Of Cattle and Men

Edgar Wilson is satisfied with his new colleague’s work and realises how right he was to have dumped Zeca at the bottom of the river. So far no one has come looking for him. In those places where blood mixes with soil and water, it’s difficult to make any sort of distinction between man and animal.

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.

Some of the cows are facing west instead of north. That’s no good.’ ‘But why, Edgar? What does it matter which way they graze?’ ‘They only graze to the north, and some of them have been facing west for days.’ ‘And what does that mean?’ ‘That there’s something very wrong going on.’ ‘What do you think it is?’ ‘I don’t know… I’ve never seen this happen… they’ve lost their way. Thats no good.

Edgar picks up the mallet. The steer comes up close to him. Edgar looks into the animal's eyes and caresses its forehead. The cow stomps one hoof, wags its tail and snorts. Edgar shushes the animal and its movements slow. There is something about this shushing that makes the cattle drowsy, it establishes a mutual trust. An intimate connection. With his thumb smeared in lime, Edgar Wilson makes the sign of the cross between the ruminant's eyes and takes two steps back. This is his ritual as a stun operator.

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 ruminants, 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. He sinks two fingers into the paint can and marks the foreheads of the four cornered cows.

Senhor Milo knows cattlemen, he's cut from the same cloth. No one goes unpunished. They're men of cattle and blood.

Two enclosures, one for cattle and one for men, standing side by side. Sometimes the smell is familiar. Only the voices on one side and the mooing on the other distinguish the men from the ruminants.

— Que sujeito mais idiota... quem cria uma enguia elétrica? — murmura Helmuth. — Será que foi preso? Bem, ele não fez de propósito, é um doido. Deve ter sido solto... Edgar Wilson permanece calado como se não ouvisse nada. Helmuth o chama pelo nome e o sacode. Percebe que Edgar está coberto de fibras, pelos e sangue. — Elas se ajoelham e choram — diz Edgar com a voz baixa, sonolento. — Do que você está falando? — As ovelhas. Elas te olham, se ajoelham e choram antes de morrer. Edgar Wilson dá uma longa tragada no cigarro. Enche os pulmões de fumaça e solta pelo nariz lentamente. — Quase não consegui. Tive que quebrar o pescoço de algumas primeiro, aí eu cobria os olhos delas e as degolava — conclui Edgar. — Você precisa de um banho — diz Helmuth.