Spanish Butcher

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SPANISH BUTCHER

(CARNICERO ESPAÑOL)

BY RODRIGO GARCÍA

1.1

When I was a child
And I spent hours
In front of the television
I remember that
A woman
When I was a
She sang
On the television
In black and white
I don't know if she sang
Or if she was an actress
Of television
In black and white
A star in a
Sky in
Black and white
A sky of
Television studio

1.2

The truth
Is I don't remember
Her face
And neither
But this
I shall never forget the name
Tita Merelo

1.3

She was a singer
Or an actress on
Television
I was a child
I don't remember
The movement of
Tita Merelo
I only
The name

1.4

What left me
With my mouth open was
Not her name
But
The rhythm
Tita Merelo
Her name was Tita Merelo
Her stage name
For television
Calm down

2.

The moment of closing the deal. Forehead and hands clammy. The disguise of femme fatale hanging from your shoulders. There are moments. There are degrees of crime. And there are also unforgivable acts of carelessness. Reliving the past, they say. For me it is a question of inaccurate images which generally exclude me. A mark in the water. Almost all the intensity learned, forgotten. When saliva won't trickle down your throat. The smoothness of deceit. And nature on a cheap postcard. Being the observer is worth nothing. Giving up drinking makes everything worse. Yesterday thanks to a blinding light and today, in the darkness of the storm. Take sides: it's demeaning. Offer me fifteen payments a year. The gaze of the cretins of Velázquez.

3.1

And me
On the television
In black and white
With my
Stripy tee shirt
Reflected in the screen
Of the turned off television
With the spoon
Waiting

3.2

My father bought
I saw
My father
On television
The reflection
The blank screen
I touched my head
With my hand full
Of grease
He arrived with
Pots of yoghurt
My father
On a television programme
Like Tita Merelo
The reflection
The two of us
On the dark glass
Two spoons
Two napkins
Two round glass bottles
You could
I could take them
Like that
With my hands together
It was

4.

Weeping inside a taxi. You never want to arrive. Concepción Clinic, how ironic. A man, you say, cannot understand it. You're right. I'd like to be with you.

5.1

In the evening
After school
We put in
Sugar
Spoonfulls
You could see it all on the
Turned off television
I remember perfectly

5.2

I don't remember
The lips of
Tita Merelo
Nor those
Marvellous movements
Which she would make
Tita Merelo
Nor the fine hands of
Tita Merelo
What I haven't
Forgotten is
The name:
Tita
Merelo

5.3

The two of us sat down
My father and I
To watch the television
Emilio García Llana
In the evening

5.4

My mother worked
Cutting meat
In the local butcher's
Villa Jardín
My father worked
Cutting meat
In the local butcher's
Boulogne Sur Mer
Behind I had
My bedroom as a child
Breathe

6.

The names Nico, Vera, Mariana and Edurne. The fog. Those monstrous shellfish served on seaweed. With so much noise you can't say a word. Shout. And you can't say a word. The coast of death. A glass of cool wine. A path of stone upon stone. Desire. Hope of the sea with liberated feet. The waves of love make me nervous, the intensity. Pieces of red plastic, soft drink cans, fish heads at low tide. Second intentions. On a day like today, thinking is an additional punishment.

7.1

When evening falls
Evening
Falls
I later learned
And I remember
Evening falling
Was always
The arrival of my mother
The reflection by chance
Orange
Behind a concrete
Tank for the
Drinking water
On top of the house
In painted letters:
Market
The letters:
Market
Do you remember the
Name?

7.2

The name
Tita Merelo?
In black and white
A painted sky
A sky of
Television studio

7.3

And my father
Spanish butcher
Far from his
Native butcher
Passed twice
Through the mincer
Of the
Airports
I bought that
Yoghurt for myself

7.4

And the whole Maths class
Adding up yoghurts
Taking away yoghurts
Divided by two
By three
Yoghurts
Problems
Equations
With yoghurts
Tens Hundreds Thousands
Millions of yoghurts
I can't breathe

7.5

We bought them across the road
I was given
Some coins
A child
Crossing the street
In summer
I was like that
Running
To buy those
Round
Heavy
Glass bottles
Vanilla and strawberry
Two bottles in the evening
For the butcher
And for the son
Of the butcher
We put sugar in
The yoghurts
Sweet
The television
Sweet
Tita
The sweet one

7.6

I don't know
If she was a
Comedy actress
Or a singer on the
News
Tita Merelo
With that impressive
Hairstyle
Which frankly
I don't remember
That's enough

8.

My mother, Felisa González Sánchez, her head swollen with cheap wine, she fell like a ball down the stairs of a comfortable house which my father, a Spanish butcher, built only to abandon every Thursday, Friday and Saturday after pulling down the shutter of the butcher's. One night my father and I entered the house and on opening the door we tripped over the body of my mother, Felisa González Sánchez, lying at the foot of the stairs, talking to herself. Her lips black. Her eyes black. Her nose squashed. My father closed the door and he put me in the meat truck. We took to the road. We ate in guest houses. We slept in hostels.

9.1

When I say that
I remember
The name
I don't think:
Tita Merelo
I don't know who
Tita Merelo is
I am talking
About the music
That
Noise

9.2

In the evening
I was like that
A child
Tita Merelo
Those days were
Pleasantly hot
We never loved each other
Not the television
In black and white
Nor my father
Nor Tita
Nor my mother
Felisa González Sánchez
The music
Never a caress
The eyes moist

9.3

My mother fed
The hens
They told me
To collect the eggs
From the hens
But I was
Afraid
I wasn't afraid
Of dogs
Or pigeons
Or frogs
When it rained
But the
Hens
Were something else
My mother
Fed the
Hens
My father
Had two ways of killing
Hens
In the yard
Very different
Collect the eggs of the
Hens
They always told me
I panicked
At the thought of touching a hen
You can't
Get the eggs without
Touching the hens
You've got to move them
From the eggs
The eggs
When all is said and done
They are their children
The children of the
Hens
It's the eggs
So they defend them
They don't want
Anybody
To steal those eggs
Two ways
A merciful way
And the other crazy
But
Recognised by the
Haute cuisine
Ways of killing
Hens

9.4

Bocuse has his own
Way of killing
Eels
He skins them
Alive
But that's
Another story
The one about Bocuse
And the eels
Is another story
He says
Submitting eels
To an inhumane
Treatment
As if the eel
Had something
Human
A name
Carlota the eel
Or Tita the eel
And he says
It must be skinned
Alive
From a culinary
Point of view
He says
From a culinary
Point of view the best
Is skinning it alive
But from a less inhumane
Point of view of an inhumane
Point of view
Bocuse recommends
Lessening the
Suffering of the animal
Take it by
The tail
He says
With a cloth
And as if it was
A rope
He says
beat the head
Violently
Against a table or any
Hard surface
Trying to
Stun it
Then
Make some little cuts
With the knife
Just about
The head
He says
And
He says
You pull the skin hard
You skin it
Alive
Like that the meat is
Tastier
I think
The eel
Apparently
Knows nothing about it
It is
Stunned
Says Bocuse
Stunned
They are skinning it
But it knows nothing
It is stupid

9.5

With the hen
It's something similar
Two ways
A merciful way and
A crazy way
But recognised
By
Haute cuisine
You stick the sharpened
Point of a
Butcher's knife
In its neck
The hen
Doesn't flinch
Removed from the situation
The blood
Falls
Into a metal wash basin
Which is held
Between his legs
In the yard
The hen
Doesn't feel
A thing
It's dying
And it doesn't feel a thing
A few seconds pass
And at last
It starts to move
It goes crazy
The hen
Flaps its wings

9.6

It wants to fly
It's a hen
How is it going to fly
It will fly a few metres
Hopefully
But it can't
Because it is a
Hen
Birds fly

9.7

You have to hold
The hen
You must have
Strength
The blood splashes
Out of the washbasin
The yard
Is a mess
That's why it must be done
In the yard
Because it splashes
Before dying
In the
Pot

9.8

The other way is the one
We call
Merciful
My father grabs it
By the neck
His hand rigid
Squeezing
Reddish feathers
The hand of the
Butcher
From the neighbourhood of
Boulogne
One twist
Of the wrist
An almost imperceptible
Twist
There was art
In the movement
He broke the neck
Of the hen
And it died
Immediately
In the pot

10.

You are needed everywhere, you think. Leave it for a few days. Don't deceive yourself: they'll treat you like they treat foreigners. You have a reason to be like that: disorientated and irritable. Sign here. More insurance. At least twelve per cent more than in ninety-four. It will be discussed with the government. The bones of your hips. Seeds in plastic bags. In the centre of the poplars, knots of words. No idea. No good intentions. You should be more grateful. And love what you have at hand.

11.1

I remember
Another name
From the television
In black and white
In the evening
On Saturday
Or Sunday
At lunchtime
I don't remember
If it was the evening
Or every
Tuesday
At lunchtime
At night
It's like Tita Merelo
But different
It was a clown
I think it was
A clown
His name was
Pepe Biondi

11.2

My father
Says to me
Galíndez the negro is fighting
I had some
White jeans
Levi's
I bought them in the
Levi's factory
They sold seconds
With faults
Levi's faults
Lousy white Levi's
Lousy sewing
Lousy pockets
Lousy Levi's
Let's go to
Luna Park
Tonight
To see Galíndez the negro
Fighting
With the white
Trousers
I see myself in the car
In the centre
With the windows down
Leaning out
The summer air
At nine at night
I go crazy

11.3

I'm not
Very sure
I don't know if it was a
Clown
Or a comedian
On the
Television
Or a
Clown
I remember
The name
The rhythm
Pepe Biondi
"Pepe Galleta"
Pepe Biondi

11.4

-What?
-Biondi
-Why don't you tell us later?
-What?
-About Pepe Tiondi.
-It's Pepe Biondi. It's not Pepe Tiondi. The programme was called: Watching Biondi. Not watching Tiondi. Shall I tell you now?
-Let's wait a while and then you can tell us.
-A while?
-Yes, a few minutes.
-About Biondi?
-Yeah.
-Let's wait
A few minutes.

_______________
© Rodrigo García
Translated by Marie Corbett and Lindsay McGarvie

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