Commentary:

Everything porcine has fascinated me since childhood where our favourite cousin game was the enactment of “Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf”. Notwithstanding the fact that the piggies are heroes, my favourite dish was breaded pork chops, later superseded by paper-thin slices of prosciutto. A further contradiction arose when a few years ago I found myself in a so-called Aufschnitt store in Berlin where cold cuts of all sorts – sausages, hams, mortadella, salami, tongue – were sold as besondere Geschenke mit Humor (special gifts with humour), all made by hand in lush velvet, silk and other attractive textiles by a group of playful vegetarians. I fell in love with a pretty life-like prosciutto, doubling as a neck rest, which has been reclining on my couch ever since. 

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But cutting up a flesh-and-blood pig is not child’s play as witnessed by Hanne Marie Svendsen’s short story “Pig Slaughter” (“Svineslagtning”). One of the tasks in translating the text was tackling the crisp and precise descriptions of every action, sight, sound and emotion the first-person narrator experiences. The developing theme of sensuality connects the dots between desire, fertility, flesh, meat, consumption, killing and death and is conveyed without circumlocutions and flowery blur. Sensory imagery – knives, gutting, squeals, a severed red tongue, and buckets of blood – are narrated without sentimentality while a sense of lust and libido is palpable under the surface. After having worked on the story, my fondness for pigs and prosciutto has become a guilty pleasure associated with carnality and consumption in a way more conflicted than I had previously imagined.

The first part of the story leading up to the slaughter takes place in Denmark. A journalist, a young woman with an underprivileged childhood and a lingering contempt for the wealthy, has been assigned to interview prominent businessmen for her newspaper. Not surprisingly one of the interviewees turns out to be a greedy, selfish, ruthless, self-assured and mansplaining alpha male with a wife and family – a swine with a great appetite, literally and sexually. In spite of their mutually felt disdain for the other’s values and beliefs, the two of them engage in a loveless sexual relationship that ends the day he invites her on a weekend business trip to Paris. At this point she wakes up from her destructive attraction to him and instead spends time with wholesome and loving friends at a collective. On the following Monday she learns that her lover has died from a heart attack in the Parisian hotel room. Tabloids are hinting at a drinking orgy with influential politicians and expensive escort ladies. 

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[…] Now the scene changes, and we are in Italy. The thing is, what I had experienced had apparently affected me more than I was ready to admit. I felt miserable and realized that my work was not up to its usual standard. After a couple of weeks, I let the chief editor know that I would like to take my unused vacation days.

Unused? he said brusquely and mumbled something about the personal portraits of VIPs in the business world that hadn’t turned out the way the editorial team had hoped for. Nevertheless, a few days later I flew to Rome and from there boarded the Sita bus. The expense was far more than what I usually deposit in my hapless brother’s bank account. But right now, I needed the money more.

I know a woman in southern Italy who manages a pension and artist retreat (funded by a Danish organization). The clientele consists mainly of grantees but paying guests from Denmark are welcome as well. In the month of April there would be plenty of room for an additional paying guest.

It was cold in Italy. The fog had settled like a fluffy duvet around the building that leans snugly against the mountainside. But on clear days you can enjoy the view of terraced vineyards and the Amalfi Coast far below.

In the evenings people would gather in the drawing room amidst dark furniture and glass book cases full of handsomely bound literary gems harking back to the nineteenth century. The bank manager, one of the paying guests, turned out to have an unfortunate weakness for the Steinway and played through the entire Liebesträume with fervour and determination every evening. I was cold, and I didn’t have the energy to socialize. Occasionally I ventured outside for a walk but mostly I stayed upstairs in my friend’s apartment. With Line you could easily remain silent.

Once in a while I would also stray into the kitchen to chat with Luciana, the cook. She is a woman of distinctive, gigantic proportions, but in such a way that you sense the presence of brain, will power and muscle in every square inch of her abundant flesh. For years she has worked as cook, midwife and secret witch in the village. “You’re too pale, little tall thin Dane,” she would say to me in her broken Danish that she had acquired after thirty steady years of service at the retreat. And she gave me a herbal concoction that tasted pungent and bitter and roused me from my sleepwalking depression.

I began to feel restless after ten evenings of listening to Liebesträume. The fog had lifted. It was now possible to sit outside. “They will slaughter a pig this afternoon,” Line said. “It’s quite primitive, but if you would like to come and watch, it will at least provide some diversion.” 

I followed her down the path to the far corner of the garden where the sturdy pigpen stands against the stone wall that runs around the property. The butchers hadn’t arrived yet, but a big black tub filled with steaming water stood ready by the wall where a bonfire was being fed with firewood and twigs. The air was dense with smoke. A pale sun had broken through the cloud cover, and you could see the forests and vineyards below and make out the silvery-grey edge of the seashore.

A heavy beam fastened by the upper window of the pen was sticking out at an angle and joined to an upright pole. It looked like a primitive gibbet. There were three pigs in the pen. Two of them were lying down half asleep with a line of black flies crawling on their pale, grey skin. The third one was more active and scurried around restlessly, making snorting sounds now and again when facing the onlookers. “That’s the one,” Luciana said while tending to the fire.

The butchers came walking down the path, three burly fellows in blue work clothes. The youngest, the apprentice, had an unusually big head and appeared simple-minded. The second one ran his hand through his attractive curly hair and waved gallantly to the audience while striking a pose that showed his muscles flex under the baggy clothes. “Belle donne danese,” he said with a flirtatious look in his eyes, gesturing a courtly hand kiss. But he was soon called to order by the eldest, seemingly the boss whose white cap shaded his handsome but expressionless face. Luciana jeered angrily at them.

In the small area outside the pigpen, they began unwinding the rope and fasten the pulley. They stretched out the rope from both sides so it would slide easily and elegantly through the groove. Line took me under the arm: “Of course now Gino has forgotten the ladder,” she said and pointed at the man with the cap. Luciana shouted an order towards the house.

One of the girls from the pension approached, dragging a ladder behind her. “Enzo, Enzo, there’s a girl for you,” the apprentice laughed and looked at the fellow with the black curly hair. Enzo gave her the once-over, checked her Madonna face and her pretty legs showing below her smock, but made no attempt to give her a hand. And she managed with great difficulty to place the ladder under the sloping beam. Gino climbed the ladder slowly with heavy steps, secured a wire to the beam and fastened the pulley. Enzo moved the ladder against the wall, and the three men entered the pen.

Now the ear-splitting squealing could be heard from inside the smoke-filled air. “She is furiosa,” somebody shouted. And now they drag her out. Her piercing screams are unceasing. The rope is fastened to her left hind leg, and suddenly she stands completely still, snorting a bit, waiting. Then the butcher signals that the pulley is ready, and she is hoisted up, suspended by the leg. She squeals steadily from fear. The two younger men reach up and spread her forelegs apart while the butcher scrapes her skin clean. The sun is reflected in the knife blade. The apprentice lets go of his grip, brings boiling water from the tub and pours it down the pig’s chest.

And finally, the stabbing and the last ear-splitting scream. I can see a bloody hand and a gold ring through the red torrent gushing out from the neck of the pig. “I don’t think this is something for you,” Line says and tries to pull me away. But I remain standing. I’m not done watching.

The young fellow with the large head holds up a blue plastic pail under the stab wound. Blood shoots out in rhythmic spasms and lands in the pail. Luciana is standing next to him and whips the blood with a wooden spoon. Small bubbles form on the surface of the bright red liquid. It looks like paint. 

The legs are still jittering, and with each cramp the pig’s head jerks upward towards the wound. In my head I can still hear it snorting. Luciana has put the plastic pail down in the grass near the fire, and the blood on the ground is being washed away with a garden hose. But the pig’s face and throat are still spattered with blood as if she were wearing a red bib. 

Enzo pulls out a large golden wooden plank from the pen. They laugh while lowering the pig and placing it carefully on the plank. I see it from behind. Its greyish-white flesh. The tiny stump of a tail. Apart from the tail it looks like a naked human.

Line has moved closer to the blood-filled pail to talk to Luciana. The apprentice pours boiling water all over the animal, and the two butchers start scraping off the bristles. The sounds from their knives merge into a raspy melody while the pig’s body is being exposed, white, helpless, beautiful.

The twigs crackle and sputter under the black tub. Evening is approaching, the air is cooler, and the voices are more muted. The apprentice is drinking water from the hose. Apart from the two fine red lines above the throat, the pig’s body is now all white and clean.

“Now she is going back up,” Line mutters and hands me a yellow flower that gives off a strong smell, like medicine. The butcher with the cap cuts an incision in each of the hind legs, and the other two men force a curved wooden board through the legs. “The tendons are strong,” Line whispers. Strong enough to hold her up.

And the pig is once again hanging from the pulley with the dark-blue evening sky as a backdrop. Water from the garden hose splashes all over the creature, and the men continue scraping, silently, professionally, wiping their knives now and again with a dishtowel. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, Gino begins to clean the pig’s ears, and Enzo lights a rolled-up newspaper on fire and proceeds to singe off the hair around the snout.

Gino tosses the cigarette on the ground and takes a step back. For a moment he is just standing there with his eyes screwed up, but then moves forward and plunges the knife into the flesh. The knife trembles. Then he grabs hold of it and slowly cuts an incision from the groin and down through the belly. The intestines spill out like grey plastic balls and are caught in a basin by the apprentice. He pulls a face. The organs are carefully sorted out. Enzo holds something high in the air. I can’t tell what it is. Luciana who has been handed the esophagus and the dangling red tongue, shouts angrily at him. “It’s the ovaries,” Line says.  “I think we better leave now. They tend to get a bit wild when it’s all over.”

But I want to stay and look at this white split body. The spine that’s laid bare and the grey membrane covering the ribs. The brain looks like an eye. Cold and lifeless, symmetrical, beautiful.

It is getting dark. Enzo is standing by the bonfire. He looks at us, laughing, and lets something white and indefinable slide down his gullet. “I’m leaving now,” Line says and lets go of my arm. “They’re eating the raw marrow. They say it’s good for their manhood.”

I feel a dizzy spell coming on. Nausea fills my throat, and I run down the path towards the vineyard where I lean against a wooden stake and double over. Slime and food bits spew out of me in spasms. Suddenly I feel a hand on my forehead and another warm hand on my stomach. A smell of sweat and heat and strong old living flesh envelopes me. “Silly Dane,” says Luciana and rocks me back and forth. “Why do you want to look at that sort of thing in your condition. Now, get it over with. Tomorrow I’ll prepare some fine sausages. Tomorrow I’ll make a nice dinner. And then you can begin to look forward to a celebration. My hand tells me that it will likely be a little boy.”

[…] Nu skifter scenen, og vi er i Italien. Sagen var den, at det, jeg havde oplevet, tilsyneladende havde påvirket mig mere, end jeg rigtig ville være ved. Jeg havde det dårligt og kunne selv se, at mit arbejde ikke holdt den sædvanlige standard. Efter fjorten dages tid meddelte jeg chefredaktøren, at jeg gerne ville tage resten af min ferie.

– Resten? sagde han surt og mumlede noget om de personlige portrætter af erhvervslivets pinger, der ikke rigtig var blevet, hvad redaktionen kunne havde ønsket. Men et par dage senere fløj jeg til Rom og tog derfra med Sitabussen. Det gik ud over det beløb, some jeg plejer at sætte ind på en bankbog til min lillebror. Men jeg havde mere brug for pengene nu.

Jeg kender en pige, der bestyrer en slags pension og kunstnerrefugium i Syditalien. Klientellet består dels af stipendiater, dels af betalende danske gæster. I april måned var der sagtens plads for endnu en betalende.

Det var koldt i Italien. Tågen lå som en dyne omkring huset, der trykker sig ind mod en bjergskråning og normalt har udsigt over vinterrasserne ned mod Amalfigolfen.

Om aftenen samledes man i dagligstuen med dens stilmøbler og bogskabe, bag hvis glasdøre guldalderens smukt indbundne læsefrugter gemmer sig. Bankdirektøren, en af de betalende, viste sig at nære en skæbnesvanger forkærlighed for Steinwayflyglet og spillede sig hver aften med stædig energi igennem “Liebesträume”. Det var koldt. Jeg orkede ikke at knytte kontakt med nogen, prøvede at gå nogle ture, men sad mest oppe i lejligheden hos min veninde Line, som man godt kan holde kæft sammen med.

Ind imellem gik jeg også i køkkenet for at tale med Luciana, kogersken. Hun er en dame af et eget gigantisk format, tyk, men sådan, at man fornemmer hjerne, vilje og muskler i hver kvadratcentimeter af hendes overdådige kød. Hun har været landsbyens kogekone, jordemoder og hemmelige heks igennem mange år. – Du er for bleg, lille høje smalle danske, sagde hun til mig på sit gebrokne dansk, som hun har lært sig efter tredive års regelmæssige tjeneste i pensionen. Og hun gav mig et urteafkog, der smagte ramt og besk, men fik mig til at vågne op af min søvngængeragtige depression.

Jeg var begyndt at blive rastløs efter ti afteners aflytning af “Liebesträume”. Tågen var lettet. Man kunne begynde at sidde ude. – I eftermiddag er der svineslagtning, sagde Line. – Det er ret primitivt, men hvis du har lyst til at se på, er det da altid en afveksling.

Jeg fulgte efter hende hen ad stien til det yderste hjørne af haven, hvor grisehuset er muret op mod stendiget, der strækker sig rundt om hele grunden. Slagterne var endnu ikke kommet, men op mod diget stod en stor sort gryde og boblede med vand over et bål af brænde og kviste. Luften lugtede skarpt af røg. Et blegt solskin var brudt igennem, og man kunne se over skove og vinmarker ned mod havets sølvgrå bræmme.

En tyk stolpe var stukket skråt ud fra grisehusets høje vindue og slået fast til en pæl. Det lignede en primitive galge. Der var tre grise i folden. To lå sløvt hen med en stribe af sorte fluer over det bleggrå kød. Den tredje virkede mere aktiv og vimsede uroligt omkring, mens den af og til øffede ud mod tilskuerne. – Det er den, sagde Luciana, der stod og passede bålet.

Slagterne kom vandrende ned ad stien, tre tunge fyre i blåt arbejdstøj. Den yngste, lærlingen, så ud som om han havde vand i hovedet. Den anden strøg over sit smukke krøllede hår og hilste chevaleresk, mens han stillede sig i positur, så at vi kunne fornemme musklernes spil under det posede tøj. – Belle donne danese, sagde han med flirt i øjnene og gjorde tegn til at ville kysse på hånd. Men han blev kaldt til orden af den ældste og myndigste, der havde fine tomme ansigtstræk under en hvid kasket. Luciana hvæsede vredt efter dem. 

På den lille plads uden for grisehuset begyndte de at vikle snore ud og etablere en talje. De trak fra hver sin side, så at snoren kom til at glide let og smukt gennem øskenet. Line tog mig under armen: – Nu har Gino selvfølgelig glemt en stige, sagde hun og pegede på manden med kasketten. Luciana råbte en kort ordre op mod huset. 

En af pigerne fra pensionen kom slæbende med en stige. – Enzo, Enzo, hun er noget for dig, grinede lærlingen og så på den sortkrøllede. Enzo kiggede professionelt ned over madonnaansigtet og de fine ben under kitlen, men gjorde ikke tegn til at ville hjælpe. Og hun fik med besvær stigen slået ud under den skrå træstolpe. Gino steg tungt op på den, fæstnede en ståltrådsløkke til stolpen og fastgjorde taljen. Enzo flyttede stigen over mod muren, og de gik alle tre ind i folden.

Skrigene begyndte at skingre gennem den røgfyldte luft. – Hun er furiosa, er der en, der råber. Og nu haler de hende ud, mens hun skriger højt og vedvarende. Taljen gøres fast i det venstre ben. Pludselig står hun helt stille, øffer af og til tungt, venter. Så giver slagteren tegn, taljen er i orden, og hun hejses op ved bagbenet. Hun grynter angst og rytmisk. De to yngste mænd strækker sig op og holder forbenene til side, mens slagteren skraber brystet rent. Solen glimter i knivbladet. Lærlingen slipper taget, henter kogende vand fra gryden og hælder det ned ad brystet.

Og endelig stikket og det sidste skarpe skrig. Jeg kan se en blodig hånd med guldring under den røde fos, der står ud af halsen på grisen. – Det er vist ikke noget for dig, siger Line og vil trække mig væk. Men jeg bliver stående. Jeg er ikke færdig med at se.

Den unge fyr med det altfor store hovede holder et blåt plastickar under brystet. Blodet sprøjter ned i det i rytmiske spasmer. Luciana har stillet sig ved siden af og pisker i karret med en træske. Blodet er lysende rødt. Det danner små bobler og ligner maling.

Grisen virrer endnu med benene og trækker i krampe hovedet op mod såret. Jeg synes, at jeg stadigvæk kan høre den grynte. Luciana har stillet plastickarret ned på græsset henne ved bålet, og blodet på jorden er blevet spulet væk med en vandslange. Men grisen har stadig en blodig serviet ned fra snuden over struben og halsen.

Enzo trækker et bræt ud fra grisehuset, en stor gylden træplanke. De ler, mens de hejser grisen ned og forsigtigt anbringer den på brættet. Jeg ser den fra ryggen. Det gråhvide kød. Den lille stump af en hale. Bortset fra halen ligner den et nøgent menneske.

Line er gået hen til blodkarret for at snakke med Luciana. Lærligen hælder kroppen over med kogende vand, mens de to slagtere skraber hårene væk. Lyden fra knivene former sig i en raspende melodi, mens grisekroppen afdækkes, hvid, hjælpeløs, smuk.

Risene knitrer under gryden. Det er ved at blive aftenkøligt, og stemmerne er mere tavse. Lærlingen drikker vand af slangen. Grisen er helt hvid og ren nu, bortset fra et par smalle striber af blod over struben.

– Så skal den op igen, hvisker Line og rækker mig en gul blomst, der lugter ramt som medicin. Slagteren med kasketten skærer et snit i hvert bagben, og de to andre sætter et buet træbræt ind gennem bagbenene. – Senerne er stærke, hvisker Line. De kan godt bære den.

Og nu hænger grisen igen i taljen mod den dunkelblå aftenhimmel. Vandet fra haveslangen fosser ud over den, og mændene skraber, tavse, professionelle, og tørrer af og til knivene af i et viskestykke. Gino står med en cigaret i munden, mens han renser ørerne. Enzo har tændt en avis ved bålet og er ved at svide mundhårene af.

Gino smider cigaretten og træder et skridt tilbage. Et øjeblik står han med sammenknebne øjne, før han igen går frem og jager kniven ind i kødet. Den står og dirrer. Så griber han den og trækker langsomt et snit fra skridtet og ned gennem kroppen. Tarmene vælder ud som grå plastickugler og fanges i en spand af lærlingen, som rynker på næsen. Indvoldene løsnes forsigtigt. Enzo holder noget i vejret. Jeg kan ikke se, hvad det er. Luciana, som har fået overrakt spiserøret og den dinglende røde tunge, råber vredt til ham. – Det er ovarierne, siger Line. – Jeg tror, vi snart skal gå. De kan godt blive lidt vilde, når det hele er overstået.

Men jeg vil blive og se på denne hvide, spaltede krop. Rygsøjlen er lagt fri og ribbenenes grå hinde. Hjernen ligner et lille øje. Koldt og livløst, symmetrisk, smukt.

Det er ved at blive mørkt. Henne ved bålet står Enzo. Han ler imod os og lader noget ubestemmeligt hvidt glide ned i svælget. – Nu går jeg, siger Line og slipper min arm. – De spiser den rå marv. De siger, det giver dem manddom.

Jeg kan mærke, at jeg er begyndt at blive svimmel. Kvalmen vælder op i mig, og jeg løber ned ad stien, ud over vinterrassen, indtil jeg kan støtte mig til en vinstok og krumme mig sammen, mens slim og madrester i kramper sprøjter ud af mig. Så mærker jeg pludselig en hånd om min pande og en varm hånd, som har lagt sig om min mave. Der lugter af sved og hede og af stærkt gammelt levende kød. – Dumme danske, sige Luciana og vugger mig frem og tilbage. – Dumme danske. Hvorfor skal du se på den slags i din tilstand. Få det nu overstået. I morgen vil jeg lave gode pølser. I morgen vil jeg lave fin mad. Så skal du begynde at glæde dig. Min hånd fortæller, at det bliver nok en dreng.