Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

UNDERWATER

THE SIGNAL SETS me off and I run. I run heedlessly towards Fat Farías’s bar. But I’m not seeing straight. I overshoot by a couple of blocks. I head towards the rear of the bar. To the side gate that leads into the little yard. I could have come through the neighbour’s yard on the far side of the block and vaulted the low wall, the way Chueco and I got out last time, but there’s no point. If there’s a bullet out there with my name on it, I’d rather it came now.

I’m confused by the clamour of voices. I can’t make out what they’re saying. Just overlapping voices, shouts and threats and swearing. The voices are coming from outside and inside the bar. It sounds like they’re negotiating the terms of the ceasefire before starting negotiations. On the building site opposite, a white flag is waving between the rifles pointed at the sky. Though it’s not actually white. It’s a San Lorenzo football shirt. Blue and red. Like the one Toni used to wear every Sunday when he went to the match. I can’t believe it. It’s got to be him. He’s doing all this so he can go inside. Everything’s turning out just exactly the way El Jetita wanted it.

I push the gate and go inside, only to have an Itaca aimed at me through the half-open kitchen door, the twin barrels like two eyes staring into mine.

‘Chill, it’s just Gringo,’ I shout to Robledo, though all I can see is his huge moustache peeking out over the barrel.

The milico lowers the gun, pops his head round the door and says, ‘Are you fucked in the head? How the hell did you get here? What d’you want?’

I don’t bother to reply, partly because I can’t think of anything to say.

‘Get in here, kid. You can stand guard, I’m going out front,’ Robledo says and disappears.

I head towards the kitchen, but as I cross the yard, I hear someone sobbing over the shouting from the bar. It takes a second for me to work out the crying is coming from the storage shed in the yard. I have a sudden, sick feeling, like a rock in the pit of my stomach. It’s Pampita, they beat her up … They fucked her over … I open the door. But it’s not Pampita I see lying there, whimpering, cursing, bare legs flailing, rolling over and fumbling as though trying to turn off the light streaming in through the open door. It’s Yanina. Pampita is kneeling next to her, holding her, trying to comfort her, whispering something into her ear, something that sounds like a lullaby, only in Aymara or in Quechua, as she waves for me to go away.

‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Yani?’ I ask like a fucking moron. After all it doesn’t take much imagination to work it out. But obviously my imagination has failed me, because when I try to take her by the shoulders she screams hysterically. She’s completely lost it.

‘You cunt, you fucking cunt!’ she screams at me, digging her nails into my face like I was to blame for this. The unkempt hair, the swollen eyes, the bleeding lip, the bruise on her cheek. As though I’m to blame for what I can see through the nails clawing at me.

‘Leave her, Gringo, leave her …’ Pampita says, holding Yanina’s arms.

‘Who the fuck did this? Who?’ I say, but I don’t let go.

She struggles like a wild animal, howls and screams and kicks out at me. She’s out of control.

‘Get the fuck out of here, now,’ Pampita shouts, but now she’s struggling with me, trying to get my hands away from Yanina’s shoulders. They must be burning her because her shoulders are freezing.

‘Who the fuck did this?’ I scream but neither of them answer.

‘Get out, you prick! Can’t you see? The damage is done!’ Pampita roars, so close to me I can feel her breath against my cheek.

And suddenly I’m calm. The rage in her eyes leaves me dumbfounded. I would never have thought I could see such hatred in those eyes. Pampita’s eyes, because Yanina’s eyes don’t see anything. They’re expressionless, in spite of her tears.

‘Leave her in peace, will you?’ she says, waving for me to leave again. Yani’s howls subside into ragged, wrenching sobs. She’s just a weeping machine now. And Pampita’s arms go round her again, rocking her, trying to calm her.

I get up from the straw mattress as though I understand everything. But there’s nothing to understand. I leave without a sound. I gently close the door of the shed, leaving it ajar just like it was, and find myself holding the.38 in my right hand. At what point did I take it out? It’s a mystery. Because I was carrying it in my belt, in the small of my back, that I do know. I slowly creep towards the kitchen door. I put my head inside and scan the room, but I can’t make out anything. It’s dark. What little light there is filters through the strip curtain from the bar. The shouting is over. I hear a gurgling sound and see Fat Farías lying next to one of the fridges. He’s choking on his own blood. Someone smashed his face in again, but this time it wasn’t me. I hear whispers of conversation from the bar, but that’s all. I wait a couple of seconds until I hear El Jetita shout across the street.

‘Come on, loco, get over here. Come on, we need to talk!’

I creep back to the gate and step outside. The puddles and the wet street shimmer. The sun by now is some way over the horizon. Behind the half-finished wall on the building site opposite, the shotguns are still pointed towards the sky. They’re quivering nervously. The white flag — the football shirt — is gone. Toni is wearing it now, walking slowly but surely, crossing the junction diagonally. He’s staring straight ahead of him. He’s empty-handed.

I raise my gun and aim at the red-and-blue stripes. But my hand is shaking. And by the time I aim again, it’s too late. I miss. The shot whistles up the street. Time slows to a crawl. Every movement becomes viscous, it’s like the whole barrio is at the bottom of the sea.

I see Toni’s look of surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, his mouth drops open. The barrels of the shotguns slowly return to the horizontal. Toni bends down, lifts the cuff of his jeans and takes out the gat he’s got tucked into his sock. A gun fires from the building site. Toni raises his own weapon and takes a bullet to the chest. He freezes for an instant, jolted by the bullet and, his hand still hovering in the air, he fires. The red stain blossoming on his striped shirt gradually spreads. And the shots keep coming, one after another. Toni is hit by three more stray rounds. In the knee, the shoulder and one right in the middle of his forehead. His head jerks back. And still it takes an eternity for him to fall. Then finally he sinks to the ground as though crushed beneath the weight of the water.

Shots multiply, almost overlapping, but not quite, I can clearly hear each one. I kick open the gate and am unsettled by how slow my own movements seem.

I start running, and every step I take is a feat. I have to persuade each muscle to react before it moves. And when it does, it is only to meet the resistance of gallons and gallons of water. I’m five thousands metres underwater. At such a depth, no sunlight filters through and I have to retrace my steps from memory. Along the way, I feel the direction of the fissure as the clamour of voices and gunfire gradually fades into the gloom of the marine trench. If I had flippers, I’d be able to move faster, I think to myself, as I watch my knees rise and fall. The problem is breathing, because no matter how wide I open my mouth, no air comes in. Only water, I swallow huge quantities. More salty than tears. More bitter than guilt. I’m drowning.