks on it. He says it’s one of the most valuable skins, though a large percentage had to be discarded because there were deep wounds. He repeats that he’s only able to conceal superficial wounds. Se?or Urami says that this folder was put together especially for him, so he could show it to the people at the processing plant and breeding centre, and it would be clear which skins they have to be most careful with. Se?or Urami stands up, gets a printout from a drawer, hands it to him and says that he’s already sent off the new design, though it still has to be perfected because of the importance of the cut at the moment of flaying, since a poorly made cut means metres of leather wasted, and the cut needs to be symmetrical. Se?or Urami picks up the phone again. A secretary comes in with a transparent teapot. He gestures to the secretary and she serves more tea. Se?or Urami continues to talk to him with words that are measured, harmonious. He picks up the mug, takes a sip, though he doesn’t want any. Se?or Urami’s words construct a small, controlled world that’s full of cracks. A world that could fracture with one inappropriate word. He talks about the essential importance of the flaying machine, how if it’s not calibrated correctly it can rip the skin, of how the fresh skin he’s sent from the processing plant requires further refrigeration so that subsequent flesh removal is not as cumbersome, of the need for the lots to be well hydrated so the skin doesn’t dry out and crack, of having to talk to the people at the breeding centre about this because they’re not following the liquid diet, of how stunning needs to be carried out with precision because if the product is slaughtered carelessly, it’ll show on the skin, which gets tough and is more difficult to work with because, he points out, “Everything is reflected in the skin, it’s the largest organ in the body.” His smile never fading, Se?or Urami exaggerates the pronunciation of this sentence in Spanish, and with it, ends his speech, following it with a measured silence.
He knows he doesn’t have to say anything to this man, just agree, but there are words that strike at his brain, accumulate, cause damage. He wishes he could say atrocity, inclemency, excess, sadism to Se?or Urami. He wishes these words could rip open the man’s smile, perforate the regulated silence, compress the air until it chokes them.
But he remains silent and smiles.
Se?or Urami never accompanies him out, but this time they walk downstairs together. Before he leaves, Se?or Urami stops him next to a tank of whitewash to monitor an employee handling skins that are still covered in hair. They must be from a breeding centre, he thinks, because the skins from the processing plant are completely hairless. Se?or Urami makes a gesture. The manager appears and proceeds to yell at a worker who’s removing the flesh from a fresh skin. It seems he’s doing a poor job. To justify the employee’s apparent inefficiency, the manager tries to explain to Se?or Urami that the fleshing machine’s roller is broken and that they’re not used to manual flesh removal. Se?or Urami interrupts him with another gesture. The manager bows and leaves.