Later, I ripped open that stupid ethnic dress, which was now soaked with blood, removed her underwear, and began to slice off her arms and legs. I figured I’d use them to give the business a boost. Next weekend, instead of roasted chicken, there would be liquid croquettes!
That radiant summer Sunday, I wrote a brilliant advertising on the butcher shop’s board: Try Ferran Adrià’s cuisine without leaving El Carmelo! Half an hour later, the place was full of diners, retirees, and Andalusian widows dressed in black. Trays of croquettes just flew out the door and I realized that what was left of my late wife’s and her lover’s bodies would not be enough to satisfy more than a week or two of demand. I needed to find myself some other spacey Pascal Henry type. But I didn’t even have to go out to look for him: that same evening, my mother-in-law called from Córdoba to tell me she was about to get on a train to come visit. I’d told the whole neighborhood that my wife was with her parents, so that crazy old woman actually posed quite a threat to my story. I went to get her at the station, and as soon as we got home, I didn’t even give her a chance to take her coat off before I’d sliced her neck and dragged her down the stairs. I realized right away that this one wasn’t such a good idea: an old hen will make a good broth but has little meat. I saw quite clearly that, at my current sales pace, I’d be out of provisions in no time.
Then I remembered my hateful neighbors from across the street and I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I’d become famous for my haute cuisine while ridding the neighborhood of immigrants. There, just a few meters from my door, was the illuminated sign of my biggest competitors: the Chinese owners of Tiananmen Segundo Restaurant. Nobody would ask uncomfortable questions about a couple of “yellows,” so that very Monday I decided to have a “happy meal” to lure them to my store. All those things fried in MSG made me want to vomit, but in the end I decided to try what was most in accord with my exotic tastes: shark fin soup. But the maître d’ made me change my order.
“It doesn’t taste like much, sir. Allow me to recommend a specialty that’s not on the menu.”
“Interesting. What is it?”
“Giraffe meat, sir. Just arrived from the African savannah.”
“Now we understand each other, China boy.”
That week, I found myself eating at Tiananmen Segundo every night. Mr. Hu Jintao offered me a truly personalized service: before my astonished eyes, he paraded dishes of succulent zebra filets, savory wild feline ribs, delicious turtle soups, and other delicacies made from animals en route to extinction that I savored unquestioningly. The prices were reasonable, especially in comparison with the incredibly expensive restaurants of the great chefs. And to top it off, this was across the street from my house. My nascent friendship with my former enemies allowed me to closely observe these restless beings, destined to be used as my raw material. It was still too soon to think about a kidnapping. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before I lured one of these slanty-eyed anthropoids to my shop.
Everything was going smoothly until Mr. Jintao heard about the growing popularity of my liquid croquettes and wanted to try one. At first, I tried not to give it too much importance, but in the face of his insistence, and the shots of rice liqueur that he served me after each screaming monkey foot or rhino back, I decided to give the Oriental a little taste of my delicacy. The following Sunday, a feverish day in terms of sales, I went over to Tiananmen Segundo with a tray of liquid croquettes. Mr. Jintao was at a table with about seven or eight other Chinese guys eating rice and spring rolls.
“Don Manolo, would you like to join us?”
“No, thank you — I’ve put myself on a diet,” I said as I uncovered the tray to offer my goods.
All at once, and with appreciative grunts, they launched their little yellow paws at the croquettes; I waited for these to explode in their mouths so I could take pleasure in the looks of satisfaction on their faces. But that wasn’t exactly what happened. Instead, Mr. Jintao began to gag, he turned green and then purple. Finally, he spit with a disgusting noise and a slew of curses in his native tongue. The other diners were aghast, not sure whether to chew or spit, until, one by one, they followed their host’s example. What had gone wrong? Was my most recent larder of lesser quality than the previous ones? What was wrong with my mother-in-law? Did I use too much alginic? I didn’t get a chance to ask because Mr. Jintao, like an enraged Bruce Lee, screamed and grabbed a knife, coming after me with the clear intention of killing me. Luckily, the table was long enough to give me a head start and I was able to make it to the door.
When I finally turned back, just about when I reached the middle of Santuarios, I saw all the diners staring at me with hate from the door of Tiananmen Segundo: they had all kinds of knives in their hands, baseball bats, bottles, and even guns. This was pretty serious. How did they discover my secret? I asked myself over and over as I locked myself in my house, totally freaked out, and with the added fear that they’d call the police. Later, a bit calmer, I realized they wouldn’t calclass="underline" it was perfectly clear that Mr. Jintao knew the taste of human flesh as well as I did. That gave me a bit of time: for the rest of the afternoon, I used my furniture to barricade all my doors and windows, then sat down, filled with anxiety, to wait for the yellow horde to come for my head like gremlins in the night.
But instead of being subjected to all their firepower, at eleven o’clock I heard the light rapping of knuckles outside. Then I heard the little Chinese man’s familiar voice.
“Don Manolo, I’ve come in peace. I only want to talk, and to make you an offer.”
“Why should I believe you, Mr. Jintao? You just tried to kill me!”
“I am so sorry, Don Manolo! It was a moment of confusion. I beg your eternal forgiveness for my censurable act. I give you my word that nothing will happen... if you cooperate.”
“Just tell me what you want and let’s get this damn farce over with!”
“Don Manolo, I merely want to buy all of the supplies you might have of your, ahem, excellent exotic filets. I need them for my restaurant. I promise there won’t be any reprisals. My organization will pay for your goods at a price you won’t be able to turn down.”
I vomited just then. Not because I suddenly knew Mr. Jintao had been feeding me human flesh all those nights, but because I must have eaten a bunch of old Chinese dudes who probably couldn’t have passed a simple health inspection. And with all those diseases out there! How could that Chinese man have fooled me so badly? Where was my gastronomic knowledge? Where was my palette? And, more importantly, how had Mr. Jintao managed to make it seem like it was a different meat every time? What was his secret ingredient? Damnit, I thought, I’m going to have to ask him for the recipe!
“Look here, Don Manolo,” Mr. Jintao said as soon as I dared to unlock the door, “we’ve had a great increase in clientele in our chain of restaurants. Spaniards like our products. You’re a barbaric people, bloody and cannibalistic, as is evident in your sausages, your bullfights, and your tomato fights in Buñol.”
“Fine, it’s a deal. Take it all and cook it up! All I want is for you to leave me alone.”
“That we can’t do, Don Manolo. You have a special talent, a talent as a provider, and you’re going to work for us: ever since the economic crisis, fewer people are coming from our country. We can’t allow such an abrupt drop in supplies. From now on, consider yourself employed by the Red Dragon Triad.”
“No, no, never! I don’t want to be a contract killer with the Chinese mafia, I’m strictly a killer on an as-needed basis.”