Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  The carpenter’s a weird character. And he appears out of nowhere in the middle of the book. He’s an old labourer who put out to sea because his whole family is dead. The guy’s got nothing to lose.

  Suddenly, the story speeds up and lots of things start happening. Now I can’t cheat any more. Ishmael won’t let me. Won’t let me skip a single page. Things are getting worse and worse. Overnight, Ishmael’s little friend, the harpooner with all the tattoos, gets sick. He thinks he’s going to die. He gets the carpenter to measure him and make a coffin. He climbs into it with his harpoon, his idol and a bunch of junk he wants to take with him into the afterlife. Then, when Ishmael’s already bawling about him dying, the guy says he’s not ready to die yet and climbs out again. The ‘savage’ gets better just like that, because he wills it. But that’s not the half of it. It’s not over yet.

  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.

  A DROP OF WATER

  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?’

  ‘Who told you Toni’s out there?’ I say.

  ‘It’s … I know him. If he’s not there, he’ll be here any minute now. Charly will have called him as soon as he pulled this shit … Me and those two fuckers go way back, I know them … But why the fuck am I explaining this shit to you? Just do what you’re told, kid, and shut your hole!’

  ‘And what makes you think I’m going to offer him to you on a plate? I walk out that door, you’ll never fucking set eyes on me again.’ I regret the words before I’ve even said them.

  El Jetita gives a roar of laughter and stares at me. He twists the knife wound he’s got for a mouth, and time seems to stand still. I know this look all too well.

  ‘You’ve got a pair of balls on you, Gringo, I’ll give you that. You’ll go far.’ He gives me a wink.

  He raises a hand as though to pat me on the shoulder, and before I’ve got time to react, he grabs me by the throat, slams my head against the wall and drags me back. Robledo steps aside and El Jetita’s hand squeezes harder. He’s choking me. El Jetita pulls me towards him until his lips brush against my ear. This leaves me facing Chueco. He blinks slowly and shakes his head. Almost imperceptibly, but I see it. If this was a game of truco and we were partnered, he’d be telling me he doesn’t have the cards to win this hand.

  ‘Now listen up and listen good,’ El Jetita whispers, and what has me shitting my pants is the calm relaxed tone of his voice as he strangles me. ‘There’s three reasons you’re going to do exactly what I tell you. First, if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down wherever you’re hiding and I’ll gouge your eyes out. With my bare hands. Got it? Second, because I’m guessing you want to pay Toni back for what he did to Deep Throat. I mean, she was your mamá, wasn’t she? And third, you’ll do it for the kid. Pretty little thing, Yani, isn’t she? You fancy her, don’t you? Good. Well, if you don’t do your homework like a good boy, I’ll make it my business to fuck her up. She’ll be spread like a tango dancer’s legs on a Saturday night. You won’t even be able to jerk off thinking about her again … Am I clear?’

  He relaxes his grip and I breathe. I can feel my legs buckle. El Jetita gives Robledo a signal and the Fed opens the back door.

  ‘Now get the fuck out of here,’ El Jetita says and slaps me upside the head. ‘You too, move it …’ he says to Chueco.

  We go out and Robledo closes the door behind us. We stand there, hidden behind the pile of beer crates. Undecided. I’m still coughing and spitting. I get my breath back. Chueco doesn’t open his mouth. I look at him and jerk my head towards the roof. He clicks his tongue, so I don’t push it. I’m not exactly thrilled at the idea of having to crawl across the roofs again. We’d be like ducks at a fairground up there. Easy targets. Chueco jerks the Beretta towards the low wall next to the little corrugated-iron storage shed.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I say. I don’t stop to think, because if I do, I’ll never move.

  Having just drawn the .38 for no reason, I stuff it in my belt, put both hands on the top of the wall and vault it. Before I’ve even hit the ground, I hear two shots. They’ve clocked us. Hunkered on the ground, I count the seconds. Four, five, six … Chueco lands next to me and there’s another burst of gunfire. In a couple of seconds they’ll be right on top of us. There’s no lock on the gate. I slam the bolt back, but the gate won’t open. Chueco grabs my shoulder. I turn and he jerks his thumb to say he’ll go first. He’s decided.

  He manages to get the gate open, fires out at random and legs it. I follow, firing the .38, trying to aim at something, but I can’t see anything. Bullets whistle past us. Another swarm of angry wasps … and Chueco drops like a sack of potatoes. I need to drag him along with me. Because now I can see two figures at the corner, the dawn light framing them from behind. I aim and fire, one, two, three shots. I hear a scream and they disappear. I figure I must have hit one of them. I haul Chueco to his feet by his armpits and he lets out a hoarse moan like he’s being split in two.

  ‘Come on, come on … Move it, Chueco, don’t fucking bail on me now!’ I scream, dragging him behind me like he’s drunk.

  We stumble across the road.

  ‘Go on, loco, move it!’

  But Chueco slumps against me. He’s not breathing, he’s making gurgling noises, choking and spitting. They shot him up good. Everything’s going to shit. A long shadow appears at the corner and starts firing. Chueco’s head lurches and rolls until he leans it on my shoulder. His legs aren’t working. They’re like putty.

  ‘Stop, Gringo, stop, leave me here …’ he says and pukes up blood. A lot of blood. I feel it trickle down my side. I’m losing him. He slumps to the ground. I manage to drag him into a doorway and hammer furiously on the door, hoping for a miracle. I’ve completely lost it.

  ‘Open up! For fuck’s sake, open the fucking door!’

  ‘It’s too late, Gringo, leave it,’ he says haltingly, choking on red puke. ‘Just get out of here.’

  ‘Come on, loco, hang in there!’ I yell, but my voice breaks. ‘Hang in there just for a bit. I’ll go get Santi and we’ll take you to hospital …’ I say, loading the .38.

  I try to do it quickly, but I can’t. It’s not that my hands are shaking, the whole world is shaking. The gun is shaking and the bullets jump out of my hands. The air is moving, the street is swaying. Chueco’s eyelids are trembling like the early dawn light, trembling like a drop of water suspended on a thread. The way a droplet hesitates just before it falls. I manage to get the bullets into the chamber, but the drop falls. And I run. Run before the droplet hits the ground. Run as I hear the wasps swarm all around me.

  MESSAGES

  THE GIANT REEDS scratch my hands, my face, rip my clothes to shreds, but I can’t sit still. I can hear a voice talking to me. Sending me conflicting messages. It whimpers, swears, launches into some long-winded speech until it chokes, whispers, sobs. It’s following close behind and I can’t seem to shake it. I peer through the reeds looking for the source, but all I can see are rats. The rats that nest in the rubbish tip on the riverbank. They shriek as I get close and disappear.

  I haven’t got a hanky so I blow my nose into my T-shirt. It’s like cardboard. The blood Chueco puked up over me has dried. I peel off the T-shirt, go down to the water and wash myself. The river is black, stagnant and stinks of rotting garbage, but I still wash myself in it. I stink of something far worse. The smell of fear.

  I take the clean T-shirt stashed in my bag and pull it on. My trousers are stained too and they’re ripped at the knee, but I keep them on. They’re the only pair I have. And it’s cold. I put on my windcheater again even though it itches like fuck. The nylon keeps getting snagged on things as I make my way through the scrubland.

  As I blow through my thumbs, whistling to Quique, the voice fades. The arsehole who’s been tormenting me finally shuts up. Cupping my hands, I whistle again and it’s only then that I realise I’ve been talking to myself all fucking morning. It’s enough to drive me insane.

  I need to get a grip. I go back to the reeds, find a little clearing and try to sleep for a bit. Rats are the least of my worries. What’s inside my head is much more dangerous. I can’t really switch my brain off completely, but at least I manage to rest. After a while, I feel much better. I keep whistling every now and then, though it’s probably pointless. Doesn’t matter how loud Quique makes the non-existent bird call, I’m never going to hear him if he’s on the other side of the barrio. But I d
on’t give up hope, I keep whistling.

  As the sun reaches its height, the sky clouds over. And I start to feel thirsty. I don’t feel hungry at all. It doesn’t feel like I have a stomach any more, I lost it while I was running. Instead I feel a gaping hole there. A storm drain swallowing up my twisted insides.

  An animal barks in answer to my bird call and I go quiet. I hear the lazy squeak of a wheel axle. I pull my gun and, through the reeds, I can make out the scrawny dog snuffling around close to me. A cart slowly rumbles past. I recognise it from the half-dead nag pulling it. It gets turned out to graze on the waste ground by the station. I’ve seen it a couple of times. I’ve never seen the bearded guy holding the reins before, though. The dog trots along behind the cart. And the squeak of the wheels gradually fades as the cart heads for the rubbish tip. The guy’s a cartonero – picks through rubbish for cans, paper, bottles, anything worth anything. A long hard slog, sifting through garbage. Today’s no different as far as he’s concerned. Doesn’t matter to him that there’s guys firing guns a couple of blocks away. He’s got a day’s work to do. It’s just another day for him. Not for me.

  I can still hear the squeak of the axle in the distance and the sound soothes me a bit. When it finally fades, I start up with the bird calls again. After a while, I think I hear the same call answering me, but from another dimension. I don’t know if maybe what I’m hearing is just an echo, but I keep on whistling. And gradually, the other person takes shape. Comes closer. He’s followed the whistle all the way through the barrio. This last stretch is the hardest. Quique’s trying to work out exactly where the call is coming from. A couple more bird calls and he gets to the cart tracks. I pop my head above the reeds so he can see me. He makes like he’s leaving so as to throw anyone who’s watching off the scent and ducks into the reeds.

  ‘They killed my dog, Gringo,’ he says, his voice quavering.

  ‘They capped Chueco,’ I say, my voice trembling like his.