Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘You made it, I knew you would …’

I want to say something but I can’t get the words out. I’m still panicked. I nod my head and raise my arms trying to get air into my lungs. I interlink my fingers at the back of my neck and stand there, elbows flailing, gasping for breath.

‘They’re really fucking going for it, huh?’ El Chelo says, jerking his head back towards the barrio. ‘When the wind’s blowing this way, you can hear the gunshots even over all the noise we’re making here …’ He stares into the distance, at some indeterminate point between the station and Fat Farías’s bar.

I’m not surprised, it’s not like it’s that far. We’re only about thirty or forty blocks from the shoot-out. But I feel as though I’ve been running for miles, for years. Three or four at least, before I reached the last truck in the traffic jam, and a couple more from the corner by the refinery to here, at the front of the march. I feel I’ve aged seven or eight years during that run.

‘It’s only when they stop shooting that we’ve got to worry —’

I cut him short.

‘Any moment now, it can’t go on much longer …’

‘Yeah, figures. We’ll have to be on the lookout, because when Charly’s people start heading back to Zavaleta, the Feds with them are going to try and infiltrate the march,’ El Chelo says. ‘I’ve already given Toro Lopéz the heads-up — he’s in charge of the demo, but everyone needs to keep their eyes open, otherwise they’ll fuck us over. It’s one thing facing the Feds head-on, but if we’ve got them coming at us from behind, that’s very fucking different,’ he explains, pointing at the milicos up ahead like he’s a tourist guide.

The police cordon isn’t exactly much: three squad cars blocking the road about a hundred metres away and half a dozen Feds goofing around. Behind them is a blue riot truck that could be a water cannon or a prison bus, can’t tell from this distance.

‘This is no fucking joke, Gringo,’ El Chelo says, like he can read my thoughts. ‘They’re sending in the army, they’ve just announced it on the radio.’

‘Yeah, but they’d need a fucking regiment to take on all the marchers,’ I say, looking out over the sea of people and trucks. The whole barrio is out. A column of smoke is rising from the road, thick as tar, and the local kids are still stoking the fire. Among the kids chucking rubbish onto the burning car tyres I recognise a couple of faces from Quique’s neighbourhood. He’d probably be doing exactly the same if it weren’t for the fact that he’s dressed in his Sunday best, burying his kid sister.

Behind the pall of smoke is a sea of placards and makeshift cardboard signs. The deafening hammering of drums and saucepans never stops. The teachers are the ones most worked up, it’s obvious from the school smocks fluttering everywhere. The council workers seem more relaxed. Some of them are even chatting to the unemployed, who are all wearing red wristbands to identify themselves. They’re by far the majority. The rest are labourers of various sorts, I can’t really tell who they are, though I recognise the faces. They’re all from the barrio, that I do know. There’s all sorts, from wheeler-dealers and layabouts to construction workers and industrial machine workers.

There’s several groups gathered around the truck at the front of the march. Some drinking mate , others playing truco on upturned empty crates. I figure they’re truck drivers, and they’re taking this whole thing in their stride. They’re stranded because either the cargo they’re hauling or their rigs are too big to turn them round. So there’s fuck all they can do.

All along one side of the road is a string of tents, some canvas, some plastic, some made out of blankets. It’s like an Indian village: old women, kids and babies. There’s a patch of ground with three or four bonfires and a bunch of big steaming pots. And I’m praying that they’re for everyone, because I’m fucking starving.

‘You think they won’t take us on?’ El Chelo’s comment comes after a delay, as though he too has been surveying the scene. ‘They’ll send a whole regiment, two if they need to …’

He’s laying it on thick. Very thick. I give a mocking whistle and stare into the distance like I can see the cavalry riding to the rescue.

‘You’ve got no clue what’s about to go down here,’ he says.

I spark up a cigarette and El Chelo’s eyes shine. I offer him one before he can ask. With the first drag, he says, ‘I guess you brought the strap?’

‘You guess right …’ I say, putting down the bag I’ve had slung over my shoulder for an eternity. It doesn’t weigh much, but my shoulder and the back of my neck are rubbed raw.

‘Well, at least that’s one more … I mean, with all the people here, you could count the number of guns on the fingers of one hand.’

‘What do you expect? They’re working stiffs.’

‘Yeah, I know, viejo , but it’s not like they thought they were coming on a fucking picnic,’ El Chelo says and he’s right. Well, partly right.

‘You carrying?’

‘No.’

‘So what the fuck you bitching about?’ I say. El Chelo glares at me, but he doesn’t say anything. ‘Here, take this,’ I say, handing him the.38.

The guy’s eyes widen in surprise. He can’t bring himself to touch it.

‘Straight up, Gringo?’ he insists. ‘You’re actually giving this to me?’

‘Call it a loan. If I need it back, I’ll ask for it,’ I say, and this seems to do the job, because El Chelo relaxes.

‘Safe, thanks,’ he says finally, taking the strap.

I chuck him the box of cartridges too, without warning, but El Chelo’s got good reflexes. He catches it. He seems really touched. He pats me on the back, gives me a man-hug. Any minute now and he’ll start in with the kisses. I see it coming and push my way through the crowd, looking for somewhere to put down my bag. El Chelo sticks to me like a shadow, blethering on, saying the first thing that comes into his head. Excitement has set his tongue loose.

We’ve wandered a few metres, zigzagging through the crowd, when I hear a voice I recognise shouting behind me.

‘Hey, if it isn’t Captain Ahab himself!’

I turn and there’s Piti holding a bottle of beer. He’s babbling on to a girl in a Rasta hat and some skinny guy in a khaki shirt in a crowd of about a dozen people. All from outside the barrio. The same guys I ran into in the city centre a week ago — the Students’ Union militants who were marching down the Avenida Corrientes with no one bringing up the rear. They don’t need a banner, anyone could pick them out a mile off. Rich, middle-class kids from the posh suburbs of Buenos Aires coming into town to play at being revolutionaries.

‘You find your white whale yet, Captain?’ Piti shouts over, holding up the bottle in a salute. He hands the beer to the girl in the Rasta hat and whispers something to the rest of the gang. It must be funny, because they’re all shitting themselves laughing. He’s taking the piss out of me.

I walk over to the group, itching to break his face. ‘You know that loco ?’ El Chelo asks.

I nod my head, fist balled by my side. I look the kids up and down, give them the evils, but they don’t seem intimidated. Quite the opposite.

‘Haven’t found it yet,’ I say to Piti, ‘but I’m still looking! What about you?’

‘Too right, viejo , only mine’s not a whale … more of a mermaid with great tits.’ He glances at his girl who gives him a disgusted look and swears under her breath. ‘A siren from the coast of Jamaica more dangerous than anything Odysseus had to face.’

The rest of the students are whispering and laughing, and I’m guessing Piti’s not the butt of their jokes.