Tender is the Flesh(46)

“Come in. Help yourself to whatever you like.”

When he goes into the dining room, he sees that the guests have gathered around the table. It’s been pushed up against the wall and different dishes have been placed on it so people can serve themselves. His sister carries the urn to a smaller table where there’s a transparent box that looks to be made of etched glass. She places the urn inside the box carefully, with a degree of grandiloquence, so people can see how much she respects her father. Next to the box is an electronic picture frame with images of him changing on the screen, a vase of flowers and a basket full of party favours with his photo and the date of his birth and death on them. The photos have been retouched. He can’t recall there being any shots of his father with his sister and her family, or hugging her kids, because they never went to see him at the nursing home. In another photo, his sister and father are at the zoo. He remembers that day, his sister was a baby. She’s erased him from the photo and inserted herself into it. People approach her and offer their condolences. She takes out a handkerchief and raises it to her tearless eyes.

He doesn’t know anyone. And he’s not hungry. He sits down in an armchair and looks at the people in the room. He sees his niece and nephew in a corner, dressed in black, looking at their phones. They see him but don’t greet him. He doesn’t feel like getting up to talk to them either. People look bored. They eat things from the table, talk quietly. He hears a tall man in a suit who looks like he might be a lawyer or an accountant, say to another guest, “The price of meat has really dropped recently. Special beef goes for a lot less than it did two months ago. I read this article that said the drop in prices has to do with the fact that India’s officially decided to sell and export special meat. It was prohibited before and now they’re selling it for hardly anything.”

The man he’s talking to, who’s bald and has a forgettable face, laughs and says, “Well, yeah, there are millions of them. Wait till people start eating them and then the prices will stabilize.” An older woman stops in front of his father’s urn and looks at the photos. She picks up one of the party favours and inspects it. She smells it and then tosses it back into the basket. The woman sees a cockroach on the wall. It’s crawling very close to the electronic picture frame where the fake photos of his father continue to change on the screen. She panics, steps back and leaves. The cockroach crawls into the basket of party favours.

Except for him, there isn’t a single person in the place who knows his father was captivated by birds, that he was passionately in love with his wife and when she died, something in him went out for good.

His sister walks back and forth with short, quick steps, taking care of the guests. He hears her talking to someone and say, “It’s based on the technique of death by a thousand cuts. That’s right, it’s from that book that just came out. The best-seller. I have no idea, my husband’s the one who takes care of it.” What could his sister possibly know about a form of Chinese torture? He stands up and moves closer so he can keep listening, but she heads to the kitchen. When he goes over to the food table, he sees a silver platter containing an arm that’s being filleted. He doesn’t doubt that the arm is oven roasted. It’s surrounded by lettuce and radishes that have been cut to resemble tiny lotus flowers. The guests try the arm and say, “It’s exquisite, really fresh. Marisa’s such a great hostess. You can tell how much she loved her father.” Then he remembers the cold room.

He goes towards the kitchen, but in the hallway he runs into his sister.

“Where are you going, Marquitos?”

“To the kitchen.”

“Why are you going to the kitchen? I’ll get you anything you need.”

He doesn’t answer and keeps walking. She grabs him by the arm, but then lets go because the person who was calling her from the dining room has just come up to her to talk.

When he reaches the kitchen, it’s as if he’s been struck by a smell that’s rancid, if fleeting. He walks towards the door to the cold room. He looks inside and sees a head without an arm. “So she got herself a female, that skank,” he thinks. Domestic heads are a status symbol in the city; they give a household prestige. He looks at the head more closely and when he makes out a few sets of initials, he realizes she’s an FGP. Off to the side on the countertop, he sees a book. His sister doesn’t have books. The book’s title is Domestic Heads: Your Guide to Death by a Thousand Cuts. There are red and brown stains in the book. He feels he might vomit. Of course, he thinks, she’s going to carve the head up slowly, serving pieces every time she hosts an event. The death by a thousand cuts thing must be some sort of trend if all her guests are talking about it. An activity for the whole family, cutting up the living being in the fridge, based on a thousand-year-old form of Chinese torture. The domestic head looks at him sadly. He tries to open the door, but it’s locked.

“What are you doing?”

His sister has returned, holding an empty platter in her hands and taps the floor with her right foot. He turns around and sees her there. That’s when he feels the stone in his chest shatter.

“You disgust me.”

She looks at him, her expression between shocked and indignant.

“How can you say that to me, today of all days. And what’s been going on with you lately? You’ve had this preoccupied look on your face.”