Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

Since the coffin is about as useful as ears on a deaf guy, they decide to use it as a lifeboat, because they lost the one they had when some guy drowned. Now Ishmael really starts being a smart-arse. Now I really want to beat the shit out of him. He must think we’re all a bunch of retards. What’s he doing coming up with all this bullshit? OK, so the coffin’s made of wood and I guess wood floats, but it’s a bit of a stretch from that to deciding to use it as a lifeboat. Either you’re a stupid fuck or you already know how everything turns out. The only person who could use a lifeboat like that is Fabián.

I KEEP ON reading. The old carpenter is called Perth. And he’s not just a carpenter, he works with metal too. Ahab gives him his best knives and asks him to make a harpoon. It has to be good steel if it’s going to pierce Moby Dick’s heart. So Perth forges the harpoon and old Ahab wants to christen it with the blood of the harpooners. Because they’re pagans, according to him. One of them is Queequeg, Ishmael’s cannibal friend who was about to die a couple of chapters ago. Then there’s this tall black guy and the third is an American Indian. Ahab mixes some blood from all three and, as he dips the point of the harpoon into it, he swears an oath. Like it’s a fucking macumba ritual. I can almost hear the whistle of the red-hot metal as it’s dipped into the blood. But I look up from the book and I hear the whistle again. It’s coming from outside.

A burst of gunfire drowns out everything. Suspended time explodes in a symphony of gunshots. Fear speeds up my reactions. I’m already firing back.

‘Wha …?’ Chueco jerks awake and starts firing.

El Sapito’s FAL spits bullets. The metal shutter shudders like a drumskin. Bullets still zip through the metal, taking chips out of tables and chunks of plaster from the walls.

‘Jesus fuck!’ someone shouts from behind the counter. El Jetita or Rubén, I’m not sure which.

I want to peek through the crack, but I don’t dare. The shutter is shaking hard now. If I show my face, I’m going to get it shot off. I can feel it in the trembling in my legs, the chill running up my spine. I fire blindly, not even bothering to try to aim.

I turn and see Rubén, lying on his stomach, slithering quickly towards the door, pushing the shotgun in front of him. He looks like a snake. A fat snake. He pushes the door open a crack with the barrel of the shotgun, and fires off rounds of pellets from ground level.

I’m still firing but the trigger just clicks dully. The cylinder’s empty. Chueco glances over at me and, still firing, rummages in his jacket pocket, fishes out a box of.38 shells and tosses it to me. As I’m reloading, I hear the same whistle I heard before the firing started. But this time, it goes on and on, panicked, hysterical. I know it’s Quique, and I feel a knot in my stomach.

El Jetita shouts an order I don’t hear. There’s a silence. I put one eye to the crack. My left eye. There’s a dark shape lying in the middle of the road in a pool of blood that keeps spreading. It’s got too much hair to be a kid. It’s a dog. I’m sure it’s Sultán. That’s why Quique was whistling so desperately.

Above a half-built wall in the construction site opposite, I see a gun appear. Then a head slowly follows it. But before I can even see the eyebrows, there’s a bang and it disappears suddenly. Where the head was, there’s now a gaping hole in the wall and a cloud of dust from the shotgun blast.

‘See? That’s how it’s done,’ Rubén yells, ecstatic. ‘Come on, guys, shoot the fuckers! What are you waiting for?’

One down. But the firestorm starts up again. The shutter looks like it’s about to cave in any minute now. El Sapito is still shooting in regular bursts, but it doesn’t seem to be scaring them off. On the contrary, it feels like there’s more of them. Sultán’s blood glistens red now and the street is glowing yellow. When did dawn break? All that waiting for daybreak only for it to happen without warning, the moment snatched away by the rush of adrenalin and the smell of gunpowder.

There’s no sign of the gunfire stopping, but after a while there’s a pause between the bursts. Chueco is pale, but he seems calm. He gives me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. I don’t know what to make of the gesture.

‘Gringo!’ El Jetita shouts. ‘Over here!’ He signals for me to head for the kitchen.

El Negro Sosa clears the counter in a single jump and in two steps he’s standing next to me. He’s come to take my place. He shakes me by the shoulder like he’s trying to wake me. I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing it for, since I’m not asleep. Or not as much as I’d like to be.

‘Come on, move your arse!’ he says. ‘Leave them to me.’

I grab the bag and the whale book lying on the ground, stuff the book into the bag and sling it over my shoulder. I make to stand up, but another bullet rips through the shutter and makes me change my mind. Better to crawl over.

‘And where the fuck d’you think you’re going, loco ?’

‘I’m going with him,’ Chueco says curtly.

‘Stay where you are,’ El Negro snaps. ‘What are you, his boyfriend? You afraid someone’s going to bust your girlfriend’s arse?’

‘You fucking deaf? Where Gringo goes, I go,’ Chueco says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion.

‘Little shit! You think you’re a big man? I’ll fucking carve you up!’

‘Hey, girls, don’t start,’ El Jetita says to smooth things over. ‘Leave him, Negro. If he wants to risk his neck, let him. The kid knows what he’s doing.’

El Negro Sosa flips him the finger. Chueco doesn’t react.

I crawl into the kitchen and stand up again. Chueco follows me. El Jetita’s blocking my way. And my line of sight.

‘Hey, Robledo, how are things?’

‘It’s all fine,’ says the milico . ‘Been a bit calmer back here since Fabián —’

‘What? He snuffed it?’

‘Couple of hours ago. He’s cold as a nun’s cunt now.’

‘Jesus Christ! That’s all I fucking need,’ says El Jetita. ‘The straw that breaks the camel’s back.’ He walks across to the filthy mattress. There’s someone sleeping on it right next to the corpse.

Fabián is whiter than a sheet of paper. His mouth is hanging open. Someone’s closed his eyes. Old Riquelme is sitting on a beer crate next to him, face like stone, watching over him. On the other side is Pampita. Sitting on the ground. Her face even more blank.

Fat Farías stops El Jetita and pulls him to one side with his good hand — he’s still got his right hand in the dirty sling, but the bandage turban on his head is gone.

‘Ricardo, we need to talk,’ he says. ‘This whole thing has got out of hand.’ He’s serious. He’s using up his last cartridge of dignity.

‘Don’t bust my balls, Gordo, can’t you see this isn’t the right time?’ El Jetita cuts him dead, shaking Farías off him like he’s a street kid begging for change.

Meanwhile, I go over to Yanina who’s still on the counter, curled into a ball, her back pressed against the wall. Her hair falls over her eyes, her face is turned inward. She’s looking at me but she doesn’t see me. I whisper in her ear, tell her to wait for me, tell her that when I come back the two of us are getting out of here. But she doesn’t react. I feel like I’m whispering to a wax dummy.

‘The guys are going to go out the back way,’ El Jetita explains to Robledo. Then, turning to us, he says to me, ‘Griguito, you’re going to go out there and send Toni in to me. Tell him to fire three shots in the air and wave a white flag — we’ll let him in. And tell him not to try anything, OK? Tell him to come in unarmed, tell him I won’t be carrying either. We’ll sit down and hammer out a deal everyone can live with and that’ll be the end of it. You got that?’