‘Just look at the way those pulpits work. It’s evil – you have to call it by its proper name: it’s cunning, treacherous, sophisticated evil – they build hayracks, scatter fresh apples and wheat to lure Animals there, and once the Creatures have become habituated, they shoot them in the head from their hiding place, from a pulpit,’ I began to say in a low tone, with my gaze fixed on the floor. I could sense they were looking at me anxiously while carrying on with their work. ‘I wish I knew Animal script,’ I said, ‘signs in which I could write warnings for them: “Don’t go over there,” “That food is lethal,” “Keep away from the pulpits, they won’t preach the gospel to you from there, you won’t hear any good news over there, they won’t promise you salvation after death, they won’t take pity on your poor souls, for they say you haven’t got souls. They don’t see their brethren in you, they won’t give you their blessing. The nastiest criminal has a soul, but not you, beautiful Deer, nor you, Boar, nor you, wild Goose, nor you, Pig, nor you, Dog.” Killing has become exempt from punishment. And as it goes unpunished, nobody notices it any more. And as nobody notices it, it doesn’t exist. When you walk past a shop window where large red chunks of butchered bodies are hanging on display, do you stop to wonder what it really is? You never think twice about it, do you? Or when you order a kebab or a chop – what are you actually getting? There’s nothing shocking about it. Crime has come to be regarded as a normal, everyday activity. Everyone commits it. That’s just how the world would look if concentration camps became the norm. Nobody would see anything wrong with them.’
That’s what I was saying while he was writing. The woman had left the room, and now I could hear her talking on the phone. No one was listening to me, but I went on with my speech. I couldn’t stop, because the words were coming to me from somewhere of their own accord – I simply had to utter them. After each sentence I felt relief. And I was further stimulated by the fact that a client had just come in with a little Poodle; clearly perturbed by my tone, he gently closed the door and at once began whispering to Newman. His Poodle sat down quietly, tilted its head and looked at me. So I carried on:
‘In fact Man has a great responsibility towards wild Animals – to help them to live their lives, and it’s his duty towards domesticated Animals to return their love and affection, for they give us far more than they receive from us. And they need to be able to live their lives with dignity, to be able to settle their Accounts and register their semester in the karmic index – I was an Animal, I lived and I ate, I grazed in green pastures, I bore Young, I kept them warm with my body, I built nests, I performed my duty. When you kill them, and they die in Fear and Terror – like that Boar whose body lay before me yesterday, and is still lying there, defiled, muddied and smeared with blood, reduced to carrion – you doom them to hell, and the whole world changes into hell. Can’t people see that? Are their minds incapable of reaching beyond petty, selfish pleasures? People have a duty towards Animals to lead them – in successive lives – to Liberation. We’re all travelling in the same direction, from dependence to freedom, from ritual to free choice.’
So I spoke, using wise words.
From a back room a cleaner emerged with a plastic pail and stared at me in curiosity. Stony-faced, the guard was still filling in his form.
‘You’ll say it’s just one Boar,’ I continued. ‘But what about the deluge of butchered meat that falls on our cities day by day like never-ending, apocalyptic rain? This rain heralds slaughter, disease, collective madness, the obfuscation and contamination of the Mind. For no human heart is capable of bearing so much pain. The whole, complex human psyche has evolved to prevent Man from understanding what he is really seeing. To stop the truth from reaching him by wrapping it in illusion, in idle chatter. The world is a prison full of suffering, so constructed that in order to survive one must inflict pain on others. Do you hear me?’ I said. But now even the cleaner, disappointed by my speech, had set about his work, so I was only talking to the Poodle.
‘What sort of a world is this? Someone’s body is made into shoes, into meatballs, sausages, a bedside rug, someone’s bones are boiled to make broth…Shoes, sofas, a shoulder bag made of someone’s belly, keeping warm with someone else’s fur, eating someone’s body, cutting it into bits and frying it in oil…Can it really be true? Is this nightmare really happening? This mass killing, cruel, impassive, automatic, without any pangs of conscience, without the slightest pause for thought, though plenty of thought is applied to ingenious philosophies and theologies. What sort of a world is this, where killing and pain are the norm? What on earth is wrong with us?’
Silence fell. My head was spinning, and suddenly I started to cough. Just then the man with the Poodle cleared his throat.
‘You’re right, madam. You’re absolutely right,’ he said.
This confused me. I glanced at him, angrily at first, but I could see that he was moved. He was a lean, elderly gentleman, neatly dressed, in a suit with a waistcoat, sure to be straight from Good News’ shop. His Poodle was clean and well-groomed – I’d say he looked grand. But my declaration had made no impression on the guard. He was one of those ironists who don’t like pathos, so they button their lip to avoid being infected by it. They fear pathos more than hell.
‘You’re exaggerating,’ was all he said at last, as he calmly laid the sheets of paper on his desk. ‘I find it truly puzzling. Why is it that old women…women of your age are so concerned about animals? Aren’t there any people left for them to take care of? Is it because their children have grown up and they don’t have anyone to look after any more, but their instincts prompt them to care for something else? Women have an instinct for caring, don’t they?’ He glanced at his colleague, but she made no gesture to confirm this Hypothesis. ‘Take my granny for example. She has seven cats at home, and she also feeds all the local cats in her area. Would you read this, please?’ he said, passing me a sheet of paper with a short text printed on it. ‘You’re approaching this too emotionally. You’re more concerned about the fate of animals than people,’ he repeated himself in conclusion.
I didn’t feel like speaking any more. I thrust a hand into my pocket, pulled out a ball of bloodstained Boar bristles and put it down on the desk in front of them. Their first impulse was to lean forward, but they instantly recoiled in disgust.
‘Christ Almighty, what is that? Yuck,’ cried Newman the guard. ‘Bloody hell, take it away!’
I leaned back comfortably in my chair and said with satisfaction: ‘Those are Remains. I pick them up and collect them. I have boxes at home, properly labelled, to store them in. Hair and bones. One day it’ll be possible to clone all the murdered Animals. So perhaps there’ll be some sort of redress.’
‘What a nerve,’ said the female guard into the telephone, leaning over the hairball, her mouth twisted in disgust. ‘What a nerve you have!’
Caked blood and muck had soiled their papers. The guard leaped to his feet and backed away from the desk.
‘Are you repulsed by blood?’ I asked mischievously. ‘But you like black pudding, don’t you?’