The Vegetarian

Most days, and I emphasize the qualifier most, I am proud to be a vegetarian. I never have been ashamed of the fact. I come from a line of ardent vegetarians beginning with my father's Grandfather Moya who, after emigrating from Spain to Brazil to work in the waning gaucho cattle industry, lost his taste for meat after too many days in the thick and putrid air of the local slaughterhouse. A powerful and charismatic man, far too much so for his menial position on the ranches, he managed to convince his entire family, as well as a large portion of his village, to throw down their churrascos in disgust and bow down to the doctrine of vegetarianism. I may have faced childish derision during my early years as a student of Porto Alegre's Pan-American Academy, but I gladly stood by my boycott of all meat-based cuisines, just as I fiercely defended the subtle Castilian overtones hidden in my otherwise fluent Portuguese.


The day they say I lost my sanity, however, was also a day I desperately wished I could sink my teeth into a nice, juicy slab of steak. Or maybe one of those enormously overstuffed hamburgers of which Americans seem to be so fond. I even felt the impulse, in a chillingly visceral train of thought, to rip a package of supermarket-brand ground beef to shreds and devour it whole, savoring the glory of the moment as blood trickled menacingly down the contours of my chin. I sighed. Carnivores have it so easy! Devouring flesh has such coercive potential, such incredible clout in the world of unconscious intimidation. And, at that moment (or rather those moments) of truth, I needed some form of vile compensation to offset the panic that was growing in me like a cancer, spreading from my skull down my spinal chord and through my body, and replacing every civilized instinct I had ever cultivated with the most primal fear known to humanity.


Such was the level of my intimidation as I sat uncomfortably still and very aware of my own vulnerability in a particularly shady corner of a particularly shady cafe along the platform of a particularly shady station of S Paulo's particularly shady subway system. Mind you, I was not alone. That in itself was part of the reason behind my broken morale and the alarming knot of fear growing in my stomach. My eyes darted from side to side, avoiding the glances of the two figures in front of me, trying to divine meaning from the impossible masks that were their faces. Trying to divine humanity out of the hulking, deformed shapes that were their bodies. Trying to divine hope out of the increasingly bleak situation and sanity out of my own disquietingly stark mortality.


Cruuuuunch. A small bone disintegrated into a mouth. Lips smacked. I could barely endure listening. I grasped my plastic fork in a weak and trembling hand, unable to quite spear a single soggy piece of lettuce from the salad bowl in front of me. My mind, so unsuspectingly fragile, had nearly reached its critical point. Never before had life yielded me such a fearsome situation, nor had I even gone through the trouble of imagining my own reaction to such a hypothetical fate. Well, I mused in a fleeting sense of irony, no further pondering would be necessary. The sickening noises continued. Meat tore with a silent riiiip, and I could nearly taste its coppery flavor suspended densely in the air around me. I bowed my head in poorly disguised agony. What had I gotten myself into?


A flicker of light in the corner of my eye, as well an accompanying high-pitched, electrical whine, caught my attention. The Metro. That's how everything began. It was a trip to which I had thoroughly numbed myself; an hour-long ride on the nearly deserted final train between the university and my humble loft on the other side of town. Just like clockwork. Or, at least, that's what I had thought at the time. I distinctly remember waking up from a light slumber to the sound of my cell phone alarm, warbling a painfully shrill reminder for an unknown task from the pocket of my jacket. The harsh, red numerals on the train's digital clock read 12:30 am, as I recall. Outside the windows, the countless, brilliant lights of the metropolis dimmed for a moment before disappearing altogether as the railway dipped once again below the surface of the streets. I groped in the darkness for my jacket, a looming form on the seat next to me, intent on deactivating my alarm and dozing off once more.


I immediately froze. Instead of the smooth plastic edges of my cell phone, my hand encountered something entirely different. Something organic. Something that immediately gave way as I momentarily grasped it. And something, to my horror, that clung to my hand as I frantically withdrew it from the open flap of my jacket. The air around me began to reek as I extended my contaminated hand at arms length, trying to examine it in the failing light. Its dark silhouette seemed to peer back at me, imposed on the darkened shape of my jacket. Something was amiss with the proportions. In the background, my phone continued to wail away at its simple and frustrating melody.


I was on the verge of giving up hope and crudely wiping the substance off on my shirt when I felt the train begin to decelerate. A warm light began seep through the windows around me, brightening the cabin ever so slowly as we approached a station. I spotted my cell phone on the floor beside my jacket, and I reached ever so slowly with my free hand and picked it up. Just as I was about to thumb the mute button and enjoy a nice moment of respite, the train plunged out of the tunnel and into the thoroughly desolate but well lit station. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as my head slowly swiveled to the right, towards my jacket, towards the awful stench that must have penetrated the entire train.


To this day, the scream still echoes through my head. I'm not even sure if it was my own. Shrieking through wasteful seconds, as incessant and jolting and stirring as a perpetual alarm. I felt vomit stain me inside and out, my immune system's futile attempt to control the situation. My body, a corpse at its core, reeled back and forth as it slowly deciphered an undecipherable truth. I remember no more.


"Seriously, Gabriel, what say you to some buffalo wings?"


The deep resonance of the voice shattered my incorporeal reverie. I had half expected the two imposing figures to be foreigners, but the booming lilt in the man's English caught me off guard. I fixedly avoided their gaze, choosing instead to focus on a particularly lumpy tomato at the bottom of my dish.


"You're a damn lunatic. Where are we? Brazil? Ever think of testing the local cuisine?"


The second voice was far more neutral and subtle, though I thought I could detect the twang of Southern American English.


"Ha' you even heard of Brazilian food back home? Whaddaya think?"


"Actually, Nathaniel, I think I have. You see..." The rest of what he said was drowned out as the subway train departed, bloated full with the midmorning rush of passengers.
"Well, I don't think any of this trash even approaches the delicate and refined palate of proper Buffalo wings."


By this point, my head had slowly lolled to the right until it was completely cocked, as though I was no more than a curious dog. Who were these people?


"You know what," continued the British-accented voice, "I think this matter is already settled. It was settled before we even started talking. Hey, garcon...'


I honestly couldn't believe what I was hearing. The two enormous, beast-like men were suddenly reduced to no more than a bickering, elderly couple. I finally lifted my eyes to examine them. Their darkened shadows still gloated over me, their bodies almost bursting from their chairs and blocking all view of the surrounding tables. The one to the left, the Brit named Nathaniel, was paler than I had ever thought possible. His long, unkempt brown hair seemed to have exploded in every direction away from his head. He wore an indignant look that matched the faded, gnarled faces of a heavy metal band on his t-shirt. His compatriot proved to be exactly his opposite. He wore a dapper suit and tie, one of those real cocktail party pleasers, which perfectly offset his midnight skin. Nigh a button, nor a dreadlock, nor a softly rippling muscle was out of place on his person. Unsurprisingly, considering his friend's obsession with locating a waiter, he was the first to lock his eyes with mine and address me.


"Well, what do we have here? Are you starting to come around, Victor?" Gabriel gently edged a glass of water in my direction.


Nathaniel wheeled around, spilling his glass of soda over a platter full of the remains of T-bone steak and mashed potatoes. "You bloody fool! This non-cooperative little bugger has been at it for ages. Has he even shared a single thing with either of us this entire...how long has it been?"


"Twenty-eight hours."


"Name one constructive little thing this imbecile has done in twenty-eight hours!"


"He ate a salad."


"That is NOT constructive, Gabriel!" The Brit glowered over me. "He hasn't given us anything at all. Nothing. Not a morsel."


The smell of faintly carbonated steak had begun to waft in my direction, and I felt the all too familiar wave of nausea hit me like a distant aftershock.


"Lighten up, Nate," Gabriel was saying. "Have you ever heard of something called post-traumatic stress disorder? I mean, he could be sidelined for months. Be a little more professional." He leveled his gaze on me once again. "Tell us when you're ready," the light Southern drawl seemed soothing now. "I'm sure we have your full cooperation."


My head lurched forward as my brain continued to process and synthesize words coherently without bothering to wait for my insubordinate vocal chords. "Who. Are. You," I spluttered. "Not police?"


Nathaniel gave me an incredulous look, while Gabriel simply smiled. "We're private investigators. We work on behalf of foreign clients, a certain set of people who've taken interest in your...condition."


At that, the Brit gave a short bark of laughter. "Maybe the condition of being a vegetable. I mean, that is all he claims to eat." He seemed pleased with this rather poor showing of humor.


"Regardless. He'll talk when the time comes."


"Oh, he will talk. He'll sing. Trust me."


Gabriel rose from the table. "Tell me, Señor Moya, what exactly do you remember from the night before last?"


Subway. Phone. Stench. Horror.


"Not much."


"I understand what you're going through, trust me, but we're going to need much more than that. We've been far more than generous in the amount of rest and regenerative time that we've given you." Gabriel paused facing me at the head of the table, an attentive look plastered on his face. I had forgotten exactly how huge in stature he actually was.


"Oh, you better believe the little arse remembers. Just go out back and show him." Nathaniel's words cut through me as like a cleaver. I stammered something indistinguishable.


"Did that help your poor little memory?" The sneer in his voice was apparent without even looking.


Gabriel cleared his throat. "This is absolutely integral to your own fate as well as ours." He leaned in towards my ear, a stray dreadlock brushing against my cheek. "We tracked you down in a deserted subway car. 3:30 AM on a Monday night. The train was stopped at this very station, in fact, far from its final destination for the night."


I struggled to comprehend this fact. I'd never seen a subway stop for the night at a single station. Was that even possible? My grip on reality slackened even more.


"Tell'em what you found!" The grating voice of the Englishman was starting to rake my nerves. Severely. "You were waiting with a nice present for us, weren't ya?"


A clammy feeling. A horrible, slimy mess. Peripherally, I could hear the faint clamor of another approaching train.


"Victor, there's no easy way to put this. We found you alone in the driver's seat. No clothes. And only two personal effects." The gigantic man stooped down and reached for something below the table.


"Actually, three items!" Nathaniel chimed in. "Three items, to be technical, and I'll go retrieve the third." He rose and left before his counterpart could acknowledge him.


A hand slammed onto the table in front of him. "Cell phone. Found in one of the passenger cars, lists your name as owner. Fingerprints match." He reached down and grabbed something else. "Leather jacket. Brazilian leather. Quality material. Also positively identified by fingerprints." He pushed the jacket onto the table by the cell phone, and I immediately recognized the faint odor that still pervaded the leather. Vomit leaked its way back into my throat.


"We had people watching you before this particular episode, Victor, but this transcends anything ever seen before. We need you on our side before you fall into the hands of...others."


Gabriel knelt down to my level once again and watched me, but I looked past him. The haze that had clouded my memory was beginning to lift. I was forgetting something important, some vital part of my life that seemed to have slipped my memory, seemed to always have eluded further scrutiny. With icy gazes and a pocketful of evidence, this mysterious duo of gringos was slowly unearthing the truth.


The train was approaching louder and quicker, as if it wasn't going to slow and stop for this excuse of a metro platform. I could already see the beam of its headlamp reflecting off the cracked glass of the cafs window. My own fate, I ruminated, was coming into view just like the subway barreling down its tracks. Before you fall into the hands of others. What could they possibly want from me?


As if an answer to my question, my cell phone sprung to life on the table before me, spinning in circles as though dancing to its own melody. I saw a shadow pass over Gabriel's face. "No, no it can't be," was all he muttered. I felt a slight sense of deja vu as I swooned once again, retching lettuce-like fragments into my mouth. The trained continued to roar deafeningly closer, surpassing any noise a subway could possibly produce.


And then, as if in a dream, everything disappeared.


Clarity.


My entire life philosophy shattered around me. I realized that I am indeed Victor Moya Cruz, a student of the University of S Paulo and an avid vegetarian. However, at the very same time, I am something more. Much more. I am an ancient and venerable being, yet also a lethal and treacherous one. So treacherous, in fact, that I can hide my existence from all but the deepest recesses of my mind. The truth could never have been clearer. Most days, and I emphasize the qualifier most, I would have been a happy little being living my happily mundane life as a soy-happy vegetarian. But this day, amid the plowing rush of working class Paulinos, I decided to give a public demonstration of my true self.


A smile crept onto my face. I could barely hear Nathaniel return, proudly declaring my guilt and holding my "third personal effect" to my face. "Murderer!" He shrieked. Somehow, the stench seemed sweeter and infinitely more tolerable. I also barely registered Gabriel's frantic protests, nearly in tears as he beseeched Nathaniel to stop. "Get away! It's a goddamn trigger!" He wailed over and over again. I only smiled broader. Fools. I saw Nathaniel's smug contempt disappear in one fell swoop. Watched in pleasure as he began to slowly back away. For a moment, the look on the Brit's face made me crave buffalo wings, imagining the spicy aroma embracing my tongue in a kiss of fire. Not exactly my style, but I need to diversify somehow. I gave a slight shrug just as Gabriel began to flee into the interior of the rapidly filling cafe This should be interesting.


With a fearsome snarl, I lunged forward into the crowd.