Matias Nespolo - Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

Yani does her best to change the subject and I go along with it for the next couple of stops, but after that we sit in silence. Each deep in our thoughts.

A conductor comes through the carriages closing the metal blinds. He nods for Yani to pull down the one next to her. He doesn’t bother to explain — not that he needs to, we know the deal — and goes on his way. We’re coming into prime stone-throwing territory — kids throwing rocks big enough to split the head of anyone dumb enough to have the windows open in summer, or smash the train window in winter. I’ve seen it happen. But it’s all quiet this trip. Nothing going bump in the night.

Yani tries to pick up the conversation, asks what I’ve been up to. I lie a bit, and then tell her what I did with my day. She asks about the book, and I lie again, try to sound interesting. She talks about the books her teacher had her read for class last year. El Matadero , which was disgusting, and Amalia , which she loved. This year she’s doing her final exams.

‘Are you going to keep it up? The studying?’

‘Don’t know. What about you?’

‘What about me?’ I glare at her.

She looks embarrassed and I regret the words straight away. I make like a mental defective, ask her to repeat the question and she laughs and we’re cool again.

‘I was only asking if you’re planning on finishing school, babes. They run a class at night school for adults to take their exams. You’re nineteen, right, you’re an adult? Three years and you could have a qualification.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe if I could get a cushy morning job I might go back to school.’

The train is pulling in. The station is dark. I say the first thing that comes into my head, trying to sound mysterious and enigmatic to make her laugh. And she does. I love the way her cheeks dimple when she smiles. She’s so pretty. Just hearing her laugh turns me on. I imagine her laughing like that, stark naked. For me, in my bed.

We stand there for a minute or two until the train pulls out. We’re about to say goodbye. I’m going across the tracks, she’ll be heading down the hill. I tell her again, seriously this time, that if she has any trouble with El Jetita she can count on me. She thanks me. She kisses me on the cheek like we’ve been friends our whole lives, and then she’s gone.

THERE’S BEEN NO sign of Quique today which is weird, given that it’s Saturday. And Mamina hasn’t said a word to me. We had lunch in silence, some sort of stew with a few noodles, a couple of cabbage leaves and stray scraps of meat floating in it. I’m guessing it cost most of the money I gave her yesterday. But I don’t dare ask. I just eat. When Mamina isn’t talking it’s because she’s got nothing good to say. And since it’s not like she’s afraid to say what she thinks, it’s better not to provoke her. Right now she’s having a siesta.

I’m reading the whale book in the little courtyard out the back. I didn’t go out this morning, didn’t feel like it. Don’t feel like it now but I’m tired of prowling round the house like an animal in a cage. A very small cage. I spend the afternoon drinking mate and listening to last night’s stock-car race at Turismo Carretera until I get bored.

I’m reading to take my mind off things, but I still feel panicky. Ishmael, the guy telling the story, is a cook and whenever he gets panicky and feels like putting a bullet in his brain, he boards a ship and sets off somewhere. Doesn’t care where he’s headed, he says, but this time it looks like he’s got a good idea because he holes up overnight in this strange little inn and waits a day and a half for a boat that goes to an island from where the whaling ships set sail.

The way he talks is kind of weird, but I know exactly how he’s feeling. Makes me feel I should do the same thing. Probably wouldn’t be that easy. I’ve never tried stowing aboard a cargo ship down at the port, but if I did, I’m sure I’d be chucked overboard. Or they’d take me for a thief and throw me in jail.

I keep reading, but I can’t concentrate. I’m not getting anywhere. It’s the middle of the afternoon and the sun seems to be setting already. The stubby fig tree in the courtyard is starting to block the weak, orangey light. Every now and then the wind turns the page before I’m done reading it, and I have to turn back. The breeze is chilly. Autumn’s coming in.

I feel someone watching me. I look up and I see Chueco looking over the courtyard wall.

‘What the fuck are you doing, gay boy? Since when did you start reading books?’

I don’t answer. I settle myself on the plastic crate, lean back against the wall, pretend to keep reading. Chueco throws a leg over the wall, jumps down and comes towards me. He stops about three feet away and stands there, legs apart, blocking the light.

‘Don’t tell me you’re blowing the money I gave you on this shit, kid. Me, I invested my share of the take,’ he says, opening his denim jacket so I can see the fucker’s strapped.

‘Can I have a look?’ I reach out.

As he tries to take the gun out of his belt, he gets the trigger guard caught in his T-shirt and starts swearing and tugging. For all his gangster posing, he obviously hasn’t a fucking clue. He holds it out to me, but instead of twirling it on his finger and offering me the butt, he points it at me.

‘Fuck sake, Chueco, what the hell are you doing?!’ I shout, flinching.

I shouldn’t have shouted, I should have smashed his face in. It’s loaded. It’s a.38. It looks cool, a bit battered but recently blued. The original butt must have broken off at some point because it’s got a new pale wood butt held together with rivets with the heads sanded down, but it looks hard.

‘Where did you get it?’ I ask, handing the gun back.

‘What the fuck you care?’ he snaps.

He laughs, puts on his best thug face and starts waving the thing around. Chueco is off his head. The fucker’s more dangerous than a monkey with a machete, I’m thinking, trying to stay out of the line of fire — which is hard since he’s spinning his arm like a windmill.

‘So, what, you figure you’ve got a career as a gangster?’ I say, but he’s not listening. He’s acting his part, all he needs is a film crew. He makes like he’s pulling the gun from an armpit holster and threatening some invisible guy. He pokes it into the guy’s kidneys, the barrel pressed right against his body, grabbing him by the throat with his left hand. He plays the scene out, pretends to fire, making bang, bang noises like a kid, firing all over the place, steadying the gun with his left hand. He fires up, fires down, spins round and goes on capping a bunch of ghosts. He finishes by stretching his arm out and trying to turn the gun on himself. When he’s finally tired of play-acting, he says, ‘If the señorita is done with her books and wants to try out my new work tool, I’ve got no problem with that.’

I don’t think twice.

‘Let’s go,’ I say.

We get to the patch of waste ground that used to be a football pitch and is now a rubbish tip and Chueco picks up a one-litre can. A bit dented but intact. He positions it on a clear patch of ground and backs off five metres. He aims, fires and misses. By a mile. It raises a spray of dirt about a foot and a half from the can.

‘Let’s see what the señorita can do,’ he says and passes me the gun.

‘Keep it up with that shit and I’ll split your head open,’ I say.

‘Bring it on, señorita …’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say, taking aim.

Chueco always did know how to wind me up. I don’t know how he manages it, but he always does. Weird, because when it’s some random fuckwit trying to wind me up, I don’t give a shit.