Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

‘I thought the fuckers had killed you …’ I say, squeezing his arm. I still can’t believe it.

‘In their dreams.’

‘Couple of years later, I ran into this guy who told me you’d fucked off to Brazil.’

‘Yeah, I was there for a bit,’ he says with a cheeky smile, ‘ mas agora eu fico aqui, maluco .’

‘Huh …?’ I’ve no fucking clue what he just said.

Toni bursts out laughing. So do I.

‘It means now I’m back, loco .’

‘Yeah, so far back you’ve turned into a filthy hippy,’ I bait him.

‘What do you want? It’s tough on the streets, viejo .’ He laughs again, but then says seriously, ‘It’s a jungle out here, loco , I’m not shitting you. And I’m tired of living in fear. There comes a point when you just want to slam the door and move somewhere else, but you can’t get out. And no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. You know why?’

He pauses like this is a riddle. I look at him quizzically.

‘Because the jungle’s inside you, loco . There is no outside, there’s nowhere to go.’

‘Wow! That’s deep …’ I say, breaking the awkward silence. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Jehovah’s Witness now?’

Toni shits himself laughing.

‘Love and peace, brother.’ He makes the V-sign, still laughing his arse off. When he’s done laughing, he claps me on the back, hugs me again, pinches my cheek.

‘It’s good to see you, Gringuito. Fuck but you’ve grown …’

He’s right. When I was a kid Toni looked like a giant to me. These days, I’m half a head taller than him.

‘But hey, tell me, what are you doing here? Were you on the march?’

‘Like I give a shit …’

‘Where’s your solidarity, comrade?!’ he says, raising his fist in a salute. Now it’s his turn to take the piss.

But it turns out that it’s only because of the march that we ran into each other. The artisans’ union were on the march. They’re not affiliated but they came to show solidarity, Toni explains, introducing me to his friends. El Piti, a scrawny guy, his face thin like a smack addict, scarred and pockmarked; then there’s Laurita, a girl with big tits and her face painted green.

They never come into Buenos Aires. The Feds are always hassling them about street vendors’ permits, so with what they make it isn’t worth the hassle. It’s not even enough to bribe the cops to turn a blind eye. They prefer to hang out in the Tigre Delta, he says, because most of the year it’s a stop-off for foreign tourists. Gullible tourists prepared to splash out wads of cash on ‘genuine native artefacts’. Actually, the beads they use in the necklaces come from China and the alloy wire is mined in Africa.

‘But come on, Gringo, spill, what’s going on? How’s Mamina? What’s been happening in the barrio?’

Same old, same old. What can I tell him …? I make an effort, try to make it sound more interesting than it is, but I just can’t do it. It’s hardly surprising. There’s nothing to say. But he keeps asking about Mamina, so I tell him, ‘She’s getting on a bit now … Why don’t you drop by and see her sometime? She’d be stoked …’

‘I can’t, Gringo. I’ve got unfinished business in the barrio. Probably best I don’t show my face there.’ He looks at me seriously. ‘But give her a big kiss from me and tell her I think about her all the time.’

Another awkward silence falls on us, the air so thick you could run a comb through it. And now’s not a good time to make jokes.

‘Hang on there a second, I’ll be right back,’ I say.

I throw the book I’ve still got under my arm onto his mat and dash off. A couple of minutes later I’m back with five bottles of beer. Two in each hand and one under my arm. The tribe give me a round of applause. Using lighters, pliers, teeth, they’ve popped the caps in half a second and the beers are doing the rounds.

‘A spliff in your honour, you filthy hippy!’ I say to Toni, finally sparking Yanina’s joint.

It was worth hanging on to it. I see him smiling through the smoke. I take a couple of tokes and pass it. He does the same, holding the smoke in. He nods at the book, laughs, coughs, chokes …

‘I see you’re an intellectual these days, Gringo,’ he says mockingly.

‘Too right!’ I say, putting on a posh, scholarly face.

‘Hey, Piti,’ he nudges his friend, jerking his thumb at the book, ‘Gringo here is reading one of your favourites …’

‘ Uy! It’s the whale,’ says Piti laughing to himself. ‘Got to be very careful when you’re dealing with the whale, loco .’

I tell him I haven’t even started reading it yet so I’ve no idea what he’s on about. But all I get from him is the same warning. He’s being all mysterious.

‘You’ll see …’ he says.

We go on drinking and chatting and joking. They’re good people. I feel at home with them. Toni reels off stories about his travels and about his time living on the streets. Some of the stories sound kind of sketchy, but I believe them anyway. Then he gets to talking about some bad memories of the barrio. And he does it because he realises I know what he’s talking about, I can put myself in his shoes, I understand him perfectly. Even the spaces between the words.

It’s pitch dark by now. There’s no one left in the park and the hawkers are starting to pack up and leave. I’ve been slyly winkling info out of Toni about his work, trying to get as much as I can. It’s got its ups and downs, but there’s money to be made year-round. Not much, but enough to get by. The secret is to keep moving, not to stay in one place for more than two or three months. Toni’s group hangs out in the Delta. They head down to the Atlantic coast from time to time, or up into the hills, to Córdoba. When it gets too hot, they head south and do the Lake District around Bariloche.

‘So, is it hard work?’ I’m not beating about the bush any more.

‘Nah … With a bit of patience and someone to show you a couple of things, you’re set. The rest you learn as you go.’

‘So what would you need to start?’ I ask straight out. He knows what I’m getting at.

‘Don’t tell me you want to take up a trade?’

‘Thinking about it,’ I tell him. And it’s true.

‘Well, depends on what you want to make …’

‘What do I know? Necklaces, earrings, bracelets … All the shit you make.’

Toni gets excited now and starts trying to explain everything. If you’re going to make a living, the important thing is to work in groups. Keep things moving, make stuff that’s seasonal. Concentrate on jewellery around Christmas and when you’re in the mountains. In summer, churn out the threads and braids girls like to put in their hair. At the beach, there’s big money to be made doing henna tattoos. During school term, the best thing to make is hash pipes, because kids are always into paraphernalia.

He’s about to tell me some more, but he can tell from my expression that I need him to be more specific. He starts bundling his stuff into his blanket and goes back to talking about jewellery. He talks about alpaca, tin, silver; plate and alloy wire — length in metres, diameter in millimetres — about semi-precious stones, paste jewellery, beads, glass. I’m completely confused, and I’m getting annoyed now.

‘Yeah, but how much to get started?’

He starts calculating, pulling numbers out of the air.

‘Just a rough guess, Toni.’

He gives me a figure. I do a quick calculation of what I’ve got left in my pocket after my spending spree, and figure I’ve got more than enough.

‘Then there’s the tools. To start off, you’ll need a couple of pairs of needle-nose pliers, nail clippers, a jeweller’s hammer. But don’t worry, I can front you for a while.’