Tender is the Flesh(33)
He finds it difficult to determine Urlet’s age. The man is one of those people who seems to have been part of the world since the beginning, but who have a certain vitality, and as a result appear young. Forty, fifty, Urlet could be seventy. Impossible to know.
Urlet remains silent and looks at him.
He thinks that Urlet collects words in addition to trophies. They’re worth as much to the man as a head hanging on the wall. His Spanish is near perfect and he expresses himself in a precious manner. Urlet selects each word as though the wind would carry it away if he didn’t, as though his sentences could be vitrified in the air, and he could take hold of them and lock them away with a key in some piece of furniture, but not just any piece, an antique, an art nouveau piece with glass doors.
Urlet left Romania after the Transition. The hunting of humans was prohibited there and he’d owned a game reserve for animals. He wanted to stay in the business and decided to move elsewhere.
He never knows what to say to Urlet. The man looks at him as though in expectation of some revelatory sentence or lucid word, but he just wants to leave. He says the first thing that comes to mind nervously, because he can’t hold Urlet’s gaze, nor can he stop the feeling that inside this man there’s a presence, something clawing at his body, trying to get out.
“Sure, it must be fascinating to eat something that’s alive.”
Urlet makes a slight movement with his mouth. It’s a gesture of contempt. He sees this clearly and recognizes it as such because on every visit, at some point during their conversation, Urlet finds a way to make his displeasure known. Displeasure at this man who repeats his words or who has nothing new to add or whose responses don’t allow for further elaboration. But Urlet’s gestures are measured and he takes care to ensure they go almost unnoticed. He smiles right away and says, “Indeed, my dear cavaler.”
Urlet never uses his name and always addresses him with formality. He calls him cavaler, Romanian for gentleman.
It’s daytime, but in Urlet’s office, behind the imposing desk of black wood, behind the chair that looks like a throne, below the stuffed heads and photographs, are lit candles. As though the space were a great altar, as though the heads were holy objects from some private religion, Urlet’s religion, dedicated to the collection of humans, words, photographs, flavours, souls, meats, books, presences.
The walls of the office are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with old books. Most of the titles are in Romanian, and though he’s at a distance he can make out a few: Necronomicon, The Book of Saint Cyprian, Enchiridion of Pope Leo, The Grand Grimoire, Book of the Dead.
They hear the laughter of the hunters returning from the game reserve.
Urlet gives him the paperwork for the next order. He can’t help but shudder when one of the man’s fingernails grazes his hand. He pulls it away quickly, unable to hide his disgust, unwilling to look Urlet in the eye, because he’s afraid that the presence, the entity that lives under the man’s skin, will cease clawing at him and be set free. Is it the soul of a being Urlet ate alive, one that got trapped inside him, he wonders.
He looks at the order and sees the red circle Urlet has drawn around “impregnated females”.
“I don’t want any more females that haven’t been impregnated. They’re idiotic and submissive.”
“That’s fine. Impregnated females cost three times as much. From four months on, the cost goes up further.”
“Not a problem. I want a few with the fetus developed, so it can be eaten afterwards.”
“That’s fine. I see you’ve increased the number of males.”
“The males you deliver are the best on the market. They’re increasingly agile and intelligent, as if that were possible.”
An assistant knocks softly on the door. Urlet tells him to come in. The assistant goes up to Urlet and whispers something in his ear. Urlet gestures to the man, who leaves in silence, closing the door behind him.
Still seated, uncomfortable, unsure what to do, he sees the assistant leave and the smile that forms on Urlet’s face. Urlet taps the table with his nails slowly. He doesn’t stop grinning.
“My dear cavaler, fate has smiled down upon me. Some time ago, I implemented a programme that allows celebrities who have fallen from grace by amassing large debts to settle their accounts here.”
“What do you mean? I don’t follow.”
Urlet takes another sip of wine. He waits a few seconds before answering.
“They are required to remain on the game reserve for one week, three days or a few hours, depending on the amount they owe, and if the hunters aren’t able to get them, and they survive the adventure, I guarantee the cancellation of all of their debt.”
“So they’re willing to die because they owe money?”
“There are people willing to do atrocious things for a lot less, cavaler. Like hunting someone who’s famous and eating them.”
Urlet’s answer perplexes him. He never would have thought the man capable of judging someone for eating a person. “Does this pose a moral dilemma for you? Do you find it atrocious?” he asks.
“Not at all. The human being is complex and I find the vile acts, contradictions and sublimities characteristic of our condition astonishing. Our existence would be an exasperating shade of grey if we were all flawless.”
“But then why do you consider it atrocious?”