The Polyester

8/8/2019 The Polyester

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/the-polyester 1/4

………………...………………………………………………………………………………………………

The PolyesterBy

William Sengdara



………………...………………………………………………………………………………………………

F armers - those guys that can navigate the corn rows like the back of their hands - always inside their

barns, or elbow-deep in pig manure or cattle shit as if it were grape-time in a bare-foot wine-making

ceremony. Those guys are truly our best investments. That’s what the company’s little black book said –

and that’s how we all had to memorize it. Those tractors and mills you see out there in the country as you

ride past making your way to whatever destination you have on your mind (the book continued), be it to

the pub or to the hairdresser’s, they are worth quite a penny. I was in my car with my arm out, feeling the

cool breeze as I accelerated from 65 to 95 then back down again when the few worn-out signs warned

about the severe punishment meted out against those who decided to practice intentional road-kills.

Behind me, like a land jet, the wheels had kicked up a sand storm. Every so often, I calmed the engine to

give way to the wild pedestrians (ducks, goats or donkeys), let them cross the road before continuing again.

Nope, the country’s not my style at all.

The car came to a stop at the large gate with the sign of a bull with grand horns. Someone, who had been

intently watching the car as it came into view, put what looked like a shotgun away (maybe it was a rake),

before walking out to investigate me. Farmer James Arnold, unlike the much younger, clean-cut guy of

long ago in the picture in my file, looked as filthy as hell. He had on a dirty red hat and greasy brown

overalls which must have once been white. He had a toothpick in his mouth and he spat every so often as

he came nearer. He shoved out a hand, which I automatically accepted. As well as whatever he had been

messing with all day.

“Andrew Arshavin” I piped back in response to his own self-introduction, mechanically traded him the

business card, my name in gold print (two cobs of corn crossed like the soviet hammer and sickle of long

ago). “Farmers Insurance Limited.”

I started to scratch the tip of my nose to relieve an itch. OK, he had been messing with pig manure.

“Mr. Arshavin? Finally!” He smiled, secretly despising the shiny brand new car. I should have come in a

tractor. “I’m damn angry that it’s taken you boys 8 months to get your asses out here – I’ve lost eight

cows already!”

I turned round to the car and wiped my hands on the cloth I kept on the dashboard before scanning

through the file. Winter was somehow colder out here, what with the plants tossing the cold wind around

like children in a playground. A cold breeze went through the polyester jersey I had over the neat white

shirt. I started to search for the reasons for the insurance claim. He put both hands in his pockets.

Then something caught his eye high up in the sky. He spat at the ground like a champion ready to bout.

“Damn hawks, out for my chickens again.” He declared. I cleared my throat.

“Mr. Arnold. You have made an insurance claim of almost three Million Namibian dollars …”

He shook his head in frustration, one eye half-open.

“I’m just saying, you’ve – you’ve not given us any proof…” I started but was cut short.“Listen city boy, if I had caught whoever or whatever’s been eating up my cows, you’d have been the very

first to know. You just get ready to sign that damn check - that genetically-bred variety your damn

company’s been urging me to invest in has cost me a pretty penny and I intend to get my money back for

every single one that’s died!”

As chief business negotiator, I’d never lost to anyone. I heard the same talk against GM many times before.

“An extreme amount to say the least…” I started again. “I’m just saying, show us some proof then…”



………………...………………………………………………………………………………………………

Behind us, a door suddenly creaked open. A beautiful Japanese woman with an apron on peeked out of

the swinging door and looked straight at me, the springs vibrating. She smiled then shook her head softly.

“Arnold,” she said “Why have you got your guest out there in the cold? Come in, come in.”

Arnold, like a schoolboy caught out, immediately looked down and stared down at his boots.

Mrs. Arnold, she kept insisting that I called her Tomoko instead, prepared a kettle of coffee and handed

us a tray of fresh scones. She carefully placed a carton of milk on the tray, smiled politely and started back towards the kitchen. Old fashioned, I noticed, she still did not have an automatic washer. Mr. Arnold was

scanning through the Hi-fi system, one of the few electronic products they seemed to own. He nodded to

himself: he must have found what he had been searching for. Then he came to sit next to me. A few

seconds later the cello masterpiece “Optimistic” by Zoe Keating started to play.

“Umm, Mrs. Arnold, I mean Tomoko” I said, pouring some milk into my coffee.

“Yes dear?” She asked turning round. She was quite beautiful for her age.

“It would really have been a treat if I could have had some real fresh milk.” I smiled politely. “Out there

in the city, the milk tastes just like water with just a hint of milk…”

She shook her head softly at this and a smile lit up her face. Then the smiled disappeared just as suddenly.

“Arnold should tell you why, won’t you dear?”I stopped stirring the coffee and looked at her intently. Arnold shook his head, prepared to recite again.

“Damn milk tastes like oil.”

Tomoko disappeared from the room. I picked some lint off the polyester and added one more sugar to the

coffee. The pace of the cello in the background was rising beautifully. Arnold took a sip of his coffee and

closed his eyes for a while, most likely to savor the taste of the beautiful home-grown coffee beans.

“Damn GM investment’s been nothing but trouble I tell you”, He said, staring out the window.

The barn smelled like, well it smelled like a barn, wet and mechanized. There were udders and pipes and

more pipes. Arnold shook his head at an empty cow stand. All the milking machines were turned off.

“Damn it!” I cursed under my breath. I held my hand up to the light. Arnold pulled a piece from a towel

roll on the wall. He shook his head again, must have been usual for out-of-towners to cut their hand on

the sharp rails. I tried not to get any of the blood on the polyester.

“Don’t touch the sharp rails city boy”, He laughed. “You don’t want to chop your hands off now, do you?”

He should have posted some sign of warning or better yet should have the rail filed off. I wound the tissue

round the hand; satisfied that the blood was no longer flowing, I started followed him to a cow which

looked like it was trying to sit down.

“Look here. Come closer, come on.” He motioned. “Look look! Something’s been chewing at her legs!”

The giant cow turned it’s large head slightly but was not in the least interested in the two of us prodding

it’s hind quarters. I pulled the magnifying glass out, moved in as close as I could get. The cow turned her

head again but her eyes were much more alert this time. I smiled back, secretly fighting back a childhood

fear of GM animals.

“Well now, look, Daisy likes you city boy.”

One large, very wet tongue darted out of her mouth like a dog and went straight for the bloody tissue

around my hand as if it was some sort of food. Arnold smiled proudly; his Daisy must not have liked

many people. But the weirdest thing of all was that, shit I could swear I saw canines in the cow’s mouth, I

could swear. Nope, the country’s not my style at all.



………………...………………………………………………………………………………………………

I woke up to a very loud bang coming from outside. I knew it was shotgun fire, the same sound you

would hear when the police dispersed crowds of protestors. In the pitch dark, I squinted slightly to make

out the time on the fluorescent dials on my wrist watch; it was just past 3 A.M. The Arnold guest room

smelled brand new and the bed was unbelievably soft. It was when I heard another shot ring out that I

bolted for the door. As I got closer to the main entrance, I could clearly hear Tomoko sobbing. I ran out

to the barn, where the lights were turned on. Inside, a dozen dying cows were lying on the floor withgunshot wounds to their heads. Arnold held the gun in his hand, sweat dripping down his face.

“Hey, city boy bring your ass over here! Come and see this!” He shouted when he finally noticed my

presence. “Get over here now!”

I walked towards him, not exactly sure about what I was doing. A few meters away, his Daisy lay on the

cold floor, her eyes wide open staring up. Something had chewed a giant hole in her neck. Arnold cocked

the gun and shook his head a few times.

“Here’s your damn proof. That damn GM program should never have been allowed,” He yelled just as

the gun went off. “They should get rid of all the cows ever bred using that shit!”

Exhausted, he let himself drop to the ground. The brown cow which I had not seen before fell like an old

tree. It looked like a rabid dog. Even as it died it did not stop grinding the pieces of Daisy’s neck in its

mouth. It bellowed twice and then it was no more. Daisy looked me over inquisitively. A few moments

later her black eyes slowly shut. I patted Arnold on the shoulder but walked on towards Daisy. I pushed

the large mouth open and shook my head: who would believe it – a cow with dog’s teeth? Nope, the

country’s not my style at all.

My boss, Mr. Summer owns a dozen investment companies. He also has shares in the world’s largest

Genetics firm called GM Alive. They have offices across the globe and some say they actually bought out

some third-world governments. He wrote the little black book, and it clearly stated that we do not lose a

dispute: but there was no winning after what I saw at the Arnold farm, not a chance. I called up the office

and explained in detail. Surprisingly, Mr. Summer personally took the call and laughed at the whole

incident. I had only ever talked to him a twice before. He asked what I thought we should do, to which I

replied that since we were the ones in the wrong - we had no alternative but to pay out. I confessed that I

had finally lost one. He laughed even harder when I joked that it would have been shit if it turned out

that GM Alive was breeding cattle that hungered for the meat of other cattle.

I was on the long highway on my way back to Windhoek finally, this time too warm to encounter the

wild pedestrians. A large plate of apple pie was in the passenger seat. Mr. Arnold was still sleeping when I

had left. I had confessed to Tomoko that the case was over, that they would be getting their payout soon

enough. She was glad about it – she wanted a large garden at last, always hated animals, she confessed as

we both watched her husband sleep of the shock. She had waved goodbye as I honked the horn and droveout. The polyester, tied round my neck in the fashion of yesteryear, was blowing with the wind. I glanced

at my rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of about five black heavily-armed war helicopters that went

hurtling past heading out to the country. Tomoko Arnold, how beautiful she was for her age. Nope, the

country’s not my style at all.

Documents

The Polyester