Tender is the Flesh(6)

Egmont doesn’t say anything. Neither of them does. El Gringo dries his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. They leave the office.

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 centres it’s common practice to maim the impregnated females who otherwise kill their fetuses by ramming their stomachs against the bars of their cage, or by not eating, by doing whatever it takes to prevent their babies from being born and dying in a processing plant. If only they knew, he thinks.

El Gringo quickens his step and says things to Egmont, who doesn’t see the impregnated females on the tables.

The adjoining barn houses the kids in their incubators. The German stops to look at the machines. He takes pictures.

“Tejo,” El Gringo says, approaching him, his sticky sweat giving off a sickly odour. “What you told me about the FSA is concerning. I’ll give the specialists another call tomorrow and have them come in to examine the heads. If you get one that needs to be discarded, let me know and I’ll discount it.”

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

“Another thing, Gringo, you’ll have to stop skimping on transport lorries. The other day two arrived half-dead.”

El Gringo nods.

“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.”

He gives El Gringo the folder of samples from Se?or Urami. “You’ll have to be especially careful with the lightest skins. I’ll leave this folder with you for a few weeks so you can take a good look at the value of each sample, and treat the most expensive skins with extra care.”

El Gringo goes red. “Point taken, it won’t happen again. A truck broke down and I piled them up a little more than usual to get the order in.”

They walk through another barn. El Gringo opens one of the cages. He takes out a female with a rope around her neck.

He opens her mouth. She looks cold, is trembling.

“Look at this set of teeth. Perfectly healthy,” El Gringo says. He raises her arms and opens her legs. Egmont moves closer to take a look. El Gringo speaks into the machine: “It’s important to invest in vaccines and medication to keep them healthy. A lot of antibiotics. All of my heads have their papers up to date and in order.”

The German looks at her closely. He walks around, crouches down, looks at her feet, spreads her toes. He speaks into the device, which translates, “Is she one of the purified generation?”

El Gringo suppresses a smile. “No, she’s not Generation Pure. She’s been genetically modified to grow a lot faster, and we complement that with special food and injections.”

“But does that change her flavour?”

“Her meat is quite tasty. Of course, FGP is upper-grade meat, but the quality of this meat is excellent.”

El Gringo takes out a device that looks like a tube. Tejo is familiar with it. He uses it at the processing plant. El Gringo places one end of the tube on the female’s arm. He presses a button and she opens her mouth in pain. It leaves a wound no bigger than a millimetre on her arm, but it bleeds. El Gringo gestures to an employee who approaches to dress the wound.

Inside the tube there’s a piece of meat from the female’s arm. It’s stretched out and very small, no bigger than half a finger. El Gringo hands it to the German and tells him to give it a try. The German hesitates. But after a few seconds, he tries it and smiles.

“Quite tasty, isn’t it? And what you’ve got there is a solid hunk of protein,” El Gringo says into the machine, which translates.

The German nods.

“This is prime-grade meat, Tejo,” El Gringo says in a low voice, approaching him.

“If you send us a head or two with tough meat, I can cover for you; the boss knows the stunners can slip up when they strike, but there’s no screwing around with the FSA.”

“Right, of course.”

“They used to accept bribes when it was pigs and cows, but today, forget about it. You have to understand that they’re all paranoid because of the virus. They’ll file a claim against you and shut down your plant.”

El Gringo nods. He takes the rope and puts the female in the cage. She loses her balance and falls into the hay.

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 them became a father,” he explains. “Want a sandwich?”