Written by Frederico Toscano
Edited by André Colabelli
Translated by Vanessa Guedes
Copyedited by Iana A.
At first the tinkling, insistent, opening its way through the ears. It came up and went away like the wind—as if the wind it were—surrounding the house, at moments close, at others, as if it were at the edge of the thorny shrubbery. That was where Polidoro first saw the goat. Day in, day out that bell clanging on his marbles, and it was on the animal’s neck that it rang. He thought it was odd that the animal was all colourless, without a single dark spot to break its cloudy whiteness. And like a cloud, it came and went, getting close and leaving whenever it wanted, but never close enough to be touched. Then it was the bell, banging on Polidoro’s head; from afar irritating and creeping, from nearby shouted and maddening. Quitéria would say, my man, don’t bother, this one has an owner who is mighty, just leave it alone. When he asked who was the colonel or sheriff that let the goat freely graze around, she said that it was neither. It belonged to the King of Thorns.
Polidoro did not believe in God, devil, or king of any rank or kind, much less in one who never showed himself beyond the thorny shrubbery that was his domain. He really wanted to put his hardened hands on the white goat. Besides the annoying bell, hunger also stalked his house, which was becoming harder and harder to ignore, settling in that never-ending dryness, scorching the crops, sucking the meat out of the cattle and other animals, until it made them skeletons under the sun that weighed on their heads. And there was the goat, all fat like a swashbuckler, trotting up and down, never making a sound but for the bell on its neck, like a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil that was Polidoro's mind. He decided to catch it for himself and his wife, who didn't like the idea. She crossed herself many times, repeating my man, don't do it, there's an owner there, it's a tough game. Quitéria had her fears and disgusts, but she remained silent under the authority of her husband's eyes. Polidoro was satisfied and left the house, machete in hand, for he was incredulous, but it didn't hurt to be safe.
He set off after the tinkling bell, following it by ear and by the marks on the cracked floor. He moved and moved around, the sound coming and going, as if mocking his persistence. The sun that punished his head was like fuel for the hatred burning Polidoro from inside. Finally, just when he was about to give up, he saw it. The goat was standing by the edge of the thorny shrubbery, still and quiet, as if waiting. He looked at the horns and noticed how strange they were. They weren't the horns he was used to seeing on that kind of animal, which set themselves apart more by color and size. They were stumpy, black antlers covered with thorns. The breeze caressed the bell now and then, as if beckoning. Polidoro went towards it. Only when he was very close did the goat move, burrowing among the dry branches. It went through the bushes and briers, with the man following behind. The deeper inside Polidoro went, the lighter the sun was on his head. The pointy and twisted branches seemed to grab the light without letting it touch the ground. And the animal kept going, who knows where, perhaps to its owner. Polidoro shuddered. He decided he had already walked far enough for that meal. He sprinted and then jumped at the creature. He took the goat by the horns and screamed as the thorns dug into his hand. Anger and pain guided the blow, and the machete came down right on the target’s neck. One, two, three times, until the goat stopped wriggling, without letting out a single cry. The bell fell down, ringing one last time.
Polidoro holstered the blade, and with his good hand dragged the carcass away, his blood mingling with the dead goat’s, its fur now stained red. He just wanted to get off that bramble wood. So he did, grunting and huffing with the weight he was carrying. The dry shrubs became fewer and the sun came back to beat his senses. He limped painfully to the house, out there in the middle of nowhere, shouting his wife's name. When she came to the door, he left the still warm corpse at her feet, telling her to take good care of it, for his hunger was plenty and killing whetted the appetite. Polidoro wanted a buchada[1], the dish, prepared with everything he was entitled to and more. At first, Quitéria shook her head, making the sign of the cross and looking at the caatinga in the distance, as if expecting something to come out of it and make its way towards her. But she looked at the hideous figure of her husband, his bulging eyes, his hand awash with blood, and the dirty machete holstered on his belt. Then she did it. She brought the carcass inside and started working on it, taking all the blood that was still there, opening the belly and collecting the viscera to make the sarrabulho. She set needle and thread on hand, to then sew the stomach into balls. Quitéria boiled the head until all the fur fell out, for that buchada would be complete.
Polidoro stayed outside, rolling a cigarette in his wounded hand, his clothes still soggy with sweat and blood. Blessed silence, he thought, looking at the toasted horizon, through which the sun was finally descending. Already the smell of cooking wafted from inside the house, and he was now drooling in anticipation. The owner might come out to complain, but if so, Polidoro would invite him to sit down and eat, even share a bottle of cachaça. After a shot, friendship would blossom. If not, the machete was still in his waistband, he hadn’t even cleaned it up just in case he had to make use of it again. He waited and waited, smoking quietly and enjoying his increasing hunger. When the woman finally served the food, he threw himself at it like a cougar at its prey. He broke the viscera balls and feasted on the sarrabulho, sucking the bones, chewing the guts, swallowing the innards, and adding a bowl of good cassava flour to the mix. Alongside it, the stripped head, droopy tongue between its teeth, with its strange twisted horns, seemed to be watching over the feast of its own body. Quitéria had no appetite, but Polidoro didn't pretend to care, determined he was to finish the buchada entirely by himself, and that's what he did. Once finished, he went outside to look at the sky that reddened with twilight, and fart in peace. Polidoro stayed there, taking small, careful sips of cachaça, until he felt a twinge.
When poor folks eat they make a mess. He remembered this, his mother's words, and smiled, feeling a warm sensation coming in waves. Not used to fullness, Polidoro sweated a thick yellow sweat. He wiped his forehead on his shirt sleeves, cursing under his breath and rubbing his bulging belly. He let out a loud fart, then another, sounding like bang snaps at a St. John's party. The man couldn't bear his own funk. He fanned himself and fanned his nose with his hat, a few burps burning his throat and twisting his mustache. He felt something stirring inside him. He hugged himself, groaning at the shivers that went down from the back of his neck to the bottom of his asshole. From the kitchen door, Quitéria watched with suspicion, while her husband squirmed. Now he was grunting like a pig, shaking from head to toe, his shirt sticking to his body with sweat. She saw when he unbuttoned it, as if to give his chest some breathing room. Then she looked down at his swollen belly, the flesh rippling under the skin, which then broke open. The man covered the gash with his hands, as if to contain what was coming out of him, bawling in agony. Quitéria echoed the scream when she saw the blood flowing down, and even more when the thorny horns sprang up from the hole.
Polidoro flailed on the ground as the white goat emerged from his core, quietly, save for the bell on its neck. Slowly he gave birth to the animal, howling, its head first, then the front legs and its hooves, half the body and finally the hindquarters. Quitéria sank to her knees, acknowledging the creature's authority, granted to it by its owner and master. I ask forgiveness, my King, I ask forgiveness, in Our Lady’s name and all the angels, I ask forgiveness for me and for this man who does not know what he does. She remained like that for a long time, prostrated, until the goat looked at Polidoro still struggling, and then at her. Quitéria understood. She took needle and thread and began to sew up her husband, throwing the sprawling guts inside. The animal turned its back and left, the bell ringing on its creamy white neck. Polidoro remained among the living, but never again showed any interest in anything. He spent his days out in the open, staring into nothingness, hollow on the inside, body and soul. Very occasionally, the breeze would whip up from the woods and he would shiver, listening to the tinkling of the bell.
[1] Buchada is a dish made from the goat's entrails—kidneys, liver and bowels—cooked in pouches made from the animal's stomach.
Frederico Toscano
Frederico Toscano is a historian from Recife, Pernambuco. His work À Francesa: a Belle Époque do Comer e do Beber no Recife received third place for the 2015 Jabuti literature award in the Gastronomy category. He has fantasy, horror and science fiction tales waiting in the wings.
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