Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

While I’m thinking this, Chueco cuts along the inside of the cat’s hind paws, pulls the skin back like he’s peeling a salami, grips the two flaps and yanks hard, turning it inside out like a sock. The pelt now hangs from the front paws like a doll’s coat, the fur on the inside. Chueco cuts it away.

‘In-fucking-credible. Watch and learn, Gringo,’ he says, flinging the skin at my head. ‘You’re skinning the next one.’

I duck, but I don’t say anything. The skin flops to the ground about four feet away. When I turn, I see Ernestina’s kid, Quique, quietly creeping over to it. He prods it with a stick. The fur is just a ball of dirt and blood.

‘Give it a good wash and dry it in the sun,’ I tell him. ‘It’ll make a bag. Or give it to your baby sister for her doll.’

Quique stares at me, mouth open. The kid’s clueless. He picks up the skin, shakes it and, seeing the shape, starts giggling to himself, like when he was little and used to laugh at everything. These days, he comes up to my shoulder, but I still think of him as a kid.

Chueco keeps working away. With the point of the knife, he removes the lungs and tosses them into the can. Then he goes into the shack where he lives, comes out with a rag, wipes his hands and cleans the blade of the knife. He lights a cigarette, raises his eyebrows and looks at me questioningly.

I spark up a negro myself and look at the cat hanging from a nail on the wall. Without the skin it looks like rabbit — like hare, actually. I suddenly remember how Mamina, my grandmother, used to cook hare when I was a kid. Cousin Toni used to bring them round before he sold his shotgun. I can’t stop myself.

‘Why don’t we make a stew?’

‘Fuck, no! Slap it on a grill, flip it over and it’s done.’

‘Whatever you say, socio .’

‘We grill it,’ he says firmly. He likes to think he’s in charge. And I let him.

‘Fair enough, I’ll get a fire going.’

‘Yeah, you do that. Hey, kid?’ He turns to Quique who’s still standing, watching everything. ‘What the fuck you still doing here?’

‘ Mamá said if there’s any left over could we have a bit for Sultán,’ he says, ‘because he’s always whining.’

‘A little something for the señora’s doggy?’ Chueco says, putting on a squeaky voice. ‘Sure!’ I don’t know why, but he can’t stand the sight of Ernestina.

‘Here, kid.’ He holds out the can of entrails. ‘You can have this.’

Quique shuffles away, the fur in one hand and the tin can in the other. His shoes are falling off, they’ve got no laces and they’re two sizes too big for him. I watch him leave as I squat down to put a match to some crumpled pieces of paper and add little bits of wood from an old drawer I’ve just smashed up.

‘You stingy fucking bastard,’ I say to Chueco. ‘Why didn’t you give him a bit of the meat?’

Chueco looks at me, clicks his tongue, takes a last drag on his cigarette then stubs it out.

‘If he wanted some, he should have asked instead of pissing about. He said he wanted dog food, so that’s what he got. Anyway, the offal is delicious. You can make a fantastic stew out of it.’

I keep working on the fire. I’m pretty sure Quique’s thing about his mamá needing to feed the dog was bullshit. The kid just wanted a bit of meat for himself. I don’t say this to Chueco, no point winding him up, but not saying anything winds him up anyway because he keeps trying to justify himself.

‘Besides, the kid’s a fucking freak. His mamá could have told him to go catch their own cat instead of taking ours. But oh no! Señora Ernestina doesn’t eat cat, the old bitch!’

‘Maybe he doesn’t know how to kill and butcher it.’

‘Well, he can learn, viejo , or he can go fuck himself.’

THE BEER’S WARM. Looks more like milkshake than beer — two parts foam to one part liquid. But I can’t face an argument, so I drink it anyway. Besides, Fat Farías is a stingy bastard. If I make him pull a fresh one with less foam, he’ll want me to shell out and I don’t have a peso.

Chueco comes in poker-faced and pale, swaggers over to my table and shouts, ‘Bottle of rotgut red, Gordo!’

He sits down and stares at me. Eyes wide. Blank. Expressionless. Fat Farías comes over carrying the bottle and a glass in the same hand. Chueco goes on.

‘ Qué onda , Gringuito?’ He tilts his head and grins like a maniac. He makes like he’s chilled, but it’s forced. It’s all an act.

‘Fine, good …’ I say, giving him the same deranged grin. Let’s see what he says. He’s making me nervous. He blinks, keeping his eyes closed a split second longer than necessary. Chueco does that sometimes. It’s like a card player’s tic, it’s hard to spot but I notice it. I just don’t know what the fuck it means.

Farías plonks the glass down on the table with a bang, tilts the bottle, but before he pours, he barks, ‘That’ll be two pesos!’

‘Chill, Gordo,’ El Chueco says. ‘What’s with you?’ He’s trying to be sarcastic but he botches it. He’s harder than a rock.

‘First things first,’ Fat Farías says.

‘Fuck sake, don’t sweat it, just pour. It’s all cool.’

On the table next to the glass is a fifty-peso note. I don’t know where it came from.

Fat Farías picks it up and fills Chueco’s glass to the brim.

‘Leave the bottle,’ Chueco says, pulling a face, not even looking at him.

Fat Farías picks up on the snub.

‘Fuck you,’ he lets fly. ‘That’s all I need, another little runt trying to make like a gangster. Who did you rip off? Your mamá ?’

‘Little bit of respect there, Gordo, wouldn’t want things to kick off …’

‘Who’s going to do the kicking? You, you legless little runt?’ Fat Farías chucks the change on the table and stomps back to the bar choking back a laugh with a cough.

‘Yeah, go ahead and laugh,’ Chueco mutters through his teeth. ‘You’ll be crying soon enough.’

He winks at me and knocks back the glass of wine. I’m not going to step into the firing line, so I just give him the same crazed grin he gave me when he showed up.

‘So, what’s been happening, Gringo?’

‘What the fuck is with you? Want to tell me where you got a fifty-peso note?’

‘Don’t sweat it, it’s snide. Relax, I’ll fill you in later.’

I finish my beer. Light a cigarette. Chueco holds up two fingers asking for the cigarette I didn’t offer. I tap the bottom of the pack, shake one out and grudgingly give it to him.

‘That’s better, compañero . No need to be tight with the merchandise.’

Chueco fills his glass again and pours some into my beer glass. The wine brings the beer foam from the bottom to the surface.

‘What the fuck you doing?’ I shout.

‘Don’t be such a punk bitch, just drink it,’ he says.

I’m pissed off by his tone, but he’s got a point — this stuff’s not rotgut, it’s fucking rat poison. Doesn’t matter if you mix it with beer or Coke or piss, it’s bitter as carob juice. What’s weird is the bottle’s legit, but I’m guessing it didn’t come with this cat’s piss in it. Explains why Fat Farías always uncorks wine at the bar before bringing it over.

I figure the fat fucker has a stash of cheap wine in his cellar — the shit that comes in twenty-litre barrels — and bottles it behind the bar. Not that I give a fuck if he wants to bottle his own wine. But the day Fat Farías tries to make the spirits go a bit further and gets his hand on the wrong kind of alcohol, he’ll probably fucking kill someone. I’m guessing he knows fuck all about chemistry. Not that I do, but I know the difference between the surgical alcohol you buy at the chemist and the alcohol fuel they sell in barrels down the hardware store. One gets you wasted, the other wastes you. Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulled a stunt like that in the barrio.