I picked up some straw, ripped it up, sprinkled it to the floor.
“I searched for hours, Diana too. We lost ten in one week. We thought someone was stealing them.”
“Who was it?”
The cow shuffled her hind legs, grunting.
“It wasn’t anyone,” he said. “They were committing suicide.”
I laughed. The cow’s ears flopped down over her head. There was something deliberate about her posture. Her front legs were slightly cocked, like the hands of a magazine model posing nude.
“I’m not joking. They were jumping off the cliff, just down from here. I didn’t understand. I found them finally, as I walked along the cliff’s edge. I looked down and there they were, piled up in the valley. They’d all jumped off at the same spot.”
“Cows can’t jump,” I said. “It must have been an accident. They must have strayed too far.”
“Once is an accident,” he said. “There were twelve cows down there.” He looked troubled by the memory.
I said, “Animals aren’t capable of suicide.” I thought how common a sight it is to see cows out grazing on the green plateaus in the Alps. They don’t just fall off cliff edges. Not that many.
“It must have been something I had done. They felt like slaves or prisoners or something, having me lock them up in a cowshed. They hated me. They would rather throw themselves off a cliff than be around me any longer.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” I said. “Cows can’t hate.”
“You don’t know much about cows, John.”
I shrugged.
“So did you fence in the suicide spot?”
“No, no. I thought about it,” he said. “But then I thought if they want to die, they’ll find a way.”
I couldn’t think of any other way a cow could kill itself.
“So I started sleeping out here with them, and eating my dinner with them, to show them I was a friend. One of them.”
“What did Diana think?”
“She wasn’t happy. I thought we might be divorced. She said I had lost my mind, I was paranoid, obsessed.”
“So what happened?”
Christoph spread his palm in front of him and thumbed the golden callouses at the bottom of each finger. They were rough, worn, useful hands.
“They stopped jumping. I still sleep out here once a week.”
“That must be difficult,” I said. “Even in winter?”
Cracks of daylight shot through the wooden panels of the barn. It would have been hell in winter.
“Of course,” he said. “That’s why I drink so much Guinness.”
I thought about how cold I had been the previous night, in midsummer, after several pints. He must have had to get through a whole keg.
“I think it’s time to get her out, John. Are you ready?” Christoph rubbed his palms together. I felt queasy. The silage had a smell that reached down my throat and hooked at my stomach.
“What do I have to do?”
Christoph attached a set of calving chains to the protruding hooves – making a loop around the fetlock, and another just below the knee.
“Pull when I say. Easy! We pull out and down when she is straining, and try to ease her out when she isn’t.”
“Right.” I still had no idea what to do.
Christoph double-checked the chains and we took one each. The heifer groaned. It resonated around the barn, the whole landscape must have heard. We tugged at the chains.
“More!” Christoph urged.
I braced my knees and squatted, putting all my weight through the chain. I imagined the calf curled up in the foetal position, rolled into a ball with its head jutting out, hooves tucked beneath its chin, preparing to emerge into the mountain air. It wouldn’t budge. It was a tug of war; two men losing against an unborn calf.
“It’s not moving,” I said, chains cold and breaking the skin on my palms.
“Shut up, and pull,” he said, grunting as his top lip curled onto his gums.
We heaved harder, urging the calf out. For the amount of force we were putting through the thing, I would have expected it to catapult out and splat on the wall.
“Here she comes,” Christoph said.
The head popped into view. The amniotic sac covered its face. Its head stretched the heifer’s vagina to the point that it might split.
From there, it didn’t take much to get her out. The chains jangled and fell slack as the calf slipped out from its mother and onto the floor. Its black skin was shiny, leathery, covered in gunk. Christoph quickly punctured the sac and ripped it away. A rush of afterbirth spilled out after it, landing in a steaming pile. I dropped the chain, inspecting the blisters on my palms. The mother soon shuffled to her feet, licked the newborn, cleaning the fluid away with her pink tongue. Christoph hugged me.
The calf strained, trying to stand. I watched it use all of its force, willing its legs to work, trying to prop itself up and take its first feed. It was soon on its hind legs, but not quite strong enough to be completely free standing. It was doubled over, resting its weight on its knees.
“You can name her, if you like,” Christoph said.
Flies fizzed around the afterbirth. The calf wobbled over to its mother, nuzzling into its teat. She was on all fours, fully fledged, tottering around on her new legs. I remembered a fact Eva had told me once, about cows emitting enough methane to damage the ozone layer. I wasn’t even sure if that was true.
“Call her Eva.”
