Ana Paula Maia

Animals go mad and men die (accidentally and not) at a slaughterhouse in an impoverished, isolated corner of Brazil.

In a landscape worthy of Cormac McCarthy, the river runs septic with blood. Edgar Wilson makes the sign of the cross on the forehead of a cow, then stuns it with a mallet. He does this over and over again, as the stun operator at Senhor Milo’s slaughterhouse: reliable, responsible, quietly dispatching cows and following orders, wherever that may take him. It’s important to calm the cows, especially now that they seem so unsettled: they have begun to run in panic into walls and over cliffs. Bronco Gil, the foreman, thinks it’s a jaguar or a wild boar. Edgar Wilson has other suspicions. But what is certain is that there is something in this desolate corner of Brazil driving men, and animals, to murder and madness.

Of Cattle And Men

Laura Dobie

As he continues on his way, Edgar Wilson's thoughts are fixed on the darkness of the ruminants' eyes, endeavouring to locate some small sign that might unveil the mystery. However hard he tries, his imagination casts no light: neither on the darkness of those unfathomable eyes, nor on the darkness that cloaks his own wickedness.

His duty done, he goes to the kitchen and fries up the burgers. Together with his co-workers, they eat the whole box in astonishment. Round and seasoned like that, they don't even look like they had ever been a cow. Not one glimpse of the unbridled horror behind something so tender and delicious.

‘This is a pretty lucrative business,’ he says, choking on the smoke. He catches his breath and continues: 'As long as there's a cow in this world, there'll be a guy willing to kill it.’

'And another one willing to eat it,’ Edgar Wilson concludes after a long drag. He exhales the cigarette smoke, releasing not only everything in his lungs, but all the disquiet in his heart. Even the clouds in his thoughts dissipate.

For a few moments, Edgar Wilson yields to the late afternoon sun that has not yet fully set, but that is rushing headlong into a moonless, starless night. He knows how to listen in silence, even when others are just sighing or snorting. Life in the country has made him like the runinants, and being a cattleman, he is able to strike a perfect balance between the fears of irrational beings and the abominable reverie of those who dominate them.

When night falls, the residents of Ruminant Valley tend to shut their doors and windows tight. They believe that everything that seems improbable during the day can overcome the darkness. It's when thoughts that were once impossible become possible; when hushed whispers swell, and above all, when that layer of darkness cloaks anything suspicious. The figures, the voids, long shadows, all of it brought on by the night, which is immense, and its reaches infinite.

“What's it like killing cattle all day long? Don't you think this is murder? Don't you think that slaughtering these animals is a crime?”

Edgar turns toward the voice and comes face-to- face with that pair of eyes with dilated pupils, protected by thick, red-rimmed glasses. The young woman, dressed in a long skirt and a white button-down blouse, constantly makes notes in a black notebook. Edgar looks at her two-tone, black and brown leather shoes.They have a silver buckle on the side. They're delicate and clean. He thinks of Burunga’s daughter, who needs glasses for her bad eyes. 

'Food is what attracts animals and makes them nice and tame,’ says Edgar Wilson. 

‘For that very reason, Edgar. How could that cow go nuts just like that? They're locked up in there. eating and drinking... just waiting to die,’ says Vladimir. 

‘But they don't know that,’ replies Helmuth. 

‘How can you be sure they don't?' asks Edgar Wilson.

‘I warned him about drinking that damn cow-dung mushroom tea. Said it was gonna drive him crazy. I told him.’

‘There'll always be a bunch of people willing to eat it. But not to kill it. Only folks like you and me, boy. Only folks like us.’

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