The Summer My Cousins Decided to Put Me in My Place

Iván got off the bus in the middle of the afternoon, carrying a wheeled suitcase that was no use on dirt roads and a pair of white sneakers that stopped being white within the first ten meters. He had come from the city, from an apartment with air conditioning and fast Wi-Fi, and he brought with him three branded T-shirts, a very expensive pair of headphones, and the pale skin of someone who had spent the winter behind screens.

He was twenty-two. His cousins, Rocío and Carla, were the same age, but they seemed like a different species. They had lived their whole lives in the countryside, and it showed in their strong forearms, in their short nails stained with work, in that deep laugh that came up from their chests whenever something really amused them.

—Well, well, the young master has arrived —Carla said when she saw him appear along the path, dragging the suitcase over the ruts—. Want me to help with that, or are you going to break a nail?

Iván forced a smile and said he could manage on his own. He couldn’t. A wheel got stuck on a stone, and he had to carry the suitcase the last stretch, sweating under the sun while the two of them watched from the porch without lifting a finger.

The first week was almost kind. They taught him how to milk, and he did it badly. They taught him how to feed the chickens, and he did even worse. They warned him not to go near the young colts, and he, just to show off, went anyway, and ended up on the ground with a kick just inches from his face. His cousins laughed, but it was still a laughter without edge, almost affectionate.

That changed on the day of the work.

***

The bull was a five-year-old red one, huge, with a neck like a trunk and two dark testicles that swung heavily every time it moved. They had kept it shut up in a narrow pen since the previous morning, without food, and the animal snorted and banged its side against the wood.

Rocío and Carla were already ready when Iván reached the fence. Rubber boots up to the knee, long veterinary gloves, oilcloth aprons stained with old jobs. On a plank table they had laid out a sharp knife, a pair of elastic tongs, a bottle of iodine, and a spray he couldn’t identify.

—Are you here to watch or to help, city boy? —Rocío asked as she slipped on her second glove with a snap.

—I don’t know… I don’t know if I want to see this.

Carla let out a short, dry laugh.

—You watch and learn, cousin. Might come in handy someday.

The two of them laughed together, and that sound ran down his spine like a thread of cold water.

They secured the bull with one rope around the neck and another around the hind legs. They brought it down onto its side with a mix of brute strength and skill, the animal kicking and snorting, the girls working with a coordination that seemed to have been rehearsed for years. Rocío knelt behind it, grabbed the sack with one gloved hand, and pulled downward to tighten the skin.

Carla passed the elastic band over the testicles, positioned it as high as possible, almost at the base of the cord, and with the tongs stretched it until it snapped into place with a dull thud. The bull let out a long, hoarse bellow. The rubber was already squeezing mercilessly.

—Now comes the fun part —Carla said, and lifted the knife.

With a clean cut she opened the sack from top to bottom. Iván felt his stomach rise into his throat. He watched Rocío pull to get the entire cord out, watched the blade go in first on one side and then the other, watched the animal shudder with every pass. Blood dripped thickly onto the dust. In less than four minutes it was all over, and the two testicles lay on the ground like burst fruit.

The bull, gasping, was released into the recovery pen. The girls took off their gloves, wiped their hands on their aprons, and turned toward him at the same time.

Iván was white. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes fixed on those two lumps abandoned on the earth.

—What’s the matter, cousin? —Carla asked, coming closer slowly—. Did the show impress you?

Rocío wiped a drop from her cheek with the back of her wrist.

—Look at his face. He’s thinking, “Holy shit, what if it’s my turn?”

The two of them laughed again. Iván stepped back, then another step, until the fence cut off his retreat and he felt the hot wood against his back.

***

Carla was the first to reach him. She didn’t ask permission. She yanked his belt open, pulled down the zipper, and with one sharp motion dragged his jeans down to mid-thigh.

—Hey! What are you doing?! —his voice came out high, cracked, ridiculous even to his own ears.

—Relax, city boy. We just want to compare —Rocío said, and crouched down.

Iván tried to cover himself with his hands, but Carla caught both wrists and lifted them over his head, pressing them against the fence crossbar. He pulled, struggled, and with a shiver realized she was much stronger. The skin on her fingers was rough, the kind that pulls udders and handles five-hundred-kilo animals.

He was left exposed under the July sun, with his briefs riding high on his thighs and everything else on display. Rocío brought her face close without the slightest pretense. What fear and shame had shriveled up looked small, tucked in, pale beside her iodine-stained fingers.

—Look at that little thing —she said with a fake sweetness that was scarier than a shout—. So tucked away, so frightened. Do you know how long it would take us to put a band on you? Less than ten seconds. And you’d barely even notice.

Carla let out a tiny laugh over his head and tightened his wrists a little more against the wood.

—Imagine it —Rocío went on, slowly rolling her thumb—. We’d lay you down in the same spot where the bull was. We’d put the ring on you nice and high… snap. Then the cut. And that would be that. You’d spend the rest of the summer singing like a tenor.

Iván was shaking all over. He felt the heat climbing his neck to his ears, humiliation burning his chest like a coal. The worst part wasn’t the fear. The worst part was that dark part of himself that, against all logic, was beginning to react to the firmness of those hands, to the calm contempt of those voices. And that made him even more ashamed.

—See, Carla? —Rocío said without looking up—. He thinks he’s in charge because he wears expensive clothes. But here, in the countryside, the one in charge is the one with the knife.

—You learn that fast —Carla replied, leaning down to speak in his ear, so close he could feel her breath—. You know what happens to a male who comes in here showing off among women who actually work? He ends up just like this. Still, quiet, with everything in the hands of whoever decides.

Rocío gave him a light tap, barely a brush, just enough for him to jerk and for an involuntary moan to slip between his clenched teeth.

—Oh? What was that about? —she asked, pretending to be surprised, finally lifting her face to look him in the eye—. Shame or desire, cousin?

Iván didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His breathing was ragged and his jaw was so tense it hurt. Any reply would only bury him deeper, and the two of them knew it. So they waited, smiling, letting him stew in his own silence.

—Look how quiet he’s gone —Carla said—. The city boy, so smart about everything, and now not a word.

—He’s starting to understand —murmured Rocío.

***

They let him go as suddenly as they had caught him. Carla lowered his wrists and yanked his pants back up without any care, then gave him a smack on the ass as if he were a freshly branded calf. The blow cracked sharply in the still air of the afternoon.

—Come on, then. Help us clean all this up —she ordered, nodding toward the plank table and the trail of blood in the dust.

Iván obeyed without a word of protest. He picked up the tongs, carried the bucket of water, scrubbed the table while they directed him in monosyllables, like a new laborer. Every time he looked up, one of them was watching him, and he would immediately look down again.

—And next time you feel awkward milking a cow —Rocío said, picking up the clean knife— remember how easy it is to leave a male good for nothing.

They walked toward the house laughing between themselves, commenting in low voices, but not low enough, on how “small” and “cute” he had seemed. Iván stayed behind by the fence, his legs still weak and his heart pounding in his throat.

He should have felt only anger. He should have packed his suitcase that very night and gone back to the city, to the air conditioning and the fast Wi-Fi, where nobody knocked him down or threatened him or talked to him like he was livestock. But he didn’t. He stood there watching the two of them climb the porch steps, strong and sure, masters of every inch of that place.

And summer had barely begun.

That night, lying on the cot in the back room, with the window open and the crickets filling the silence, Iván couldn’t sleep. Over and over he replayed the weight of those hands on his wrists, the icy sweetness of Rocío’s voice, the promise the two of them had dropped between laughs.

For now we leave you with them on, he thought he had understood. But only for now.

He knew, with a mixture of dread and something murkier he didn’t dare name, that they hadn’t finished playing with him. And that he, no matter how much his shame burned, no longer wanted to leave.