Tender Is the Flesh

by Agustina Bazterrica

His brain warns him that there are words that cover up the world. There are words that are convenient, hygienic. Legal.

the screams of a pig being skinned could petrify you, but hearing protectors were used and eventually it became just one more sound.

Many people have normalized what the media insist on calling the “Transition.”

Change, transformation, shift: synonyms that appear to mean the same thing, though the choice of one over the other speaks to a distinct view of the world. They’ve all normalized cannibalism, he thinks. Cannibalism, another word that could cause him major problems.

Unable to bear the heat, he decides to shower.

In some countries, immigrants began to disappear in large numbers. Immigrants, the marginalized, the poor. They were persecuted and eventually slaughtered. Legalization occurred when the governments gave in to pressure from a big-money industry that had come to a halt. They adapted the processing plants and regulations. Not long after, they began to breed people as animals to supply the massive demand for meat.

He believes in a theory that some people have tried to talk about. But those who have done so publicly have been silenced. The most eminent zoologist, whose articles claimed the virus was a lie, had an opportune accident. He thinks it was all staged to reduce overpopulation.

The purge had resulted in other benefits: the population and poverty had been reduced, and there was meat.

Professors and researchers at prestigious universities claimed that animal protein was necessary to live, doctors confirmed that plant protein didn’t contain all the essential amino acids, experts assured that methane emissions from cattle had been reduced but malnutrition was on the rise, magazines published articles on the dark side of vegetables.

No one can call them humans because that would mean giving them an identity. They call them product, or meat, or food. Except for him; he would prefer not to have to call them by any name.

The doctors diagnosed him with senile dementia, but he knows his father couldn’t handle the Transition. Many people suffered an acute depression and gave up on life, others dissociated themselves from reality, some simply committed suicide.

silence. At first glance it seems almost transcendental, a Zen-like silence, but it’s Señor Urami, who’s observing them from up in his office. Not only does he watch the employees and monitor their work, he has cameras all over the tannery.

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 Señor Urami.

He thinks that Señor Urami needs to reaffirm reality through words, as though words created and maintain the world in which he lives.

Señor Urami points his finger at a very white sample with marks on it. He says it’s one of the most valuable skins, though a large percentage of it had to be discarded because there were deep wounds. He repeats that he’s only able to conceal superficial wounds. Señor 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 center and it would be clear which skins they have to be most careful with.

Señor Urami’s words construct a small, controlled world that’s full of cracks. A world that could fracture with one inappropriate word.

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 Señor Urami. He wishes these words could rip open the man’s smile, perforate the regulated silence, compress the air until it chokes both of them.

But he remains silent and smiles.

Señor Urami stops and tells him he wants black skins. Out of nowhere, with no explanation.

Rumor has it he assassinated and flayed people before the Transition, that the walls of his house are covered in human skin, that he keeps people in his basement, and that it gives him great pleasure to flay them alive. He doesn’t understand why the employees tell him these things. All of it’s possible, he thinks, but the only thing he knows for certain is that Señor Urami runs his business with a reign of terror and that it works.

He knows why he does this work. Because he’s the best and they pay him accordingly, because he doesn’t know how to do anything

else, and because his father’s health depends on it.

He sees Egmont nod and can’t help but think of the irony. The meat that eats meat.

FGPs are head born and bred in captivity. They haven’t been genetically modified or given injections to accelerate their growth.

This one’s a teaser stud, he says, because even though he’s not castrated, and he tries to inseminate the females and mounts them, he’s not used for breeding. El Gringo tells the German that he calls the stud a teaser because he detects the females that are ready for fertilization. The other studs are the ones destined to fill plastic containers with semen that will then be collected for artificial insemination. The device translates.

“This male is capable of detecting when a female is in silent heat and he leaves her in optimal condition for me. We realized that when the stud mounts a female, she’s more willing to be inseminated. But he’s had a vasectomy, so he can’t impregnate her; we’ve got to have genetic control. In any case, he’s examined regularly. He’s clean and vaccinated.”

He sees the way the space fills with El Gringo’s words. They’re light words, they weigh nothing. They’re words he feels mix with others that are incomprehensible, the mechanical words spoken by an artificial voice, a voice that doesn’t know that all these words can conceal him, even suffocate him.

As he watches El Gringo respond to Egmont, he sees the way questions arise and get clogged in the man’s brain: How is Egmont capable of comparing himself to a head? How could he want to be one of them, an animal? After a long and uncomfortable silence, El Gringo answers, “It’s short-lived, when the stud’s of no more use, he’s sent to the processing plant like the rest.”

beads of sweat slide down his forehead and are held up, just barely, in the pits of his face.

He’s surprised it’s so quiet. El Gringo tells him they’re isolated in incubators from when they’re little, and later on in cages. He says their vocal cords are removed so they’re easier to control. “No one wants them to talk because meat doesn’t talk,” he says. “They do communicate, but with simplified language. We know if they’re cold, hot, the basics.”

His gaze is opaque, as though behind the impossibility of uttering words madness lurks.

He feels the heat, the sweat, coming off this hand that’s starting to dampen

his shirt.

He thinks: Merchandise, another word that obscures the world.

They pass the dairy-head sector. Machines are suctioning the females’ udders, that’s what El Gringo calls them, and into the device he says, “The milk from these udders is top-quality.” El Gringo offers them both a glass, which only Egmont accepts, and says, “Recently milked.” He explains that these females are skittish and have a short productive life. They get stressed easily, and when they’re no longer of use their meat has to be sent to the processing plant that supplies the fast-food industry, that way he can maximize profit. The German nods and says, “Sehr schmackhaft,” and the machine translates, “Very tasty.”

On the way to the exit, they pass the barn where the impregnated females are kept. Some are in cages, others lie on tables. They have no arms or legs.

He looks away. He knows that at many breeding centers it’s common practice to maim the impregnated females, who otherwise would kill their fetuses by ramming their stomachs against the bars of their cage, or by not eating, doing whatever it takes to pr...

The specialists studied medicine, he thinks, but when their job is to examine the lots at breeding centers, no one calls them doctors.

“No one expects them to travel first class, but don’t pile them up like bags of flour, because they faint, or hit their heads, and if they die, who pays? And also, they get injured and then the tanneries pay less for the leather. The boss isn’t happy about this either.”

The smell of barbecue is in the air. They go to the rest area, where the farmhands are roasting a rack of meat on a cross. El Gringo

explains to Egmont that they’ve been preparing it since eight in the morning, “So it melts in your mouth,” and that the guys are actually about to eat a kid. “It’s the most tender kind of meat, there’s only just a little, because a kid doesn’t weigh as much as a calf. We’re celebrating because one of the farmhands became a father,” he explains. “Want a sandwich?”

One of the farmhands cuts off a piece of kid meat and makes two sandwiches. He adds a spicy sauce that’s reddish orange in color.

“Gringo, I need black skin.” “I’m actually just negotiating to have a lot brought over from Africa, Tejo. You’re not the first to put in a request.” “I’ll confirm the number of head later.” “Apparently some famous designer is making clothes with black leather now and demand is going to skyrocket this winter.”

He can’t bear the way the man’s words accumulate in the air.

He makes a gesture of apology and under his breath says, “Entschuldigung,” and then smiles. The machine doesn’t translate. From the corner of his mouth, the orange sauce slowly falls and begins to drip onto his white sneakers.

Excuse me

Products with sweet, innocent animals on them are no longer sold. They’ve been replaced by little boats, dainty flowers, fairies, gnomes.

He used to have dogs that would chase after cars and bark at them. Their absence has left a silence that’s oppressive, complete.

“Gringo, what did you send me?” “A gift.” “I kill head, I don’t breed them, okay?” “Just keep her for a few days and then we’ll have ourselves a barbecue.”

Spanel, because the heat of the concrete makes it hard to breathe,

One again, the mention of heat. It’s omnipresent and oppressive. Just like his existence/job/the world post Transition

Before the Transition, the butcher shops were staffed by poorly paid employees. They were often forced by the owners to adulterate the meat so it could be sold after it had begun to rot.