Cow Page 5

  Qué montón de mierda, thought Ambrosio. The smell dwelt in his nose, got under his skin like an ointment. Flies swarmed. The barrow was too full. A pine plank served as a ramp. It swayed underfoot. Down below, a shiny black liquid trickled into a gutter. Ambrosio could see his face distorted in a puddle. The plank was slippery. Ambrosio struggled not to fall into the manure. The pull of the wheelbarrow on his arms became stronger and stronger, he got stuck. Mosquitoes hovered round his bare legs and flew in his face. He blinked, he didn’t have a free hand to defend himself with. Caramba! With one final heave, he gave the wheelbarrow enough impetus to push it up and the load began to slip downwards. Heavily and slothfully, dung slapped against dung. Caramba! If he’d had clean hands, despite flies and stench, Ambrosio would have rolled himself a cigarette on the spot. On the summit of Knuchel’s dunghill, he would have stretched his limbs, and exhaled tobacco smoke from the bottom of his lungs up into the sky. Instead, he pulled the empty wheelbarrow back onto the plank and walked it back down off the dungheap.

  Knuchel was waiting. He thrust a 2-pound bar of STEINFELS soap at Ambrosio, and pointed at the pump. It was a rough lump of soap that felt like a brick in Ambrosio’s hands. Eso para lavar las manos? The sharp-edged block. The manure had crusted on his hands. Ambrosio rubbed them ferociously, rinsed, lathered them again, rinsed them more thoroughly. They were still dirty. He got a handful of sand together from the bottom of the trough, and rubbed that into the pores and cracks in his skin; he found a brush that was lying around, and drove the bristles under his fingernails. ‘Not that!’ Knuchel went up to him and took the brush. ‘That’s for cleaning the milking gear, the buckets and ewers and churns. Come on now.’

  He laughed. ‘Your mitts are clean enough anyway, they’re cleaner than the midwife’s. As bad as the ruddy vet, you are. He never stops splashing about under the pump either. And the amount of soap he gets through! Must be half a pound every time. Remember, you’re not doing an operation, you’re just milking.’ Knuchel laughed and picked up a milking pail. ‘Not operating, just milking, ha ha ha!’

  And then Ambrosio got under one of Knuchel’s cows.

  It was on the mucky Bossy that the farmer had set an example, showing just exactly how it was done here on the highlands. ‘There’s no one in the world as precise about milking as we are here,’ he said.

  Bossy was a cow in her prime, with a good temperament, and if she was a bit short and low slung, she was still firm and full in all holds. But as far as patience went, she had less of that than a thirsty calf. At the first clink and clatter of the milking gear at the pump she would be unable to hold back her milk for excitement. Where the others might start mooing or shaking their heads to and fro, rattling their chains, Bossy’s udder would begin to dribble at the quietest chime of metal. Sometimes just coyly, sometimes in embarrassing abundance. In the first few months of her lactation in particular she would hardly even have time to shift in her stall before yielding to the pressure between her hindlegs. The only ones to rejoice at this, though, were the cats. Summer and winter alike would find them sitting in the alley half an hour before milking time, ready to hop across the gutter and take up position under Bossy at the very first rattle. For his part, the farmer was sorry to see the white streams disappearing down the cats’ throats, so he always milked Bossy first.

  Ambrosio had paid close attention.

  He observed how the farmer didn’t catch the first few streams of milk from each quarter of the udder in the wooden milking pail, nor did he simply squirt them onto the ground, but, according to Paragraph 5 of Article 64 of the FOOD AND EQUIPMENT REGULATIONS, he collected each of the streams separately in a black dish and examined its consistency. As there had been no signs of either lumpy or flaky secretions, nor any other irregularity, the farmer had then aimed into the bucket, and begun to squeeze and tug more emphatically. Knuchel’s hands had moved up and down under Bossy with surprising suppleness. Forthright, though not clumsy, they had straightaway found a steady rhythm which they kept up without interruption until Bossy was milked dry and the oval pail between Knuchel’s knees was full to the brim with foamy milk.

  And then it was Ambrosio’s turn to show what he could do.

  Having first rather awkwardly pushed his sleeves back as far as the shoulder several times, and then dipped into the can of milking fat, he cleared his throat and spat, as he did in Spain, to help the flow. He had buckled on the one-legged milking stool as tight as it would go, and then stepped out onto the floor behind the cows. The towering structures of the cows’ hindquarters had risen up in front of him, like mountains that he had to move. He had to make a breach there, to get them to part, to reach the full udder of Flora, had to grab hold of the flailing tails, hold onto them and tie down their bushy ends, but the blind lunks of hide and bone didn’t want to move, not an inch, and however he cow-shouted at them, however he pounded on their flanks left and right, the back legs of the animals remained knock-kneed and obdurate, their hooves were rooted in the ground, and at the front, in the thick skulls at the end of their long necks, they weren’t overly concerned about this stranger who even on tiptoe couldn’t see over the top of them.

  Flora, who the day before had been persuaded to reach ambitious new heights in her performance, was today making common cause with her neighbour May. They were rubbing against one another with such fervour that even Knuchel was unable to get access to Flora’s udder for Ambrosio. ‘What a carry-on!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘A right pair you are. Anyone would think they were complete novices. Now come on! Take May first this time!’

  And then Ambrosio was milking.

  May had mooed suspiciously as she was being primed, had stepped aside and tried to kick over the pail under her belly with her hindleg. Ambrosio had pressed his forehead against her flank, and massaged her high up on the udder just below her belly. The hormonal flow started up. May’s resistance weakened, her milk had dropped, and at the first trickle, she was behaving like a model cow, standing broad and low over the milking pail.

  Knuchel raised his head. His bottom lip slid up to cover his upper lip. He sucked. ‘Look at you. May! First she thinks she’s going to act up, and now... ruddy May!’ he said.

  May’s udder was slightly rectilinear, front and rear were clearly separated, each quarter was glandular, evenly rounded and covered by healthy, protuberant blue veins; there were no scars on her teats, no cracks that might get infected, and all four were well positioned, sealed and fitted with prettily curved sphincter muscles. It was set high up between her hindlegs, and was just narrow enough to allow her an unimpeded gait. There was only a single fault with this otherwise perfect udder: there was a growth of hair on one of the quarters. It twined like thread round the pinky-yellow skin. Because of these ‘devil’s curls’ as Knuchel called them, May had refused to suckle her calves, whose muzzles could be merciless in their insatiable thirst. They sucked and pulled at the hairs, until May could no longer bear it. Ambrosio realized her trouble immediately. He was even gentler with that teat than with the others, milking it not by tugging but by closing each finger over it in turn. It was an easy matter for him to work with care, his own hands were so cut and blistered by Knuchel’s cowshed cleaning gear. He hoped the cow-warmth of the teats would help to ease the pain.

  Knuchel hunkered down. His lower lip was sucking contentedly on his upper lip. He listened to the little milk bubbles popping in May’s glandular tissue; it was as though it was himself milking, with his own head pressed against her belly, and he listened to the milk coming through the little valves and passages in the activated udder, listened to it collecting in the tanks above the teats, listened to the blood throbbing and pressing, and he liked the sound of the first few streams very much. There was a hard metallic drumming as they splashed against the bottom of the pail. He listened to the richer, hissing sound as the pail filled up. ‘Music, isn’t it?’ he whispered under May to Ambrosio. ‘Music.’ To keep the cow from losing concentration, he rubbed the b
ase of her tail. If only that cheeser was here, that blabbermouth, he could even learn a thing or two, he thought. Quite. And Gran too. Huh. Milking machines, milking machines. Give me that man any day. Yes, let them come now, Messrs Rep and Rep, let them roll up with their ties and their briefcases. But there you go, whenever there’s something worth seeing they’re never there. Not a sausage. Not even the bloke from the association. God knows I’d be surprised if they didn’t produce some kind of bumf, there’s always some new statistical crap from America. No more competent milkers around nowadays, well, Christ, here he is! The way they’d stare, their eyes would pop out of their heads and roll in the dung, that Spaniard’s all right, you can set him to work on the finest udders and not worry, he’ll not do any mischief, he’s got it, his hands have got what it takes, you can see it at a glance, more than any milk vacuum, Ambrosio was much more useful! And he wouldn’t run up any electricity bills either.

  Still, Ambrosio’s hands looked a trifle narrow on the teats, for Knuchel’s liking, and at a closer look they were on the bony side too. He thought even the farmer’s wife had more flesh on her fingers. But then it’s what he does with them that matters. It’s just clothes he’s short of, he needs a decent pair of trousers, an overall, boots and some headgear; you can’t go around Knuchel’s cowshed in sandals.

  Ambrosio got up crookedly; the milking stool had slipped round a little. The pail was full to the brim. The farmer drew his head back in, his neck and throat shortened. May’s milk weighed Ambrosio down. He staggered. Caramba, por que todo es de tamaño enorme. There was a milk churn on the dog-cart outside the door. Ambrosio held out his right arm to keep his balance. He carried the milk past the farmer and poured it through the sieve into the churn. There was a crown of foam left on it. ‘What do you think, want to try your hands on another?’ asked Knuchel. ‘Try Flora. Just to see. What do you say?’

  Ambrosio tried it.

  Before he could even set foot on the floor behind her, Flora stepped aside and made room for him to sit down. She kept her tail quite still between her knees, and, at the other end, she lowered her head; the rattling of chains stopped, and the mooing was replaced by a quiet, rhythmical breathing. Ambrosio dug his feet into the straw, moved the pail up, pressed his forehead against her flank, reached out and... Flora was all udder for him.

  ‘Christ!’ Knuchel lost control of his lower lip. His upper lip disappeared completely. There’s Flora allowing this stranger access to her, not making any fuss. He got a stool and pail for himself, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and positioned himself under Baby who was especially impatient with her milk, next to Spot at the very back of the cowshed.

  The Monday morning milking was completed as a duet, in the same tempo in which it had begun. There was no slowing down. The milk flowed, the farmer laughed, one relieved cow after another went back to ruminating. Prince started to feel restless in his chains. When Ruedi stepped into the cowshed wanting to help, the last drop of white stuff had long since been pressed out of the spongy tissue of Blösch’s eleven companions. They were already unchaining them.

  After the watering trip, Knuchel gave the churns on the cart a stir. ‘If they yield milk, you have to milk them,’ he said. ‘But right now we’re going to eat, I can smell the rösti. Later we’ll take the Spaniard round to the cooperative. He needs a decent pair of trousers, an overall, boots and something to wear on his head.’

  *

  Heavy paws scraped at the wood of Knuchel’s kitchen door, one claw caught on the lintel, and the scraping was followed by yelping.

  ‘Well, it seems it’s time to deliver our milk. Prince here can hardly wait.’ The farmer wiped his mouth on his sleeve and was the first to get up from the table.

  Coffee can and rösti dish were empty; left next to the serrated knife on the breadboard, there were only a few crumbs. Ruedi picked them up on the tip of his finger and nibbled them one by one. Stini, Hans and Thérèse again just showed Ambrosio their large eyes, keeping the lower half of their faces well concealed behind bowls of milk. They hadn’t opened their mouths to speak. It was only when Ambrosio had failed to realize straightaway that the hard crust of Knuchel bread needed to be softened in milky coffee first, that a little giggle escaped Stini. Ambrosio had made several vain attempts to bite through the crust with his teeth, and a few groaning wheezing sounds in his throat had been audible. The farmer had stopped chewing and asked, ‘What’s the joke?’ ‘Nothing,’ Stini had replied.

  Prince pulled strongly at his harness. Knuchel’s hands gripped the shaft of the milk-cart as strongly as a vice. The dog panted. The farmer’s boots crunched the gravel on the path. From the top of the slope, there were two curving wheel tracks that cut through the little wood between the village and the Knuchel farm. The cart jolted from one to the other. Ambrosio’s short legs had to step out powerfully to keep pace. But he wanted to keep up.

  He had been there at the milking, and helped. The milk that his exertions had produced was there with the rest, sloshing about, in the churns on the cart. No hay que correr. He lengthened his stride again. Behind the cart, he wanted to be just like the farmer in front, as upright and powerful striding along, not having to break into a trot.

  Just before the village, on a level with the Boden farm, Prince raised his head; his gait was calm and proud. He barked, as if to say: Here, you small-time farmers, get off your mingy dungheaps, get out of your rooms and your byres and come and see how much milk we’re bringing in today.

  But it wasn’t the dog, it was Ambrosio they turned out to see.

  Frau Zaugg came to her garden fence, Frau Kiener watched from her kitchen window, Frau Stucki raised her red face from her vegetable patch, Frau Fankhauser looked down from her veranda, young Frau Eggimann stopped in front of the village shop with an empty bag, Frau Blum restrained her St Bernard, old Frau Eggimann took a grandchild by the hand, Frau Zbinden put her broom away, Frau Stalder broke off her chat with Frau Bienz, Frau Marthaler went and got her husband from the threshing room.

  Ambrosio looked left and right. Knuchel walked past the farms, nodding and greeting. He listened to the clicking of the milking-machine compressors. For all their technology, Binggeli, Blum, Zbinden, Stalder, and Affolter were still in their cowsheds. Ambrosio caught all the looks, his smile twisted by a spasm under the skin. These women, he thought, todas grandes como las vacas. Let them stare. He kept up his long strides, and held onto the wood cart.

  In front of the Ox Inn, cows were standing at the fountain: red and white, tanking water, slurping and snorting through their nostrils which they didn’t immerse. Prince barked. The brindled cattle remained unmoved, kept formation, stayed back by back. Prince was told off by Knuchel, who led the milk-cart in a wide curve round the herd in the village square. ‘You shouldn’t disturb cattle when they’re watering,’ he said.

  From behind the storehouse of the Innerwald Agricultural Cooperative the hoof-rattle of a horse team died away, and a red tractor started up, it was a HÜRLIMANN 2000. Otherwise, there was little in the way of milking traffic, Knuchel was one of the first.

  The cheeser was standing on the platform at the front of the cheese dairy; he had his hands on his hips and he was waiting. He had a spotless rubber apron tied round his waist, a pair of clogs on his feet, and on top his blue-and-white-striped collarless cheeser’s shirt. ‘Morning!’ he called out. Knuchel lifted a hand in greeting, and took Prince by the collar. ‘Sit!’ he said, and Prince sat. ‘Quiet!’ and Prince was quiet.

  The cheeser hooked his hands round the handles of the churns and hoisted them up to the platform. Ambrosio waved his arms, what should he pick up? Where might he lend a hand? He hurried round the front of the two-wheeled cart, tripped over the shafts, trod on Prince’s tail, an offended growl, the churns were gone, Ambrosio reached out into thin air, the Knuchel milk was already in pans being weighed. The cheeser went ‘Hm’ appraisingly and walked over to his high desk. Knuchel squinted over his shoulder at the receipt book.


  Yesterday evening’s milk had been skimmed and poured from the cooling pans into three cheese-making vats. The cream squelched in the butter churn, could be seen once every time round, white and frothy as it flowed across the glass peephole. On the press table, under three spindles that came down from the ceiling, was yesterday’s cheese in its wooden moulds. It had a sweetish, soapy smell. Everything in the cheese dairy was clean, everything, the white wall tiles, the flagstones on the floor, the windowpanes, the equipment, everything was redolent of freshness and moisture, smelled washed and scrubbed and scrubbed and washed. But what Ambrosio liked was the dull copper glow of the cheese vats, where the cheeser poured the morning’s milk, once it had been weighed, along with the previous night’s. They were huge vats, waist high, a good 4 metres across and cladded with oak on the outside.

  Whey was poured from an aluminium tank into the empty churns, and then they were loaded up again. Prince waved his tail and Knuchel was about to go when the cheeser stepped up to the front of his platform and said, ‘You know your Spaniard can’t go around like that, you know what the REGULATIONS say. Hygiene in the cowshed! And be sure he always washes his hands first, and with soap.’

  Knuchel stopped the cart, his head was on a level with the cheeser’s clogs, and he scratched himself under the chin. ‘Now listen,’ he replied, ‘don’t you bother your head about him, that man is all right. I kept an eye on him all morning, and I have to say he can milk, whether you like it or not, he can milk as well as anyone from here can. As for his clothes, there I agree with you, and we’re heading over to the co-op right now, so see you round.’ Knuchel took up the shafts. Prince pulled, Ambrosio pushed and the cheeser once more stood with his hands on his hips.

  The manager of the INNERWALD AGRICULTURAL COOPERATIVE was just heaving a 2-hundredweight sack of powdered milk out of the storehouse. He stopped and said, without a greeting, ‘So you’ve got him at last, your Spaniard?’ Then he nodded at the sack on his shoulder and said significantly, ‘Imported.’