Word Made Flesh

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You are hearing the screams of a small, fat man. This will be your last opportunity to turn away. The noise should end presently. At the very least the sound will be diminished, transformed into something you might find somewhat more acceptable. The ghost of the scream. There may even be a moment or two of silence — the time between the man’s realization of what is about to happen to him and his realization that there is absolutely nothing he can do to prevent it from happening.

I refuse to accept blame for what you are witnessing. This is not my fault. To some degree, we all have to admit, Leo Tani put himself in this situation. He knew full well the hazards of his particular occupation and he did not behave prudently. Had he never heard the advice, Act reverently when sojourning in a foreign land?

You will argue, at some future date, that the ’Shank has long resided in the city. That he has made the city his home since his arrival, from Turin, in the midst of his extended and overheated puberty. I would only answer that this is one more rumor we will never see confirmed, a statement without evidence to prove its truth, repeated for so long that we accept it at face value. But you should know, better than most, that no one can make this city his home. We remain transients here even if we never leave. And strangers to each other forever.

If you move to the left, you should be able to see them preparing. Don’t be ashamed. It is nothing but human to be fascinated by ritual. Please try to relax. In days to come you may wish to castigate yourself over your passivity. But this is a futile and regressive response to a new form of knowledge. You were simply curious and since when has this been a crime? Isn’t wisdom born of curiosity, the inherent need to watch and to listen and thus, to know? Isn’t this the nature of the witness?

I hope you have the generosity to admit that there is a kind of beauty in the ritual. A perverse grace, I will grant you, but still. My advice would be to look for the significance of each small gesture. These signals tend to coalesce, to bind together in the end and reveal a larger and deeper pattern. Notice, for instance, that they use Leo’s own silk monogrammed show handkerchief as the blindfold. Try to remember, if you can make it out in this light, the color of the masking tape they use to secure the cotton wadding in his mouth.

I have no way of knowing if you are a religious individual. I cannot say that I care either way. But as you watch them now, stripping the ’Shank of his fine clothing, do you think of some historical precedent? Or can you not move past what you imagine to be going through Leo’s mind? Let me assure you he is mistaken. The violation you are about to behold is something so much greater than a common rape. It is an outrage against the entire corporal world. Do you think I am being flamboyant?

That is Gallzo you are smelling. A liquor produced in a particularly arid region of the Middle East. Derived from the roots of the hyssop reed. It is an acquired taste. I will tell you a small secret: each barrel is flavored with a drop of urine from the honey buzzard. Have you ever had the pleasure? It is known to be one of Tani’s greatest indulgences. You might take heed of the fact that none of them guzzle. One reverent sip. And then the remains of the bottle are poured over the victim’s naked expanse. A bit closer you would hear the small splash, the liquid bouncing off his girth, running down the skin, off the body and finally into the cinder bed beneath their feet. Through this century of ash and into the dry earth itself.

Like a trip to the River Jordan. The action has that kind of power. You might expect a black dove to appear up here in the balcony with us, the flutter of the wings somehow worse than Leo’s muted cries. Do you believe the alcohol will cause the burn to be even more intense? Or will the ’Shank be unconscious by then, the body fallen to shock, the victim unable to observe what you will remember forever?

I suppose there is a lesson here for every businessman — be careful what you bring to market. And isn’t that what we all are in the end? Businessmen. Merchants. Entrepreneurs of one sort or another.

The bread crusts on the floor? Most likely they were left by the tinker children. By all accounts, this train station is their home. I see by your face that you distrust this myth as well, but I can attest to its veracity. They are not nearly as feral as the common wisdom would have you believe. They are extremely crafty in their own way, but, of course, they lack your years of experience and the formal training of a rational mind. This is why you are the witness and the tinkers have abandoned their refuge for the night.

Excuse me, look closely now. They are readying their tools. I only wish you could hold the blades yourself. It would make the event so much more palpable for you.

They still produce their cutlery by hand, in the manner of the ancients, particularly the Greeks. Though it is said they have acquiesced to the use of stainless steel rather than bronze. They employ the techniques perfected in Solingen. They are not dilettantes — none may use the blade who do not craft the blade. Beginning to end. They refine their own steel in individual clay crucibles, forge the blade with hammer and anvil and grinding wheel, endlessly polish until the motion of the soft rub becomes a kind of trance-making prayer. I once heard they used a roue of their own blood and bile as the cutting fluid. But you know how these types of legend can take on a life of their own. The same source swore to me that they must single-handedly, and in an elaborately orchestrated fashion, kill the beast chosen to provide the handle of horn or bone or tusk. Elsewhere I heard that every hilt is made of mother-of-pearl. Who are we to believe?

It takes years to complete a single scalpel in this manner, but the instrument will last a lifetime. Or, perhaps, several lifetimes, if you follow my meaning. After the winter of glazing comes the spring of buffing. And after the summer of mirror satining, we are to understand, a name that will never be spoken is finally etched into the blade.

Now, please, pay attention — here is the first incision. There may be a spurt of — yes, there it is, did you catch it? You see, they start at the base of the neck, very careful to avoid the arterial network. They want Leo alive throughout the entire procedure, if possible. They believe it keeps the tissue more vibrant and supple in its afterlife.

I have no way of knowing how much background you have in human anatomy. And certainly I don’t wish to interfere with your observing. It is just that I personally find the integumentary system so fascinating. Both in the area of its organic nature, the beautiful complexity of its layering, and in the fact of its existence as an ecosystem itself, the housing it provides to that microscopic, parasitic world we ignore every day.

I see you flinch. And we are only at the beginning. But you did not close your eyes and that will make all the difference. It bothers you, I suppose, that Leo is still conscious. The way his head attempts to jerk back and forth within the confines of their hands. You imagine him choking as the wadding works its way deeper down his trachea. Try to think of Mr. Tani as more object than person. This has worked for others in the past.

Now this is the ventral incision. They will make a clean cut from the center of the chest downward to the anus. You are terrified of viewing a castration, I understand. But this is not their purpose. You have to trust them at some point, my friend. It is true they have no use for the genitalia. But their intention is not one of sadism.

You see here the natural genius of the body, how the ribs prevent them from cutting too deeply. And I want you to take special notice, this is surely of some importance, that they refuse to use anything resembling forceps. They peel back and hold the tissue with their own fingers. They have developed a highly refined strength and precision in this area.

Is the skin more blue than you would have imagined? Can you see clearly enough? Perhaps it is the contrast with the intense redness of the muscles below. Such great care they take as they move down through the abdominal wall. The concentration at this point is enormous. If they pierce through into the intestinal cavity everything could be ruined. They are very concerned with hygiene, have strict mores regarding purification.

You would never know how wildly the body should naturally be flailing at this point. The holders secure their grip so rigidly. If not for the bulging eyes and the well-muffled, but still audible scream you would have no indication of Leo’s discomfort. Surely he is working his way toward shock as we watch. The brain may begin shutting down consciousness at any time now. I would not be surprised if they decide to wait before rolling the body—

No, I am mistaken. They will take a moment to resecure their hold once he is in place on his stomach. There, now you are seeing the beginning of the dorsal incision, there along the center of the back, from the shoulders down to the rectum. Watch as they lift the tissue back, so careful to control the rate of force, the pressure constant, pulling the layers away from the meat beneath, see the cartilage resist then finally give way, fall back to the body. You might expect some tearing, and I am told it does happen on occasion, when the subject suffers from some epidermal disease. Apparently the ’Shank is in fine condition.

They seem to be after as large and continuous a sheet of tissue as they can extract. They do not like patchwork. At this stage, a scissors would make their job much easier, but again who can argue with ceremony? They will cut the flesh at the hip area and they may find it necessary to pop the leg out of the hip socket. For your sake I hope this is not the—

Again, I apologize. You would think Leo was beyond the capability of a scream of this magnitude. We never know how much strength and tenacity an individual possesses, do we? They will work their fingers under the skin here. The region of the tailbone proves very stubborn for some reason. At times they find it necessary to remove the legs entirely. This is a long and tedious exercise without the luxury of technology. Do our doctors fully appreciate the benefits of the high-speed bone saw? I wonder at times.

Those hooks and chains? This means we are entering the final stages. They will truss the body — yes, you see, lancing the main hook through the jaw and then hauling upward on the chains until fully suspended above the rock. An old and decrepit building like this, the approach gives you pause. But those beams survived the ’53 quake and I doubt even Tani can pull them down.

The way the body hangs, certainly life is now gone. Does it make the watching easier?

Gravity offers some assistance at this point. They move downward, faster now, the sheets of skin resembling, at times, small sails. Any one of them can manage this stage of the paring, but for the close work along the skull, only the most dexterous among them will be allowed to cut. The muscles at the base of the ears are small but particularly strong. And an apprentice will often make his first mistake at this exact point. Right there, around the eyelids. The lips are cut free and, though never collected with the rest of the tissue, neither are they discarded. I have no idea what use they could be.

That cloud? They are dusting the tissue with powdered borax. It makes the going somewhat easier and it begins the preservation process immediately. I am told you can also use cornmeal in a pinch.

This is distressing, I agree. Something about that final series of yanks to pull the entire jacket free.

I thought for sure you would look away. I suppose you’ve surprised us both.

They will do the curing elsewhere. A tedious procedure involving noniodized salt and formaldehyde as well as a mothproofing solvent and grain alcohol. But, believe me, with a gourmand like Leo Tani, it is the degreasing that will take the most time. All the cheesy fat of his robust appetites. That he was not a moderate man is self-evident. Look at him hanging there. Look at that world beneath the skin, the subterranean detail. Think of it as pure structure. Such intricacy.

You may despise them and fear them, but you must allow some degree of esteem for their talent. They are more force than creature, wouldn’t you agree? My God, look at the skill, the undiluted confidence with which they work, the instinctual grace. They are the surgeons of history. The pathologists of our shared memory. The skivers of our race dream. Some part of you can’t help but respect the genius of their craft, that level of intensity and shapeliness that elevates their practice into art. Admit that much to me. Be honest, at least with yourself. And understand that this respect cannot help but grow. Into admiration. And imitation. And ultimately, as the past has shown us so well and so thoroughly, into love.

Do not speak — I know what the question is. You are curious as to what happens to the epidermis itself, yes? You see them collecting it in the burlap sacks and you wonder what use it could possibly have. But everything has a use. I was hoping I could expect more from you. I must confess a small disappointment. Wouldn’t you agree that we invent the usage? Isn’t this what we have always done?

Even the tidying-up work is a solemn responsibility.

You are disgusted with the way they clean their tools? But I assure you, in their tradition the saliva itself is thought to hold many purging and strengthening properties.

As to Tani, the corpse will be left hanging. As a sign, I suppose. Eventually, inevitably, it will become one more dark myth from the belly of Gompers Station. Though the blood loss was spectacular, I believe the death certificate will make mention of absolute trauma. By the time the remains are found, by the train bulls or by the scavengers, a multitude of parasites will have swarmed to the open meat, drawn by the immediate initiation of decay; a veritable legion of vampiric organisms will have massed upon the bare altar of the ’Shank’s subcutaneous corpus. They will give nothing. They will only take. Because they can do nothing else. Because that is the nature they were born with. There was a saying back in Shinar—

I’m sorry, but they appear to have spotted you.

No, there is nothing you can do.

You may know other ways out of the station, but sooner or later they will find you.

You have been the witness.

That was your choice.

You were warned at the very beginning.