Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

I peel the foil off the first alfajor and eat it half-heartedly. I wash down the rest with a couple of shots of Legui. What with the caramel and sugary quince jelly in the alfajor and the sweet liquor, it’s cloying and sickly sweet. But I still feel the same bitterness inside. I try not to think. I light one cigarette after another, chain-smoking until the bottle’s empty. I toss it in the river and it sinks like a stone. I picture it spinning down to the bottom. The riverbed must be more grotty than Pampita’s rickety old bed.

THE PLACE LOOKS different with her in it. I hardly recognise it. Her presence transforms it. Either that or I was shit-faced the first time I came in. Though what with the weed and the bottle of Legui I’m not exactly sober right now. I’m feeling more cranked than chilled to tell the truth.

‘Come in,’ Yanina says, half asleep.

I follow her down the dark hallway. She is framed, silhouetted by the bluish glow from the far end. Her generous hips and her drooping shoulders. Her loose hair. She’s wearing a baggy T-shirt as a nightdress. Her feet are bare. Her soles slap against the floor with every step. The glow is from the TV. She’s watching a black-and-white movie starring Libertad Lamarque that’s old as the hills. She goes over and turns down the volume until the dialogue is an almost inaudible murmur.

‘You still up?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you have to be up early for school tomorrow?’

‘No. Teachers’ strike.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘I couldn’t sleep …’ She blinks at me repeatedly. I notice that.

She sits in a chair facing the TV, curls her legs under her and pulls the T-shirt over them. It’s a fraction of a second, that’s all, but for that fraction of a second she gives me a flash of her thighs, the curve of her arse, her bare hip that knocks me out. She takes a cigarette from the pack of Lights on the table and sparks it up. She takes a deep drag, blows out the smoke and hugs her knees like she’s still cold.

‘What was it you wanted to say to me?’

No beating about the bush. Straight to the point. So straight it unsettles me. Something and nothing. What am I supposed to say now?

‘Lots of stuff, Yani,’ I say, bringing a cigarette to my lips. ‘I don’t really know where to start.’

I sit down at the table opposite her and she picks up a digital watch hidden behind the ashtray and peers at it in the glow from the TV.

‘Start wherever you like, but get a move on, it’s late. My old man’s going to roll in any moment.’

‘I doubt it, the bar is rammed …’ I say, playing for time. ‘He’ll be a while yet.’

She frowns, sucks on her cigarette and says, ‘Whatever, Gringo. He doesn’t like me letting people into the house, and I don’t want to take the risk. He can be very overprotective …’

‘What is it, Yani? Does he hit you?’

This catches her off guard, though that wasn’t my intention. I said it without thinking. The answer’s obvious. Yani stares at me, her eyes huge and round as a dog that’s been beaten slinking back to be petted. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray.

‘No, but sometimes …’ She looks away.

She’s scared. I realise that. Farías the fat fucker probably beats her all the time. I’m sure he does. It’s obvious. You can smell fear, and I can feel her fear prickling my nose. There’s an awkward silence. This isn’t how I wanted things to go. The whole thing is getting away from me. I clear my throat and light another cigarette.

Yanina stretches out her legs and stares at them for a moment. I lean over the table and stare at them too. They’re beautiful. Especially her knees. Her ankles are covered with tiny red marks. Insect bites. Mosquitos, maybe, or fleas, I don’t know. But I love them. They’re so delicate. She slowly puts on her slippers and gets up.

‘You fancy sharing a mate —?’

‘Sure,’ I say before she’s even finished the question. She could offer me cyanide and I’d still say yes.

I get up and follow her into the kitchen. She turns the light on, puts the kettle on the stove. It’s just as filthy as it was the other night, but a little tidier. There are no burnt saucepans in the sink and the table has been more or less cleared. Yanina reaches up to take down the mate gourd and the yerba mate from a shelf. I make the most of the opportunity to appraise her arse. I can see she’s wearing a thong under her T-shirt. I’m shocked. I’m also horny as hell. Up to this point I’ve behaved like a perfect gentleman, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. She gives me a sidelong glance. She knows. Least I think so, because I see her smile with her eyes. She packs mate into the gourds and brews it the Uruguayan way, adding cold water first. She strains the gourds in the sink, turns on the tap and lets the water run. The kettle is whistling by now. Before she turns it off I suggest, ‘Why don’t we add a little something?’

‘Like what?’ She looks at me like a naughty little girl.

‘I don’t know, what you got …?’

‘Let’s have a look …’ She opens the fridge and stands, staring into it like it was a window at night or a cave filled with shadows. Inside, it’s darker than a wardrobe. Unless I mistake, I’d swear it was empty last time.

‘You OK with gin?’ she says, turning her body, one hand still on the door of the fridge.

‘Perfect. Bols?’

‘No, Llave.’ She bends down, takes out a litre-and-a-half bottle and hands it to me. It’s warm.

‘You keep that thing turned off to save on electricity or am I confusing a cupboard with a fridge?’

She laughs. And everything’s fine between us.

‘No, it’s on the blink,’ she says with an irritated gesture.

I take the top off the bottle, take a sip of the gin and hand it back to her.

‘Yech … the Llave’s a little bitter. Why don’t we sweeten it up a bit..?’ I suggest.

‘Hang on, let me see. I think there’s honey somewhere …’ She puts the gin down next to the mate and starts searching in the cupboard under the counter. After a while, just as I’m getting impatient and about to tell her not to bother, she stands up again, triumphantly brandishing a bottle.

‘Found it!’

She unscrews the cap and tries to push a spoon into it, but she can’t. The honey is too old. It’s crystallised.

‘Let me have a go,’ I say, seeing her give up.

I go over to the counter and the scent of her skin hits me like 220 volts. The smell is both fresh and intense. I take the bottle and hold out my hand for the spoon. She presses it against my palm but doesn’t let go. I close my fingers around the spoon, and around her fingers. Yanina lets her fingers stay in mine for a moment and our eyes meet.

I carve out a little nugget of honey and let it drop into the gap between the damp yerba and the silver straw, the bombilla . Yani does the rest. She adds a large splash of gin and pours on the hot water.

‘Help yourself,’ she says and passes me the gourd.

It’s steaming. It’s fucking amazing. I can feel it warming my whole body.

‘So, what’s it like?’ she asks impatiently.

‘Lush. Really lush,’ I say smiling, staring at her eagerly. I’ve never been this close to her.

I hand back the mate and our fingers brush again. Accidentally or on purpose, makes no odds. She puts another splash of gin in, tastes it. She likes it. She brews another one for me and moves a few inches away. As a precaution. Our fingers are like bare wires, sending out sparks every time they make contact. Live and earth. Difficult to tell which of us is carrying the electrical charge. Doesn’t matter.