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“Shit,” one of the Chinese laborers translated.
“Benzona,” Perelman said. It was his moshav.
“Son of a bitch.”
“Beitsim,” Perelman said.
“Balls.”
“Mamzer.”
“Goddamn bastard,” said the Chinese laborer.
“Excuse me,” said his countryman, and a gentleman. “He did not say Goddamn.”
“I’m a Taoist. What do I care?” His countryman, and a gentleman, was also a Buddhist, as was the Thai laborer. Even though they were Buddhists, there was no friendly ground shared between the two men because one’s Buddha was bigger than the other’s Buddha.
Juan Perelman said, “I’ll bet the Egyptians had something to do with this.”
“What are you going to do?” Isabella Perelman said as she walked up to join her husband at the fence.
“I’m thinking.”
“Get rid of them,” she said. “Other moshavim have their issues, like us with land and water. Sale them off, all of them.” She was attractive, with dark eyes, and long dark hair.
“I don’t know?”
“Ship them off then, or give them away if you have to, but let’s finally turn the soil over on this farm and into crops and fruit trees, fig, date, olive trees, and fields of grain, wheat, and hayfields. Feed the people something. They don’t eat pig.”
The Chinese and Thai laborers exchanged looks. Wait a minute, they thought, we’re people too.
“That’s not the issue here, Isabella. It’s the dairy operation that’s in question.”
“Well, how do you know he impregnated them anyway? I mean, seriously 12 Holsteins and the Jersey only a day before.”
“Look at him. He’s famished. I imagine he’s lost a hundred pounds in two days.” Bruce covered a lot of ground, gnawing away at the grass under hoof where he went. “Look how his balls hang. He got to them all and something’s got to be done about it.”
“Still, Juan, don’t we want the cows producing milk?”
“We can only handle four freshened cows at a time, maybe five, but not twelve–thirteen! We don’t have the resources to handle all of them, and the pigs, and all the other animals.”
“Why can’t we just sell or move cows to other moshavim?”
“I don’t want to. Besides, they have issues already and can’t add ours to theirs. Water is an issue for everyone, as is the land.”
Vengeance was theirs — his, or so said Juan Perelman, the moshavnik, whose moshav the bull had just ruined.
“I want this bull to be taught a lesson,” he said.
“What then, abort the calves?”
“No, call Rabbi Ratzinger.”
“A rabbi,” she said, “why a rabbi?”
“This is who we are. I’ll show him to mess with me. Curse this bull anyway. We need a rabbi at a time like this.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Won’t stand for this.”
The Chinese and Thai farm laborers corralled the bull and drove him back into the feedlot behind the barn and away from the other animals. They waited for the arrival of the rabbi.
Juan Perelman said, “This bull shall suffer the wrath of God and then some.” Isabella headed for the farmhouse. Juan called after her, “He will pay for what he has done.”
“Whatever,” she said, waving him off with her hand.
“This is an abomination.”
Rabbi Ratzinger arrived with his entourage, male members of his congregation. They followed him in lock-step, all moving as one from the car to the field and the lot behind the barn. The rabbi had a gray beard and wore a black fedora, a black frock coat, a white shirt, and Bermuda shorts. It was a hot day under the sun, a gift from G-d. The shorts were modest, and the rabbi’s legs very white and thin, also a gift from G-d. The members of the congregation wore fedoras with dark clothes, pants, and coats with white shirts. Their beards and curls were of various lengths and shades of black to brown to gray. They wore un-shined black shoes and white socks.
The rabbi said, “He shall suffer from here to eternity for what he has done without our permission or blessing. This is an abomination against G-d and shall not go unpunished. This is a lesson to be learned by animals of this moshav and by animals of all moshavim.” He continued then to deliver his curse of curses to condemn this bull of this moshav for all eternity.
Thus, sayeth Rabbi Ratzinger, “With much ado and with the judgment of the angels, and of the saints of heaven, we of the temple mount do solemnly condemn to here, and we excommunicate, cut, curse, maim, defeat, bully, and anathematize the Simbrah bull of the Perelman moshav and with the consent of the elders and all the holy congregation, in the presence of the holy books. Let it be known not of this moshav or any moshavim is he to be acknowledged of but an outcast for his sins against the moshavnik Perelman by the 613 precepts which are written therein with the anathema wherewith Joshua cursed Jericho, with the curse which Elisha laid upon the children and with all the curses which are written in the law. We curse the bull; we curse thy offspring, progeny.” Rabbi Ratzinger was interrupted when one of his congregation assistants whispered in his ear.
“Yes, of course.” The rabbi cleared his throat and resumed his litany. “We shall allow the offspring to prosper and to grow and bear milk and meat for the nourishment of the multitudes until then that day comes when his progeny is no more, for they have long been consumed and have perished from this earth. With this one exception cursed be he by day and cursed be he by night. Cursed be he in sleeping and cursed be he in walking, cursed in going about the fields and cursed he when coming into the paddocks to feed and drink. The bull shall not spawn his evil seed again upon the earth.”
Bruce sneezed and shook his great head.
“The Lord shall not pardon him, the wrath and fury of the Lord shall henceforth be kindled against this animal, and shall lay upon him all the curses which are written in the book of the law. The Lord shall destroy his name under the sun, his presence, his seed, and cut him and cut him off for his undoing from all animals that graze on this moshav, and all moshavim of Israel, with all the curses of the firmament which are written in the book of the law.”
When the rabbi finished his curse of biblical proportion, someone said, “Look, Rabbi, what should be done about that?”
Near the pond, the Yorkshire boar poured dollops of mud and water over the heads and shoulders of young lambs and kids.
“Nothing,” said Rabbi Ratzinger. “That is of little consequence.”
Something hit the rabbi, splattering against the lapel of his frock coat. Julius, followed by the ravens, flew over and bombed Rabbi Ratzinger and his entourage with bird shit. Julius had gotten off a direct hit, splattering yellowish feces up the lapel of the rabbi’s frock coat. Ezekiel hit one in the brim of his hat as Dave let fly a whitish smear into another man’s dark beard. Other farm fowl, whether they flew like the geese or waddled like the ducks or simply clucked, all came to defend Bruce, attacking from air and land, biting, snapping, smearing feces over hats and frocks and boots. Depending on which direction the farm fowl attacked, they flew and ran, and defecated on the rabbi and his solemn congregation.
Someone opened an umbrella over the rabbi, a gift from G-d, as they scattered, running for cover in the direction from which they’d come.
It was too late for Bruce, however, with the curse set already in motion. He had been cursed to a life of death.
Isabella Perelman walked up to the feedlot fence where Juan Perelman stood. “Juan, do you honestly believe any of this will be of any good?” Her black hair was pulled back. She wore a matching riding jacket and britches, with black boots. She held a black derby helmet under her arm. The Thai laborer led the Belgian stallion by the reins with an English saddle strapped to him. Stanley couldn’t remember the last time anyone had placed him under such distress with the weight of a saddle, and in that saddle, a rider. Had it been her? If it had been anyone better, better her than anyone else.
To ensure that the rabbi’s curse had taken hold, and would remain intact from now until forever, the laborers draped a burlap sack over the bull’s great head. He moaned and pushed against them and moved sideways, but the laborers held tight as they twisted his neck by the horns. Bruce groaned as they pulled him down to the ground, his front legs buckling under him. The laborers rolled him over in the dirt onto his side.
“Juan, is this necessary? Juan, this is not necessary.”
“It’s necessary if the curse is to work,” he said. “There will be no doubts about it.”
Isabella padded the horse’s forehead, running her palm over his white diamond, and whispered, “There, there, Tevya, don’t worry. It’s okay, boy. Take it easy now. Everything’s going to be all right.” She placed her left boot toe in the stirrup and pulled herself up and mounted the horse, settling into the English saddle. She held tight to the reins as Stanley, aka, Tevya, neighed and backed up a couple of steps, adjusting to the weight of the rider.
“This is cruel, Juan. This is inhumane.” But her protestations came too late and fell on deaf ears. Juan Perelman was a pragmatist.
“We don’t need a bull anymore, anyway,” he said. “We use artificial insemination. He was just for show.”
She pulled the reins against the Belgian stallion and turned him away from the feedlot. They rode off at a trot along the road that divided the farm. He was rambunctious and stubborn, but she maintained control and held tight to the reins. She patted his neck along his mane. Riding parallel with the Egyptian border, kids from the village tried to hit her with rocks fired from slingshots.
“Take it easy, Tevya. No one’s going to hurt you.”
Stanley saw projectiles flying toward him and he spooked. Isabella Perelman held steady and guided him to continue broadside to the flying rocks and hard mud pieces fired from slingshots, with more than a few hitting Stanley. Although he tried to bolt, she patted his neck. She followed the road to the southern end of the moshav and turned him away from the border and out of range of the Muslims on the hill. They continued at a gallop away from the moshav and into the Israeli countryside.
Behind the barn in the feedlot one of the Chinese laborers, the Taoist, removed a scalpel from its case and in one fell swoop, sliced the bull’s scrotum. As he spread the scrotum layers apart, the testicles slid out onto the ground. He cut them from the blood vessels and placed the severed gonads on ice in a cooler for safekeeping. A salve was applied to the bull’s scrotum to stop the bleeding and help heal the wound. The laborer took a large needle with thread and sowed what was left of the bull’s scrotum shut. Once everything was done and put away, the Thai laborer removed the burlap bag from Bruce’s head. He rolled himself upright and stumbled, as he tried to get up. He stood unsteadily on four legs, his head swaying from side to side. He stopped, and then took a few steps back, backing away from his tormentors.
A neighbor from the moshavim, a fellow moshavnik, said, “This is not good, Juan. Castrations are done within days, no more than a month or two after birth, not like this. This is unkind. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“He has caused a great deal of consternation.”
“How do you think he feels?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Perelman said. “It’s too late to salvage anything. Besides, an old seven-year-old bull, his meat is already ruined because of his balls, just as my moshav.”
“Then it doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s done is done,” Perelman said.
* * *
Later that night, Stanley stepped from the barn filled with trepidation not knowing what to say or whether he should say anything at all. Bruce stood motionless next to the water tank.
“You have no idea,” Bruce said when he saw Stanley.
“I hope I never do.”
“It’s the first step to becoming ground beef.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t want to.”
“I wouldn’t want — never want to know. I mean, it scares me.”
“They’ll turn you into dog food once they’re done with you when you’re old and no longer of use.”
“I’m sorry for you, my friend.” Stanley backed away three steps and turned to run as fast and as far in one pasture of a 48-hectare farm as any animal could.
11
The Promise of the End Comes to an End
Two months after Blaise gave birth to the red calf, Beatrice lay in the middle of the pasture struggling, kicking in an attempt to give birth herself as a silver Mercedes tour bus stopped outside the fence. A Catholic priest leading a group of teenage boys and girls stepped off the bus. They were there to witness the miracle of the red calf that would soon alter the course of human history once and for all. As it happened, they also arrived in time to witness the miracle of birth as the bay mare rolled on the ground in the pasture.
In the barn, Boris ministered to the yellow hen. He promised her everlasting life and coaxed her into prayer with him. This she gladly did. “Trust me,” he said, his tusks bleached white from the sun. “I am the way, the truth, and the light.”
“Bog, Bog!” She scattered to the rafters as the Thai laborer came rushing through the barn wearing a leather apron, carrying a blanket, and a bucket of splashing water. The hen thought that had been a close call as she came down from the rafters.
“Through me, you shall enter life eternal in the animal kingdom, which art in heaven. I am the door: by me, if any chicken enters in, she shall be saved.”
She clucked happily.
“I am the Shepherd you shalt not want.”
In the middle of the pasture, Beatrice continued with the struggle of giving birth. The Reverends Hershel Beam and Randy Lynn had returned to the farm in time to witness the birthing process. They watched from the road as the Thai laborer, his arm buried to his elbow in her birth canal, dislodged the umbilical cord from around the unborn foal’s neck.
“I don’t know about you, Randy, but I’m getting hungry,” Reverend Beam said. “Do you like Chinese?”
“Do I like Chinese? Yes, of course. I dated a girl in Tulsa once, and we used to go to this Chinese buffet all the time, but it wasn’t going to work. She was a Methodist and had it all wrong. I never went back to that Chinese restaurant, though, after we broke up. Call me sentimental, but I still miss her and dim sum.”
Reverend Beam laughed, “Yes, well, pray we find a buffet nearby.”
“Look,” shouted one of the teenage boys. In the pasture, the mare was on her side as the Thai laborer pulled the foal’s front legs and head out of her birthing canal.
“No, children,” the priest cried, “turn away!” His efforts to protect the children from the horrors of childbirth were in vain. They weren’t going anywhere just as the placenta burst and splashed against the laborer’s apron and he slipped and fell as the colt plopped out onto the ground beside him. The teenagers, usually a cool and indifferent group, applauded and cheered the sight of the newborn colt. He stood at first uneasily, but once he found his footing, he was snorting and kicking up dirt in the field and went to his mother to nurse. It had been an ordeal for all involved. Stanley came out of the barn, snorted, and galloped straight to the colt. He did not like his progeny. He did not like the colt suckling from Beatrice’s teats as he did. Stanley was not warm or paternal toward the colt. The colt was competition for the affection and attention of the other mares even though there were no other mares on the moshav. In a matter of weeks, though, his attitude toward the colt would change once the laborers rendered the strapping young colt a gelding.
“Look,” one of the kids shouted. The red calf appeared alongside her mother from the barn as cheers went up from all quarters. These children in the care of the church were impressed.
Blaise and Lizzy came out to see how Beatrice was doing and to meet the new arrival. Beatrice’s strapping young colt was prancing about in the full sunshine of day. Also, out in the full sunshine of the day, life went on for Molly, the Border Leicester, and her twin lambs as they played in the pasture alongside Praline, the Luzein, and her young lamb. As Praline grazed or tried to, her young lamb Boo chased after her, wanting to nurse from her.
“Oh,” said one young girl, “the lambs are so cute.”
“Yes, they are,” said the father, “but they are sheep, neither divine nor a gift from God.”
“I thought all animals were a gift from God,” said another.
“Well, yes, they are,” the priest agreed, “but unlike the red calf, they are not divine.” He wore a black cassock with a white cord around the waist and tied in a knot at the front. The reverend father continued, “No one saw the two mate. Therefore, it is believed the red calf may have been conceived through the miracle of Immaculate Conception.”
The teenagers were suspicious of conspicuous consumption or anything any adult told them. They were skeptical and questioned authority, their parents, and especially priests who promised a glorious afterlife next to Jesus in heaven. These children, as with children anywhere, wanted to live life now.
“That’s the consensus anyway,” the priest added. “After all, the red calf is a gift from God.”
“Father,” a young boy asked, “What’s the difference between mating and Immaculate Conception?”
The older kids laughed. The father smiled and said to the boy, “I’ll show you later.”
“Hello, Beatrice, how are you?” Blaise said.
“I don’t know, Blaise. If not for the farmhand, I don’t think he would have survived?” Beatrice licked her colt.
“But he did, Beatrice, and he’s a beautiful boy.”
