Rana Dasgupta - Solo

Petar felt it was time to show everyone what he could do. He was twenty-one: he worked as hard as anyone else in the factory, and, if you did not take his size into account, he could look quite handsome.

His opportunity came when the mayor announced a party for his wedding anniversary. Old Petar was the mayor’s brother, and naturally it would fall to him to slaughter the pig. He was famous for it: he could slice a jugular in an instant, and with his bulk he pinned down the largest animals and held them as they died.

‘Pigs are sensitive beasts,’ he would say as he got up from his exertions and acknowledged the crowd’s approval. ‘You can’t let them suffer.’

On the morning of the mayor’s party, Petar approached his father and said,

‘Today I am going to slaughter the pig.’

Old Petar burst out laughing.

‘You? You wouldn’t have the first idea. It takes skill to kill a pig. Can you imagine what kind of beast my brother will have stored up for a day like this? — it will weigh twice as much as me! How could you keep it down?’

‘I’ve watched you all my life, and I know how it’s done. As for my size — I’ll make up for it with ingenuity.’

The argument went on until his father gave in.

‘But you’re on your own. I’ll have nothing to do with it.’

Around midday, people began to gather at the hall where the mayor was having his party. A steel bath was already heating on the fire to dunk the pig in afterwards, to remove the hair.

Old Petar arrived, his son in tow. Everyone knew what his arrival portended; they greeted him excitedly and walked with him in a jubilant crowd to where the pig was penned. Old Petar opened the gate to the enclosure while everyone else climbed on to the fence and sat there to watch. The pig was sleeping inside a wooden hut with its head resting in the mud outside. The sudden commotion roused it, and it blinked drowsily.

Old Petar stood in the middle of the enclosure and took his knife out of his belt. He raised it above his head, and everyone cheered. He spoke:

‘I’m not slaughtering the pig today. My son here thinks he can do it better. So see him try.’

There was general surprise. Old Petar walked out of the pen and handed the knife to his son. Then he turned his back on the crowd and set off down the street towards home.

Petar jumped down from the fence into the enclosure. Everyone was watching. The mayor and all his friends. The young men who had mocked Petar when they were at school. All the prettiest girls in the town were there. They were all sitting on the fence watching how Petar would fare with the pig.

The mayor was a little nervous.

‘Are you sure about this, young Petar? I have a lot of guests to feed today and I don’t want anything to go wrong. That pig’s been waiting a long time for this day. Ideally he would want someone with a bit more experience.’

Petar had brought three long pieces of rope. He tied them to sturdy posts on different sides of the pen, and laid the three loose ends together in the middle. Everyone watched curiously.

The mayor said,

‘Do you want some men to hold him down? You’re just a snip of a thing yourself.’

Petar approached the pig, which eyed him lazily. He took its ear and tried to pull it to its feet. The pig did not move. He seized both ears and leant backwards, pulling as hard as he could. The pig was oblivious, and the girls began to snigger. Petar took a sharp stick and began to poke the pig in the neck. It still did not react: its skin was as tough as bark. Finally, he threw himself into the ripe darkness of the sty, wriggled along the length of the pig’s warm flank, and prodded it vigorously in the backside. The pig snorted and flicked its tail in his face, and, as Petar dug in harder, it whined irritably and struggled to its feet. Finally, it stumbled out of the sty and into the open. Petar crawled after it, covered in filth.

The pig stood under the hot sun, drowsy and bewildered. It was the mayor’s prize boar, and the largest Petar had ever seen. Its head was larger than his torso. Its body was a long pink mountain of muscle and fat, and its legs were as thick as pillars. Its eyes were moist and human, with a thatch of stiff gold lashes.

Petar coaxed the pig into the middle of the enclosure. He stroked it to keep it calm, and pushed it gently ahead of him. The pig was in no mood for an argument. When Petar had it where he wanted it, he began to stroke its snout and to speak soothingly in its ear, until the pig folded its forelegs and lay down on the ground. Petar pulled the ropes taut and tied them firmly around the pig’s ankles.

Everyone was still. The mayor said quietly,

‘You’re sure you’re all right, boy?’

Petar nodded.

He took the knife his father had given him and held it ready. He lay down gently on the broad surface of its back, speaking softly in the pig’s ear, his arms around either side of its head. Suddenly, and so violently that even his expectant audience was taken by surprise, Petar thrust the knife into the pig’s throat.

The pig let out a scream that split their heads like the screech of an electric drill; it staggered to its feet, eyes flung wide. Petar gripped its head and tried to push his knife in farther, but the pig started to run. The two posts at the far end of the enclosure were pulled clean out of the ground, and spectators fell into the mud as the fence collapsed. The pig lowered its head and broke through the barrier at the other end; the crowd scattered in all directions as Petar gripped the pig’s back with his knees as best he could and sawed at its windpipe, opening a hole that gushed blood in the wind. The third rope tautened, and once again the post was ripped out — and now there were three fence posts bouncing on the end of ropes as the pig ran screaming down the hill, its eyes rolling in its sockets and Petar hanging on for dear life.

Behind them ran the party guests, calling and screaming and grabbing at the flying ropes, but none of them could stall the careering pig.

Ahead of them, Petar could see the main road coming close, where cars flashed by on their way to Rousse or the Black Sea, and still the pig charged pell-mell, hoofs a-clatter on tarmac and piston legs accelerating with the incline; and just as the road broadened out into a junction, still bucking and lurching, Petar managed to cut through the pig’s windpipe. Its shriek dried up in its throat and he felt it flag. Its giant lungs were heaving, sucking impotently at the air.

The pig came to a halt. The running crowd caught up and watched as the big eyes turned white, saliva coursed from pig lips, the legs buckled — and the huge animal rolled over, its nostrils still whistling. Petar did not loose his grip but clung on as if in his own rigor mortis. People formed a circle around the dying pig. It was covered in sweat, and blood was still pumping out on to the street. Its eyes opened wide and its back legs kicked, once, twice, three times. It took a long time to die. No one spoke.

The mayor marched after them. He was red with rage.

‘A fine mess, young Petar. What a way to kill a pig. The whole meal will taste of this. And now we have to carry a quarter-ton beast back up the hill. A big fucking mess. I should have just put a bullet in its head.’

Petar got off the pig. He was covered in blood from head to toe. Someone brought a tractor, and everyone heaved the dead pig on to the trailer. They walked behind it up the hill.

Petar went home. His father was sawing wood.

‘Did you kill it?’

‘Yes.’

His father smirked.

‘Looks like it put up quite a fight. You’d better get washed.’

Petar took a shower. His hair was matted with blood and pig shit. He felt depressed. He watched the brown water go down the plughole and vomited suddenly, holding in the noise.