Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

THE CHURNING RIVER

THERE’S A LIGHT on at home. Mamina’s back. So is Quique. Through the strip curtain I see a steaming bowl on the table. A hand stirs, loads a spoon and disappears. It’s the kid. They’re talking in low voices. Mamina’s probably telling him how his little sister is doing. I don’t go in. I walk on up the lane, toying with the lump of hash. I haven’t got any skins but it doesn’t matter, I use the scrap of paper that’s got Cristina’s number on it. I keep the bit with the number but smoke part of her name and most of the directions for how to get to Toni’s gaff in the Delta. I know them by heart anyway.

I take the last couple of tokes on the bridge over the stream. The water’s pretty high right now from all the rain today. The wind’s blowing from the east, and the sky is clear. A fat, lazy full moon lights up the water as it rushes. The muddy riverbed must be all churned up.

I chuck a couple of stones, try to skim them on the water, but they just skip once and then sink. Used to be I could get them to skip six, seven times, all the way across the river. Used to be able to smoke a cigarette right down to the butt without the ash falling … Used to. Not now. Now I’ve got a.38 with six bullets in the cylinder. I counted them. I’ve got some cash in my pocket and more in the whale book back home, under my mattress. I’ve got a fucked-up feeling I might lose my balance and fall, and a kind of longing to go to hell.

I swing by Fat Farías’s place, but I don’t go inside. Chueco’s probably gone back to his squat to crash. If not, he’ll be inside doing deals with El Jetita. The bar is rammed. I go round and sit in the little courtyard out back where Farías chucks the empty wine barrels and all the rubbish from the kitchen. There’s some people in the storage shed at the far end. I know because I can see light coming through the little holes in the corrugated iron. Besides, someone’s moved all the crates of beer and fizzy drinks outside. I go closer to the shack and put my ear to the wall. I hear gasps. They’re fucking in there.

I slip behind the wall of beer crates and creep towards the kitchen door. I hear the hoarse voice of a famous sports commentator and people shouting. They’re showing the highlights from today’s matches. That’s why the place is rammed: Farías has got a TV in.

The door opens unexpectedly. I take a step back and hold my breath. Between the crates, framed against the light, I see El Negro Sosa. He can’t see me. I’m standing in the shadows.

‘Pampita!’ he yells. ‘Time’s up!’

He goes back inside, leaving the door half open. I can hear people talking in the kitchen pretty clearly.

‘You want me to put the mattress down in the middle of the corridor?’ a woman’s voice says, husky from gin and cigarettes. I recognise it. It’s La Riquelme.

‘Obviously — it’s not like there’s any fucking space anywhere else,’ El Negro Sosa says irritably. ‘Why, were you planning to make up a camp bed on top of the stove, vieja?’

‘OK, papi, no need to take that tone with me. I was just asking …’

‘Less of that papi shit. It’s Señor Sosa to you. You better learn some respect or I’ll beat it into you.’

I can imagine him raising his hand. El Negro looks exactly like you’d expect a pimp to look. It’s like he was born to play the part.

‘When Pampita’s next john is done, make up the bed here. I have a client for you, got it?’ he explains to old Riquelme.

Two whores in one tiny little room. The space might be tight, but they’ve clearly got business turning over quickly. El Negro obviously wants to use the kitchen too, but it’s really narrow and it’s the only way to get out the back.

Right. I’ve heard enough to have a good idea of the cards he’s holding. I’m about to bounce. But just as I’m about to come out from behind the beer crates, the shed door opens. A tall dark-haired guy who looks like he’s from the barrio comes out and heads back through the kitchen. The light from the storage shed hits me right in the face. Pampita leans in the doorway, casting a shadow over me, but she can’t miss me. The john disappears and I whisper, ‘Pampita, Pampita, don’t grass me up …’

Her hair is a mess and she’s wearing a short nightdress. It’s old and worn. You can see her dark nipples and the triangle of pubic hair through it. She’s got no fat on her — I’m guessing she’s doesn’t eat much — and her skin is tanned. All the right curves in all the right places. Those hijos de puta have got themselves a fine piece of merchandise.

‘Gringo,’ she starts, ‘what you doing here?’

‘Shh … nothing … make like you haven’t seen me. What you been up to?’

‘Me? Nothing … they don’t give me time to catch my breath …’ she says.

And she stops. Like she doesn’t want to talk about it. I raise an eyebrow and she says reluctantly, ‘Been in here since gone noon. I’ve fucked so many guys I’ve lost count.’

‘What are you bitching about?’ I say. ‘You must be raking it in …’

‘No, El Negro handles the cash. Hasn’t even told me what my cut is.’

‘In that case, I wouldn’t hold your breath …’

Pampita’s eyes well up and catch me off guard. My cynicism disappears faster than a cat about to take a bath. There’s an awkward silence and then I ask a question, it’s dumb but it’s genuine.

‘How did you end up getting involved in all this?’

‘Your friend Chueco, he’s the one who tricked me into coming here. Then, soon as I got here, El Negro started laying into me with his belt. In the end I got tired of being hit …’ There’s another silence then she confirms my suspicions. ‘And since then the bastard’s taken everything I’ve got.’ Pampita brings a hand up to her arse. She’s crying now. El Negro Sosa’s really fucked her over.

‘I’m not surprised Chueco’s involved,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you wait till no one’s looking and do a runner?’

‘What if they catch me?’ she says. She’s terrified.

‘You have to risk it … I don’t know what you were thinking coming here, you’re never going to make it.’

I feel sorry for her, because she’s not stupid. She realises now that just setting foot in Fat Farías’s place was a bad move, but I haven’t got time to tell her just how bad, to convince her to get the fuck out of here. El Negro’s already on his way with the next client. I can hear him telling dirty jokes and the john laughing. I give Pampita a wink, put a finger to my lips for her to keep her mouth shut. She nods and makes a vague gesture, something between an appeal and an acceptance. I sprint across the courtyard and hide behind the half-open door. I don’t move a muscle until the conversation dies away as the client goes into the shack with Pampita and Sosa goes back into the kitchen.

The road is covered with a thin slick of mud. Just enough to break your neck. I decide to take the potholed pavement instead. At least there’s some traction. The soles of my shoes stick to the few unbroken paving stones. All I have to do is dodge the puddles.

The wind comes in fits and starts, but it’s not cold. The night is stifling, humid. The roars of drunks celebrating goals carry from the bar on the wind, fading as I get further away. No one around. Not many lights on. It’s late and tomorrow’s a work day. What’s left of the street light ends here where the tarmac stops. This is where the barrio really starts. A gaping hole in the darkness. The wolf’s mouth, as the cool porteños call it.

Solitude, crickets, frogs. The soundtrack of fear. If only it would rain in a biblical way, a downpour that would rip the sky open and make the earth thunder. But the only thing thundering right now is my stomach. It wants food. It’s been gnawing on fear for hours now. I have to feed it something, even though I don’t feel hungry. I walk a couple more blocks down the dirt path of the dark alley and turn down one of the cul-de-sacs by the station. From a distance I can see a light on in Zaid the Turk’s place. He’s always open. Don’t know when he sleeps. Must be the only way to keep the business going.

The Turk set up a stall with what fight he had left in him after his mastiff had to be put down. There wasn’t a dog in the world like Albino, he said, and he gave up going to the dog fights. On one of the walls of the shop he’s still got a huge photo of the dog in mid-slaughter. It’s a blurry, out-of-focus shot, but it says it all. A white form spattered with red standing over a pile of blood and hair.

The Turk spends all his spare time staring at that photo. And he’s got a lot of spare time, because he never closes. Sundays, public holidays, three in the morning, Zaid’s stall is always open, and he’s always standing there, motionless, on guard. Go figure what he sees in that fucking photo. Albino’s the one should be watching over him.

And that’s how he is when I get to the stall. Silently grieving over his memories or the spectre of guilt. What the fuck do I know. Through the bars of the grill, he serves up what I ask for: five alfajor biscuits on special offer, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Legui. We barely speak. He gives me a plastic bag with my change, and I take it without a word and put what I’ve bought in it. The Turk’s already sat back down on the bench behind the counter, eyes half closed, staring at the picture of the dog. I leave without saying thanks.

I wander around aimlessly, swinging the plastic bag and stop again by the river. But this time I don’t go onto the bridge. I sit on a pile of rubble on the bank. The water’s still rising. It’s moving like an animal. Swirling and eddying. Washing away all the garbage.

There’s only a sliver of moon visible now in the gaps between the clouds tumbling across the sky. Difficult to tell which is moving faster, the river or the storm.

I peel the foil off the first alfajor and eat it half-heartedly. I wash down the rest with a couple of shots of Legui. What with the caramel and sugary quince jelly in the alfajor and the sweet liquor, it’s cloying and sickly sweet. But I still feel the same bitterness inside. I try not to think. I light one cigarette after another, chain-smoking until the bottle’s empty. I toss it in the river and it sinks like a stone. I picture it spinning down to the bottom. The riverbed must be more grotty than Pampita’s rickety old bed.