Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

THE LOOKOUT CHEATS

I CHEAT. I start skipping pages, two at a time, then three at a time. And it still seems like the story’s not getting anywhere. Or if it is, it’s moving fucking slowly. Barely crawling along. Hesitant, groping its way. This bastard Ishmael goes on too much. He goes into every detail. From the shape of a whale’s jawbone to the way the crews on whaling boats party when they meet up out at sea. Sometimes it’s slower than swimming through snot.

All I wanted was to sail off into the sunset on Captain Ahab’s ship, but the speed the Pequod moves is a joke. A piss-poor joke. It’s like it’s sailing in slow motion. Even the minute hand is moving faster. Which is saying something, because ever since we’ve been trapped here, time’s been stretching like chewing gum. Last time I asked El Sapito Medina, it was half three. And that was a long time ago. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to start getting light any time soon.

El Sapito’s obviously bored playing the sniper. He’s propped the FAL against the shutter. Inoffensive. Right now he’s nodding off with his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Chueco too. Dozing off then jolting awake. Every now and then he opens his eyes and gives me this strange, confused look. Like he’s woken up without knowing where he is or what the fuck is happening. I keep reading. I struggle against tiredness, against fear. I ward off fear as best I can by reading the whale book, but Ishmael’s not making it easy for me. Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s happening outside either.

So I go on reading. I tilt the book towards the window so I can make the most of a beam of light from the street outside that filters through a hole in the shutter. I use the hole to scan the night and I skim through the pages. But nothing changes. Day refuses to break. And in the book it’s worse.

There’s no sign of life from El Jetita, Rubén or El Negro Sosa. For a while there, they were holed up behind the counter playing truco, calling out bids like every hand was life or death. But their fondness for pills and gin moved on to class As. With every hand their nostrils blared like trumpets.

‘Stingy fuckers don’t even pass it round,’ Chueco whispered, half dead with fear. Now he’s asleep, his worried little face like a kid having a nightmare. Breaks your heart just to look at him.

The three chiefs have probably fallen asleep over their cards by now. It’s the only thing that would explain the quiet. Unless they’re playing some card game for deaf mutes. Which I doubt. I’d be happy if they’d been snorting paco cut with naphthalene. Or better still, caustic soda.

What really scares me now is the silence from the kitchen. And not because of Yani, though I feel bad for her. I can hardly bring myself to look her in the eye now. And it’s not for Pampita, however much I feel sorry for her. Or for old Riquelme or Fat Farías. And no way is it for Robledo, the fucking milico turncoat …

No, the silence that’s freaking me out is the other guy. The skinny guy, Fabián. That kid’s down to the last cigarette in the pack. And I’m freaked out because I’ve got a feeling everyone in there is asleep except him. I feel like he’s keeping me company. As though we’re keeping watch together tonight. I’m waiting for the first streak of dawn in the sky. Fabián is ringing down the curtain once and for all. Turning off the lights and closing up. Dawn or no dawn. That’s why he’s not sleeping. Either that or he’s already woken up somewhere far from this nightmare. Although he may be wincing with pain, squeezing his eyes tight shut with every twinge, right now his eyes are wide open. I’d swear it. Open and staring out at the night.

Just like Ishmael when it’s his turn to go up into the crow’s nest. To climb up into the barrel on the masthead to watch for the spouts of distant whales. Since Ahab can recognise the spout of the white whale, he forces his crew to stand watch twenty-four hours a day. Ishmael takes the night watch. The silvery jet of water appears and disappears in the moonlight like a phantom. They follow it for a couple of days, but it doesn’t reappear. Ishmael tells the men it’s a waste of time since what they’re hunting is not Moby Dick, but Ahab’s doom. He’s a smart-arse. All the way through the book it’s like he’s waiting for something bad to happen, like he can tell the future. But he’s cheating. Because he already knows what’s going to happen. The story he’s telling happened years ago. And he came through it. That’s the only reason why he can tell the story. He already knows what’s going to happen. I don’t. Neither does Fabián, but he can imagine.

The gold doubloon is still there, nailed to the mast, waiting for someone to say they’ve spotted Moby Dick on the horizon. But it never happens. The days go by, and old Ahab gets crazier and crazier. The first thing he does whenever they encounter another ship is ask the captain for news of Moby Dick. And they keep going, following the trail. People die along the way. Drown. Harpoon boats are sunk. But the hunt never ends. They sail almost all the way to Japan. And just when it seems like they’re going to find him any moment now, old Ahab breaks his whalebone leg. The ship’s carpenter has to make him a new one from the keel of one of the harpoon boats that was smashed.

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.