Seven Ways to Kill a Cat

by Matias Nespolo

  Gringo’s not actually my name, but it might as well be. I haven’t got another one. It’s what Mamina has called me ever since I was a kid. She says it’s because my hair used to be almost blond. No point getting bent out of shape about it. I’m Gringo, even if it’s not my name.

  Mamina’s not actually my grandmother either, but she might as well be. I haven’t got another one. She raised mamá, and after mamá disappeared she raised me. She’s not my mother’s real mother. But there’s no point getting bent out of shape about names. She’s more than my grandma. It’s like she’s my mother, even though she isn’t and even if she is as old as Methuselah.

  Mamina’s got a couple of kids of her own. The older son’s been in jail for twenty years, the younger one has been in the wind for the past fifteen. He works in a cement plant in Patagonia. Silvio, I think his name is. I don’t know what he looks like, I’ve never met him. Actually, I might have seen him once when I was a kid but I don’t remember.

  Anyway, it’s only because of this Silvio that I didn’t end up out on the street – me and the other kids Mamina got lumbered with. When we got dumped on her, Mamina was too old to go out cleaning people’s houses. But ever since he fucked off, her son Silvio sends money every month. It’s not much, but it’s enough to keep Mamina alive. And not just her. The feckless kids she looked after are gone now, pissed off a couple of years ago. I’m the only one left and Mamina knows I’ll be moving on too any day now. But I stick around because I’d feel bad leaving her on her own.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Mamina asks, not taking her hand out of the pocket of her apron.

  ‘Nowhere … I’ve been doing odd jobs.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, m’hijo.’ She stops me short. She’s not buying it. She doesn’t like it when I lie to her. And I don’t like lying to her either, but I’ve got no choice.

  Mamina waves for me to go. And I go.

  BURNING A HOLE

  I PAY FOR my ticket like a proper gentleman and board the train. Life’s easier when you’ve got money. And it’s better too: the sky is bluer, the heat is more bearable, even the passengers I’m sharing the carriage with seem like decent people. But I still can’t shake off the shreds of fear clinging to me. Anyway, I haven’t a fucking clue where I want to go or what I want to do. I’ve spent years dreaming of having the cash to be able to do the things I want, but now I’ve got it, I don’t know what they are. ‘I don’t know what the fuck I want,’ I mutter, thinking about skinhead Lucas, ‘but I want it now.’ At least I know that much.

  I count the money discreetly, so as not to get dirty looks from the passengers. It’s not exactly a fortune, but it’s enough to finance my vices for a couple of months. Or I could blow the lot in a couple of days.

  In Buenos Aires, I get off the train at Belgrano station and walk down Entre Ríos towards the centre. It’s a bit of a slog, but the whole city’s gridlocked. There’s marches and demos and picketers everywhere – striking teachers, old-age pensioners, the unemployed, civil servants, everyone’s out demonstrating against something. Police cars and sirens. But as I cross the Plaza Congreso there’s not a living soul. Callao, Corrientes and the Avenida de Mayo have been cordoned off by the milicos – the cops. At Talcahuano I run into a little group of students with flags, placards, signs, whistles and rattles marching under a huge banner. They’re taking orders from some skinny guy in glasses who’s shouting into a megaphone. There’s only four of them, but they’re acting like there’s a crowd stretching all the way back to Liniers. What’s really fucking funny is they haven’t sussed they’re heading straight for the police cordon about two hundred metres up ahead.

  I stand for a minute, amazed, watching them pass – particularly this one girl in a Rasta cap who’s so fucking hot it’s a crime, marching with a sexy little swing of her hips. Half a block from the cordon, she stops dancing and the kids sit down in the middle of the street to weigh up the situation. It’s all bullshit, an act.

  I leave them there and head down Lavalle. I go into the first cinema I find open and buy a ticket without even asking what’s on. The cashier hands me back way too much change.

  ‘First screening is half price,’ she says seeing my surprise.

  Inside the cinema, I can only make out three people in the semi-darkness. It’s some Yank movie. A shoot-’em-up. Five minutes in I’m already bored rigid, but I stay to the end. And it ends just like I expect. Happy ever after. Piece of shit.

  I go out, spark up a negro and wander about for a bit. I’m hungry. I go into a pizza place and order the most expensive pizza on the menu – it’s got everything: mushrooms, ham, artichokes, peppers …

  ‘Thick crust, chief,’ I say to the waiter, indicating the thickness with my thumb and index finger. ‘And a beer …’ I pick the most expensive beer too. It’s imported. Black as Coca-Cola. And it’s lush.

  I stuff myself till I’m full. I almost can’t finish, but I force myself. When I go to pay, it’s the cinema ticket all over again.

  ‘Today’s offer is the house special and a beer,’ the waiter explains.

  I pay up and leave. I walk around aimlessly and, without meaning to, I find myself in the Once district. I haven’t been here for years. The old Jewish businesses are still here, but not the Jews. It’s all Koreans now. I only see one Jewish family walking hand in hand down the street in their Sunday best – the mother and the two daughters in long skirts, the father in black with a broad-brimmed hat and those two long curls that hang down from the sideburns. The little boy is wearing short trousers and a tiny hat, a sort of skullcap held on with hairpins like the ones Mamina uses.

  On the opposite pavement, two Peruvians are arguing over a whore. A chubby girl, pretty enough. I’m not really paying them any attention. Neither are the Jewish family. They keep walking. The argument gets louder and eventually the two guys come to blows. The short fat one headbutts the other guy and breaks his nose. Looks to me like we have a winner. Show’s over. But the crowd of gawpers doesn’t move. They’re waiting to see how it turns out. I leave them to it.

  I stop in front of a shoe-shop window and see the pair of shoes I’ve been wanting for ages. I go in. I’m all happy when it turns out they’re the most expensive pair in the shop. It’s stupid, but to me it’s funny. I try them on, but when I check them out in the mirror, they look too flash. I wouldn’t make it to the next street corner wearing these – with the country fucked up the way it is, it’s just asking to be mugged. I find something more low-profile, but when it comes to paying for them, it’s the same shit again. Turns out they’re on special offer. I tell the girl in the shop not to bother wrapping them, I’ll wear them. I leave my old pair with her. They’re no use to anyone.

  They’re got rips on both sides and the soles have split.

  I head down towards the port. The afternoon is drawing in and I still can’t seem to shake off the fear. I’ve got money burning a hole in my pocket, but with all the fucking special offers and half-price promotions, I can’t manage to get rid of it. Probably for the best, I tell myself, but I’m not really convinced.

  Passing a bookshop I go in and browse around. I’m prepared to buy pretty much anything by this stage. Among the dusty, dog-eared books, there’s one that catches my eye. A fat book with a drawing of a white whale ripping apart a ship full of sailors on the cover. Moby Dick, it’s called. I like the drawing, I don’t really know why. I look at it for a bit, then I remember this cartoon with a flying whale I used to watch when I was a kid. It was a bit gay but I liked it. I used to watch it on the colour TV cousin Toni brought round one day. Probably robbed it.

  The whale on the cover is just like the one on TV. Same shape, same eyes, but it looks more savage, more realistic. It’s a proper whale.

  I space out, thinking about cousin Toni. He was my hero back when I was a kid. He smoked, he dated girls and he always used to give me money. I must have been about ten at the time. And it’s been ten years since I last saw him. He disappea
red. He got himself mixed up in some shit. They say he was on the Feds’ most wanted list.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ I say to the old guy dozing behind a pile of books.

  He gets up, stretches, takes the book I’m holding.

  ‘This one’s really good, it’s a classic!’ he tells me. ‘That’ll be four pesos.’

  Fuck knows what I think I’m doing. I’ve read exactly one book in my whole life, and here I am buying another one. To make matters worse, the guy’s practically giving it away when all I was trying to do was get rid of my money …

  PEACE AND LOVE

  I WALK DOWN towards the port, book tucked under my arm, hands in my pockets. In the right-hand pocket I feel Yanina’s spliff. I didn’t want to smoke it earlier because I was feeling a bit freaked out and when I smoke weed it always heightens whatever I’m feeling. If I’m bummed, it messes me up. If I’m happy, it makes me ecstatic. If I’m freaked out, it makes me completely fucking paranoid.

  But now I feel maybe I might spark it up. The whale cheered me up – not the one on the cover of the book, the one on TV. It was huge but it could shrink down to the size of a drop of water. Josefina, it was called. I even remember the theme song. When it got bigger again, it would fly off with a little boy on its back. Somewhere far away. It was cool. I don’t know why I’m still thinking about cousin Toni. He kind of reminds me of the kid in the cartoon. Maybe when I was little, when Toni disappeared, I dreamed he flew away on the back of the whale.

  I zigzag across the fourteen lanes of the Avenida 9 de Julio, brakes screeching, horns honking. I’m completely out of it and I haven’t even sparked up the spliff yet. I cut into the park looking for a quiet place for a toke. There’s not many people around. One or two couples sitting under the trees, a few kids playing football. On the steps around the fountain are some people selling crafts, with all their stuff on blankets in front of them. I amble towards them, then suddenly I freeze. I start trembling. I can’t fucking believe it. I rub my eyes hard and look again, but it’s definitely him. His hair is longer and he’s got a bit of a beard going, but it’s definitely him. He’s twisting a piece of wire and chatting to some long-haired guy. He hasn’t seen me. I light a cigarette, trying to calm down. This can’t be an accident. It’s too much of a coincidence.

  I psych myself up and walk over to stand in front of the stuff he’s got laid out on his blanket, like I’m thinking of buying something. He doesn’t look up. He goes on doing what he’s doing. I kick the carved hash pipe nearest me so it rolls towards him forcing him to finally react.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ he yells, looking up and staring me hard in the eye. It takes a couple of seconds before he recognises me and jumps up.

  ‘Gringuito! Fucking hell!’ he yells into my ear, lifting me off the ground with a bear hug.

  ‘Toni … Jesus fucking …’ I can’t finish the sentence because I’ve got a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit.

  Any minute now, I’m going to start bawling and I don’t want him to think I’m some punk bitch. We keep hugging and kissing until the feeling passes.

  ‘I thought the fuckers had killed you …’ I say, squeezing his arm. I still can’t believe it.

  ‘In their dreams.’

  ‘Couple of years later, I ran into this guy who told me you’d fucked off to Brazil.’

  ‘Yeah, I was there for a bit,’ he says with a cheeky smile, ‘mas agora eu fico aqui, maluco.’

  ‘Huh …?’ I’ve no fucking clue what he just said.

  Toni bursts out laughing. So do I.

  ‘It means now I’m back, loco.’

  ‘Yeah, so far back you’ve turned into a filthy hippy,’ I bait him.

  ‘What do you want? It’s tough on the streets, viejo.’ He laughs again, but then says seriously, ‘It’s a jungle out here, loco, I’m not shitting you. And I’m tired of living in fear. There comes a point when you just want to slam the door and move somewhere else, but you can’t get out. And no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. You know why?’

  He pauses like this is a riddle. I look at him quizzically.

  ‘Because the jungle’s inside you, loco. There is no outside, there’s nowhere to go.’

  ‘Wow! That’s deep …’ I say, breaking the awkward silence. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Jehovah’s Witness now?’

  Toni shits himself laughing.

  ‘Love and peace, brother.’ He makes the V-sign, still laughing his arse off. When he’s done laughing, he claps me on the back, hugs me again, pinches my cheek.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Gringuito. Fuck but you’ve grown …’

  He’s right. When I was a kid Toni looked like a giant to me. These days, I’m half a head taller than him.

  ‘But hey, tell me, what are you doing here? Were you on the march?’

  ‘Like I give a shit …’

  ‘Where’s your solidarity, comrade?!’ he says, raising his fist in a salute. Now it’s his turn to take the piss.

  But it turns out that it’s only because of the march that we ran into each other. The artisans’ union were on the march. They’re not affiliated but they came to show solidarity, Toni explains, introducing me to his friends. El Piti, a scrawny guy, his face thin like a smack addict, scarred and pockmarked; then there’s Laurita, a girl with big tits and her face painted green.

  They never come into Buenos Aires. The Feds are always hassling them about street vendors’ permits, so with what they make it isn’t worth the hassle. It’s not even enough to bribe the cops to turn a blind eye. They prefer to hang out in the Tigre Delta, he says, because most of the year it’s a stop-off for foreign tourists. Gullible tourists prepared to splash out wads of cash on ‘genuine native artefacts’. Actually, the beads they use in the necklaces come from China and the alloy wire is mined in Africa.

  ‘But come on, Gringo, spill, what’s going on? How’s Mamina? What’s been happening in the barrio?’

  Same old, same old. What can I tell him …? I make an effort, try to make it sound more interesting than it is, but I just can’t do it. It’s hardly surprising. There’s nothing to say. But he keeps asking about Mamina, so I tell him, ‘She’s getting on a bit now … Why don’t you drop by and see her sometime? She’d be stoked …’

  ‘I can’t, Gringo. I’ve got unfinished business in the barrio. Probably best I don’t show my face there.’ He looks at me seriously. ‘But give her a big kiss from me and tell her I think about her all the time.’

  Another awkward silence falls on us, the air so thick you could run a comb through it. And now’s not a good time to make jokes.

  ‘Hang on there a second, I’ll be right back,’ I say.

  I throw the book I’ve still got under my arm onto his mat and dash off. A couple of minutes later I’m back with five bottles of beer. Two in each hand and one under my arm. The tribe give me a round of applause. Using lighters, pliers, teeth, they’ve popped the caps in half a second and the beers are doing the rounds.

  ‘A spliff in your honour, you filthy hippy!’ I say to Toni, finally sparking Yanina’s joint.

  It was worth hanging on to it. I see him smiling through the smoke. I take a couple of tokes and pass it. He does the same, holding the smoke in. He nods at the book, laughs, coughs, chokes …

  ‘I see you’re an intellectual these days, Gringo,’ he says mockingly.

  ‘Too right!’ I say, putting on a posh, scholarly face.

  ‘Hey, Piti,’ he nudges his friend, jerking his thumb at the book, ‘Gringo here is reading one of your favourites …’

  ‘Uy! It’s the whale,’ says Piti laughing to himself. ‘Got to be very careful when you’re dealing with the whale, loco.’

  I tell him I haven’t even started reading it yet so I’ve no idea what he’s on about. But all I get from him is the same warning. He’s being all mysterious.

  ‘You’ll see …’ he says.

  We go on drinking and chatting and joking. They’r
e good people. I feel at home with them. Toni reels off stories about his travels and about his time living on the streets. Some of the stories sound kind of sketchy, but I believe them anyway. Then he gets to talking about some bad memories of the barrio. And he does it because he realises I know what he’s talking about, I can put myself in his shoes, I understand him perfectly. Even the spaces between the words.

  It’s pitch dark by now. There’s no one left in the park and the hawkers are starting to pack up and leave. I’ve been slyly winkling info out of Toni about his work, trying to get as much as I can. It’s got its ups and downs, but there’s money to be made year-round. Not much, but enough to get by. The secret is to keep moving, not to stay in one place for more than two or three months. Toni’s group hangs out in the Delta. They head down to the Atlantic coast from time to time, or up into the hills, to Córdoba. When it gets too hot, they head south and do the Lake District around Bariloche.

  ‘So, is it hard work?’ I’m not beating about the bush any more.

  ‘Nah … With a bit of patience and someone to show you a couple of things, you’re set. The rest you learn as you go.’

  ‘So what would you need to start?’ I ask straight out. He knows what I’m getting at.

  ‘Don’t tell me you want to take up a trade?’

  ‘Thinking about it,’ I tell him. And it’s true.

  ‘Well, depends on what you want to make …’

  ‘What do I know? Necklaces, earrings, bracelets … All the shit you make.’

  Toni gets excited now and starts trying to explain everything. If you’re going to make a living, the important thing is to work in groups. Keep things moving, make stuff that’s seasonal. Concentrate on jewellery around Christmas and when you’re in the mountains. In summer, churn out the threads and braids girls like to put in their hair. At the beach, there’s big money to be made doing henna tattoos. During school term, the best thing to make is hash pipes, because kids are always into paraphernalia.