Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

RIDDLES

THERE ARE THINGS about Mamina I don’t understand. All the pointless work she does, for example. But her attitudes too, the way she reacts … The more I know her, the less I understand. Right now she’s scrubbing the doorstep like she does religiously every other day. Come rain, thunder or hail she scrubs that little patch of concrete until it’s spotless. And today’s the day.

I listen to her fill the bucket from the outside tap. I watch her through the tiny kitchen window. Through the fog. She splashes out the water and scrubs with her brush. She’s stick-thin and getting thinner by the day, getting smaller and more stooped, and still she carries on with every last ounce of energy. And it’s not worth a fart. First person walks past and the pavement will be dirty again. The rain has turned the dirt road into a swamp, but still Mamina goes on scrubbing the doorstep. I don’t know where she gets the strength.

I put the kettle on the stove and brew up a couple of mates. I bring a sweet one out to her. Just the way she likes it.

‘Morning …’

‘Good morning, m’hijo. How did you sleep?’

Like shit, but I don’t tell her that. I feel sorry for her. Quique is sleeping in my bed. Like a log. And Mamina took great pains making up another bed for me. A box and a couple of blankets. I went to bed just as it was getting light and woke up a little while later with my back fucked. After that, I didn’t get a wink of sleep, though I tried.

‘So-so,’ I say.

‘I’ll go over to Ernestina today and ask her to lend me a mattress …’

‘Don’t worry about it, Grandma, you’ve got enough on your plate with the kid.’ She glowers at me like I’d just said something terrible.

‘How’s the little girl?’ I ask in passing.

‘Still weak.’ She sucks greedily on the mate then hands me back the gourd.

I bring her another sweet mate, and when I bring her the third she says no thank you. She doesn’t want any more. She’s frugal even when it comes to mate.

Inside, Quique is already up. He’s taken some of the hot water from the kettle to brew himself an instant mate in a jam jar. He’s making himself at home.

‘Hey, compañero, you could at least ask first!’

‘Don’t bust my balls, Gringo.’

He grabs two sachets of sugar, tips them into his mate cocido and, blowing on the jam jar, wanders over to the shelf where Mamina keeps the radio. He flicks it on, turns the dial till he comes to a station playing ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, cranks up the volume.

‘I thought you were a slum-boy cumbia fan?’ I say to wind him up.

‘I was, and now I’m a Stones fan,’ he plays along.

‘Since when?’

‘Since right now.’

‘Fuckwit … Why?’

‘Meh … people change.’

‘Do you even know what they’re singing about?’

‘No, but I still like them.’

I like them too. Particularly this song. I like the drumming. Sounds like candombe. But at least I know what the lyrics mean. More or less. Santi, the mad fucker, translated them for me one time when we were in his Chevy. ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ is all about this guy who’s filthy rich and has good taste, but doesn’t tell you his name. It’s like this game, he wants you to guess his name, gives you a bunch of clues, in case you’re thick. The chorus is just ‘Who, who, what’s my name?’ like it was a riddle and he’s being all mysterious.

Drinking his mate cocido, Quique taps along with his foot. He glances over at me and laughs. He’s a strange little fucker. When he’s finished, he puts the jar in the sink. I’m still leaning on the counter, still drinking my mate. He turns and comes over to me, all mysterious.

‘If you want to keep playing the spy game, I’m up for it,’ he whispers.

I stare at him, and he stares back. He even raises one eyebrow. Who the fuck does he think he is, James Bond?

‘Yeah, why not …’ I say. ‘Just let me know if you see anything out of the ordinary.’

‘But the price has gone up, OK? Ten pesos, as long as no serious shit goes down. Otherwise, it’s more …’

‘What? Are you off your head?’

The Stones song fades out and an Argentinian rock song comes on. I spark up a cigarette. Chew the skin on my index finger. Stare out the window … Basically, I play dumb.

‘I mean, you don’t want someone gunning you down, do you?’ he says, point-blank.

‘I suppose you do?’

‘I’m just saying, because if Charly’s gang are looking to cap you, I can keep you posted.’

‘And who told you Charly’s got it in for me?’

‘After the shit you pulled with El Negrito and Medusa, stealing his stash, he’s not gonna send fucking flowers … Or if he does, it’ll be for your funeral.’

‘Who told you about ripping off the stash?’

‘Saw it myself with the two eyes God gave me, papá,’ he says, making a V-sign and pointing to his eyes.

Someone’s done some kind of switch on this kid. This can’t be dumb, gentle little Quique … I always had a soft spot for him … Now I want to strangle the little fucker. He took the whole spy game very seriously. He followed me when I went off with Chueco. Good job he’s on my side.

‘You are bang out of order.’ I’ve got to stop this in its tracks. ‘Is it me, or are you trying to fuck with me?’

‘No way, Gringo, I’m on your side.’

‘I’m just saying, because looks to me like you’re taking the piss …’

He thumps his chest with his fist. On the heart. He’s loyal. I hope so.

‘Here.’ I give him a five-spot. ‘Do a good job and I’ll give you another one.’

‘Very cagey, hombre. OK, let’s do it …’ He pulls on a jumper that’s got holes in the elbows and a woolly hat. ‘Give us a cigarette.’

‘Mamina lets you smoke?’

‘It’s nobody’s fucking business but mine, loco,’ He stares at me furiously. I’ve hurt his pride.

‘It’s just you’re a bit young to be smoking, kid. You haven’t even got bumfluff on your face.’

‘No, it’s just that you’re a cheap fucker. Come on, give me a cigarette.’

‘Here, take one, you little shit.’ I throw the pack on the table. ‘And get the fuck out of here, OK?’

‘What’s all the shouting about in here?’ Mamina says sternly, leaning her brush against the door frame and coming inside. It drives her up the wall, people raising their voices in the house.

Quique palms the cigarette he’s just nicked off me and acts all innocent.

‘Nothing … it’s just he’s a bit nervous.’ He pats his pockets like he’s forgotten something. ‘OK, Grandma, I’ve got to go and get Sultán. He’s been tied up back at our place since Saturday. Poor little dog …’

He heads out and Mamina stands there looking at me.

‘What’s going on with you, Gringo?’ she says. She’s worried and it worries me. She never asks me how I am. Well, sometimes, but not often. I like it, it means she cares, but it unsettles me too.

‘Nothing … why?’ My voice quavers with anxiety. I don’t know why, I feel like crying.

‘You seem preoccupied. What have you got yourself mixed up in?’

‘Nothing, Grandma. What makes you think I’m mixed up in something?’ I don’t look at her. I pour myself another mate, my hand shaking. It’s watery. And cold.

Mamina sighs. She sits down, puts her elbows on the table and stares at me.

‘Well, be careful …’ she says softly. ‘I don’t want you ending up like Antonio.’

‘Like Toni? But he’s a good guy, Mamina. He makes jewellery and stuff and sells it … I told you, I ran into him last Friday and he said to say hello.’

‘I don’t want to hear it. He’s dead to me.’ She crosses herself. ‘That boy had no pity …’

‘What happened, Mamina? For the love of God, just tell me …’ I say worriedly. Mamina never talks in riddles. When she has something to say, she says it loud and clear.

‘Same thing that will happen to you if you carry on hanging around that man who’s dealing drugs in the barrio … I wouldn’t like to have to disown you, Gringo.’

‘Who are you talking about? El Jetita?’

‘The very man.’ Mamina stares at me. Her eyes are fierce.

She’s not going to give anything else away. I know her. She goes back about her business and ignores me. What the fuck is all the mystery about?

Before I get panicky again, I go into my room. I pick up the cardboard boxes and the blankets. The air smells heavy, an acrid smell like spunk. Just as I’m about to lie down on the bed, I notice cum stains on the sheets. That little fucking bastard … Quique’s had a wank in my bed. I put a blanket over the stains and lie down on top of it. I take the.38 from the belt of my trousers and stuff it under the mattress where I had the whale book stashed, swap them round.

I take the money out of the book and all the money out of my pockets. I count it up. It’s a small fortune. I’ve never seen so much cash at one time. I count it again then pocket the lot. Like Ishmael, I’ve got more than enough to get to hell and back. What do I do? I open the book to look for advice, to see what the guy in the book has to say, and the loco comes out with some shit …