Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

The sun’s sinking. There’s not much light left. It’s too early to head over to Farías’s bar, but I’ve nowhere else to go. I’m drowning here.

‘I’m heading out, Mamina,’ I tell her. ‘I won’t be back for dinner.’

She answers with a wave, flicking the back of her hand without even looking at me.

Instead of taking the alley up towards the station, I wander along one of the dirt tracks leading off it. The one that runs past the house of Oliviera, the Portuguese guy. This way, I have to take the bridge across the train tracks. It’s the long way round. I’m killing time.

It’s pretty quiet for a Saturday. There’s almost no sound from the row of shacks. I can hear muffled music from one of them, a burst of laughter from another, but nothing else. The buildings round here aren’t so much bricks and mortar as corrugated iron and bits of timber. In the evening light, they look derelict.

Two little kids are throwing stones at a mangy, pitiful dog. The dog shambles away — hasn’t got the energy to run. Not that he needs to, given the kids’ aim. They couldn’t hit a cow at ten feet. They’re only snotty-nosed little tykes with no shoes.

At the end of the lane, just before the tracks, I turn and, after about thirty metres, find myself in front of Ernestina’s place. Without even thinking, I’ve come to fetch Quique. I’ve obviously got used to having the kid around. When he’s not, I kind of miss him.

I cup my hands like an ocarina, put my lips to my thumbs and whistle, the call of a non-existent bird. Quique knows it. He’s been trying to get the hang of it for months but either he’s got his hands clasped wrong, or he’s not blowing at the right angle. He keeps asking me to tell him how to do it, but I don’t know how to explain. So I show him again, but instead of watching, he closes his eyes and listens, like if he can just get the sound right, the rest will come by itself.

I give another bird call and Sultán barks at me. He’s tied up round the back. Quique doesn’t show. He can’t not have heard me. I blow hard. I pop my head over the bamboo fence. No one about. The door is padlocked. His kid sister’s doll is lying in the yard, wearing the fur from the cat that me and Chueco ate the other day. I laugh because the pelt looks like it was made-to-measure. It’s turned right side out now — with the fur on the outside — and wearing it, the doll looks like some crazy old woman with a shock of hair and a mink coat showing off her legs.

I push the chain-link gate, go into the yard and pick up the doll, laughing to myself. The old woman turns out to be a bit skanky. And she stinks. The arms of her fur coat have claws on the end ready to scratch someone’s eyes out. The cat obviously bared its claws before it died and they stayed like that, stiff and razor-sharp. I stare at one of the claws and it’s moving. It’s nearly night, so I can’t really see properly. I hold the doll up to my face, gagging on the putrid stench, and I see the claw isn’t a claw. It’s wriggling like it’s waving to me. It’s a maggot, a two-day-old fly larva. I’ve seen enough flyblown animals that I don’t need to strip the doll to know its teeming with maggots. That’s one sight I’d rather spare myself. I open my hands and the plastic body bounces on the ground. If the old woman were flesh and blood, they’d be eating her alive.

FAT FARÍAS LOOKS LIKE a sultan. He’s got a white turban of bandages round his head, he’s wearing his shirt open and he’s got bruises all the way down to his man boobs. His left arm is bandaged too. He’s using some filthy, snotty handkerchief as a sling. He’s sitting at a table like a lord. Serious. Talking to Rubén.

The bar is practically empty. The drunks in the barrio are loyal as cats. Farías only has to close up for one day and they’ve already found some other dive. It’ll be a while before they’re back. I see Chueco sitting in the far corner, staring into his glass. El Jetita is standing beside him, leaning down, hand on Chueco’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear, looking like an old friend, like a big brother giving his kid brother advice. What the fuck is going on here?

‘Hey, Gringo!’ Chueco calls over to me. ‘Over here! Pull up a chair!’

I’m threading my way between the tables when I see her, standing behind the bar where her father should be, pouring a glass of red wine for some old guy. She puts the cork back in the bottle and looks up. She’s beautiful. She’s got her hair pinned up and she’s wearing a dark apron. The thin shoulder straps emphasise her long, bare, slender neck. I feel like covering her in kisses. But Yani’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognise me. Makes sense, I suppose. After all, in here I’m a customer and she’s staff. Though, come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her working behind her old man’s bar before. I’ve seen her come in and ask him for money or chat to him, but I’ve never seen her serving.

I’m staring so hard I walk slap bang into the back of a chair and nearly rupture my balls. I swear under my breath. Yani tries not to laugh, but she carries on wiping down the counter, she doesn’t look over. When she finally lifts her head, I shoot her a look of sheer agony that makes her laugh out loud. I love the way her cheeks dimple. Her laugh makes us partners in crime just like it did last night. When she finally stops giggling, I give her an enquiring look, jerk my chin, raise my eyebrows. She frowns, glancing quickly in three different directions — the table where Fat Farías is chatting with Rubén, the table at the back where Chueco and El Jetita are huddled, and the old man at the bar she’s just been serving. El Negro Sosa is propping up the bar. I hadn’t noticed him. That means the whole gang is here. There’s some shit going down, and if someone doesn’t tell me what the fuck is going on and soon, I’m gone. I’ll be out of here before the tango starts, because I know my luck: I always wind up with the ugly best friend. If I have to tango, I’d rather do it with Yani.

Talking of ugly, El Negro Sosa is ugly as a hatful of arseholes: he’s dark with frizzy hair, a wide flat nose and eyes too far apart. He looks like a pig. He’s got lots of nicknames — Bighead, Fatso, Thirteen — but they all refer to the same thing. Truth is, the head on his shoulders is pretty normal, maybe even a bit small for his body. And there’s no fat on him. He’s hard and sinewy as a knotty wooden cudgel and just as quick to come down on someone. ‘Thirteen’ is the key. The inches he’s got swinging between his legs. The guy’s a fucking animal. Even the whores in the barrio are scared of him. He could split them in two. El Jetita calls him Sosa and treats him with respect. Sosa’s his deputy.

I pass the General himself as he heads towards the bar. ‘What are you doing, pibe ?’ he whispers. ‘Sit down, I’ll be right back.’ I stare at him, but he just carries on walking. These are the first words El Jetita has ever said to me. It’s not like I expected a formal introduction. At least now everyone knows everyone. But he better not try giving me orders. Who the fuck does he take me for? One of his toy soldiers?

‘Hey …’ Chueco greets me as I slump into the seat next to him. ‘ Qué onda? ’

‘Yeah, I’m fine, I’m cool … you?’

‘Sweet. What are you drinking?’ he asks, waving Yani over.

‘Beer,’ I say good and loud so she can hear me.

Halfway to our table, Yani turns and heads back to the bar.

‘Give me a cigarette.’ Chueco’s on the scrounge again.

I give him one and spark one myself. Yani comes back with the beer. The glass is full to the brim, not a millimetre of foam. I give her a wink, but Chueco has to spoil it and says something gross. Yani curls her lips contemptuously, and turns on her heel.