[Note: This chapter is narrated in first person by Dr. Evandro himself. It is a direct monologue from his mind to yours.]
My name is Evandro. Dr. Evandro, but you can just call me Evandro. After all, we're among friends, right? We're close. You're there, I'm here... it's a conversation.
Let me light a cigarette first. Need to? I need to. The oldest, most faithful habit I have. More than woman, more than diploma. Forewarning: I smoke during. The smells mix, become one thing. Tobacco, ether, blood... it's the perfume of the job. Want one? No? That's fine.
You notice the age, don't you? These hands... they used to be steady. Today they tremble a bit. Just a bit, doesn't hinder the work. Hinders fine things, like sewing a button. But for what I do... doesn't require that much finesse. Sixty-three years old. The skin turns pale, almost transparent, when you spend most of your time under fluorescent lights. And the glasses... eyes get tired. But the gaze, they say, remains gentle. That's what the families of my old patients used to say. "What a gentle gaze Dr. Evandro has." They believed it. I liked that they believed it.
What do I do? Ah, my friend. I... take things apart. That's the right word. It's not "extract". It's more intimate than that. It's like disassembling a complex toy to see the pieces. Except the toy breathes, and moans, and sometimes calls for its mother. And the pieces... well, the pieces are worth a small fortune on the right market.
Take a look at this one here on the table. Don't know his name. Looks like a "Carlos". Has the face of a Carlos. An ordinary guy. Smells like... sweaty onion and cheap beer. Took a bath? Probably not today. Came like that, from the street, with the promise of quick money. I don't mind. His liver, what I want, is inside there, doesn't matter if the shell is clean or not. The flesh is washable. What matters is the organ, and it's... acceptable. A bit fatty, but the client doesn't need to know the details.
You see the methodology? There isn't one. There's a know-how. A ritualistic filth. I don't get lost in philosophical musings, no. I think about the money. I think about the next bottle of whiskey. I think about the sour silence of my empty apartment. And I do.
I light another cigarette with the tip of the first one. Let the ash fall where it may. Sometimes, it falls in the work area. It's part of it. It's salt. It's seasoning.
He's awake now. Eyes bulging, mouth taped shut. It's better this way. The sound is muffled, just the murmuring remains. I like the murmuring. It's like background noise. Like a poorly tuned radio.
"Carlos"... I'll call him Carlos. Carlos is looking at me. It's a look I've seen hundreds of times. The look of late understanding. When the penny drops, and it's no longer fear of the unknown, it's the terror of knowing too much. Of knowing exactly what comes next. It's the best part. It's the moment I smile. My thin lips stretch under the glasses, and I smile at him. It's a genuine smile, with teeth yellowed by tobacco.
I don't talk much to them. Why bother? But today, with you here... I feel like explaining. Look at this scalpel. It's not one of those ultra-sharp ones, no. It's a bit dull. Requires more pressure. It's more... personal. You feel the resistance of the flesh, the layer of fat giving way, the muscle separating. It's tactile. It's real.
The smell gets worse when you open them up. It's a warm breath that comes from inside. A smell of interior, of things that shouldn't see the light. Half public bathroom, half butcher shop in summer. And the blood... the blood is always darker than you imagine. Thicker. Flows slowly, lazily, as if it didn't want to leave home.
I work slowly too. I no longer have the haste of youth. I let it flow. I let the table get sticky. Then I clean. Or I don't clean. Sometimes I leave it for the following week, as a reminder of what was done. Like a work in progress.
It's lonely work, but honest. I don't deceive anyone. I deliver the agreed product. A kidney. A liver. A heart, on special occasions. The client receives it in a thermal box, no questions asked. I get the money in used bills, no receipt. It's a pure transaction. Primordial.
Carlos doesn't move much anymore. The murmuring stopped. The eyes are glassy, fixed on the fluorescent light that flickers sometimes. The light flickers. It's a defect in the ballast. I never fixed it. I like the strobe effect. Gives a macabre disco vibe to the procedure.
I could be more careful. Anesthetize better. Be hygienic. Respect anatomical limits. But where's the fun? The fun lies precisely in the lack of ceremony. In the intimate brutality of the act. It's when you realize that thing there, under your hands, is just meat. Meat and bone. A machine of functions that can be deactivated, one piece at a time.
I finish separating what matters. I put it in the plastic basin. It's not a surgical basin. It's a laundry basin, one of those colored ones. The color is faded. Carlos's liver rests in it, on a background of scratched plastic flowers. An interesting contrast.
I throw the rest into the big plastic bag beside the table. Everything goes together. The clothes, the fake documents, the remains. The practice of sustainability.
I finish the cigarette. The butt goes to the floor, in the middle of the puddle that formed. It sizzles, and goes out.
I look at Carlos, or what's left of him. Now it's just an empty shell. A husk. And me... I'm a little richer. And a little closer to my next bottle, my next cigarette, my next empty silence.
That's how it is, my friend. Simple, direct, dirty. No grand reflections. There's hunger. There's desire. There's the quiet pleasure of knowing that, for a few moments, you had absolute control over whether something continued or ceased to exist.
And now, if you'll excuse me... I have to make a call. The client is waiting. And the night is still young for a man my age. Or old. Depends on your point of view.
I wipe my stained fingers on my already grimy apron. I don't always wear gloves. I like to feel.
Until next time, friend. Make yourself at home. The show... is over. For today.