Absolution. Aleš Šteger
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he is happy to be asked something in his area of expertise, his terrain, his wheelhouse. This was his question. He takes a deep breath.
‘The Kranj sausage is a typical European story,’ he continues confidently. ‘The European Union has approached us with a historical opportunity here. You know what I’m talking about? No, not the free market; we practised that back in the days of Yugoslavia. I’m not talking about Western marketing manoeuvres either. We mastered that under Communism, too. No, what the EU has given us is a once-in-a-lifetime, historical …’ the president struts his stuff, his voice filled with zeal and emotion. ‘Are you listening? Historical opportunity.’
Adam Bely stops translating into Rosa Portero’s ear. They both stop, stunned by the president’s half-finished statement, which soars before them like a soap bubble, then trembles, rises, sinks, then rises again and bursts.
‘An opportunity?’ asks Bely. ‘What sort of opportunity, Mr President?’
‘The opportunity to register our own trademark, what else?’ The president of Butcher, Inc. smiles, thrilled that yet another pair of tiny, ignorant deer are caught in his grandiose rhetorical headlights.
‘We successfully registered our Kranj sausage, and there is no one in the entire European Union who can take it away from us. Do you know what that means? There are only eleven registered manufacturers of Kranj sausage in this galaxy, and we’re the biggest of them all. We’re the best of them all, and we have the best market penetration of any of them. Are you recording?’
A little baffled by his abrupt question, Adam leans over the Dictaphone and nods.
‘Of course, it’s not true that our sausages aren’t made in Kranj,’ Butcher continues unperturbed. ‘It’s not true that the Kranj sausages we manufacture here in Lower Styria aren’t authentic Kranj sausages from Upper Carniola. Let’s take a closer look. What makes a sausage a Kranj sausage? The recipe is brilliant in its simplicity: the best pork, young elastic pig intestines, a pinch of salt, some pepper and top quality garlic. And beech tree smoke. That’s it. So, Kranj sausage is mostly pork. Correct?’
The president leans over to Bely, who hastily nods.
‘Now, please tell me what place can claim an animal, a pig in this case, as its own? If you ask me, it’s not the place where the swine was born, and it’s not the place where it was raised. It’s easy these days to feed a Canadian-born swine with Czech grain somewhere in Bangladesh and not even know it. Do you see what I’m getting at? The only thing that determines whether we’re dealing with Kranj pork or not is whether the pig was slaughtered in Kranj or somewhere else. Our first-class Kranj sausages are made of top-quality pork, which always comes from pigs slaughtered in one of the certified Kranj slaughterhouses, full stop. All our pork comes from Kranj, but it is here, in Maribor, where this certified meat is processed into sausages. And so it is entirely possible that the best-quality Kranj sausages actually come from Lower Styria.’
‘But would you say that Maribor and its inhabitants are aware of the developmental potential that the Kranj sausage holds for them?’ Adam Bely pauses before uttering the word ‘developmental’, as if he had a lump to swallow.
‘Maribor is my city. I would never want to live anywhere other than in Maribor. But, let’s face it, Maribor is a synonym for fast food. Maribor knows nothing of quality cuisine. Sure, we all sin at McDonald’s at times, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But if that shit is all you eat, then your ears will fall off, your veins will atrophy, you’ll get fat and your body will inevitably deteriorate. That’s what happened to this city mentally, too. After they chased out the Germans at the end of the war the city only got intellectual fast food, cheap sugar, fatty steaks. And fifty, seventy years on, that’s the new norm.’
‘You’re being quite critical of your city,’ Bely says and crouches behind his black briefcase. Rosa nervously shifts in her chair, takes a sip of her Coke and readjusts her shades with her white-gloved hand.
‘Tough criticism is the only thing that may save us. That and building on the potential of this city, that’s it. That’s why we should look up to others sometimes, so we can learn something. Just look around. There’s no creature on the entire planet as durable and flexible as we are, aside from viruses maybe. The dinosaurs didn’t adapt. Coral didn’t adapt. The Tasmanian tiger didn’t adapt. But then you’ve got us, humans, who can change dramatically even within a single generation. Take the Chinese, for example. A notoriously short nation only thirty years ago, now they’re producing NBA stars.’
Satisfied, the president draws closer to the Dictaphone, slurps his chilled coffee out of a plastic cup and continues speaking. ‘Our deepest survival instinct is closely tied to what we eat. What do our bodies long for when we eat something really healthy, let’s say something homemade, a roasted chicken or a bowl of soup in a macrobiotic restaurant? They want something fatty, sweet, something heavy and forbidden. But why? Because they know that eating filth regularly is a ticket to building up immunity and being adaptable. Look at babies. They lick filthy floors, they stuff themselves with dirt and worms, and we think they’re dumb and not yet socialized. The truth is, they know what’s right because they listen to their unspoiled instinct. Kranj sausage has been labelled unhealthy and criticized by vegetarians, and it’s no secret why. But, let’s face it, no one can smell a sizzling Kranj sausage without salivating like Pavlov’s dog! We love it because of that, and that’s why it’s good for us. The person who eats Kranj sausage on a regular basis will be strong and healthy every day of his life. But it’s crucial that we eat home-made food, that is to say, Kranj sausages slaughtered and processed in the Kranj region, at home …’
Adam nods, slowly pulls a fountain pen out of his pocket and sways it like a pendulum.
‘… it is absolutely crucial for our energy intake that we …’
The president follows the swaying of the pen, his voice growing softer.
‘… eat meat butchered locally. Animals slaughtered locally are …’
The president smirks, pouts his lips and clenches his fists between his legs, like a little boy who takes comfort in wetting his pants.
‘… special animals, they have …’
The president pauses in the middle of the sentence, mesmerized by Bely’s fountain pen.
‘What do animals butchered locally have?’ asks Bely and puts his fountain pen back into his jacket.
‘Our death paradigm,’ the president of the board of the meat-processing company Butcher, Inc., says slowly, syllable by syllable.
Adam shoves the E-meter’s cylindrical electrodes into his hands, turns on the switch: the needle floats to the centre of the dial and comes to rest.
‘Repeat that,’ says Bely.
‘Our death paradigm’.
‘Repeat it again.’
‘Our death paradigm’.
‘Again,’ says Bely.
‘Our death paradigm’.
‘What is a death paradigm?’ asks Bely.
‘The moment when bodies are exchanged, Butcher replies. ‘When the paradigm is calm it is reflected in the flavour of the meat. The pigs must be as still as possible when they die. It’s best if they have no idea what’s about to happen to them. That’s the best recipe for Kranj sausages. The secret isn’t the garlic and the spices. The secret is in how the pigs die.’
‘What kinds of death paradigm do we have?’
‘Our death paradigm is different. Slovenian souls are restless by nature, especially people from Kranj. Our animals are under too much stress when they die. Not good for the sausages. That’s why we usually mix in 15 per cent finely ground car tyres, just to calm the meat down. But that can be changed. The only important thing is that we eat meat that we killed ourselves. Because in this meat we eat ourselves; we eat the levels of energy that we passed on to the animal