Seven Ways to Kill a Cat
Page 17
IN A CIVILISED FASHION
ON A FULL belly, everything looks different. Worse. Even the perky little old ladies scraping out their pots to serve a last helping to the stragglers make me depressed. Despite the fact that the food seems to have lifted everyone’s spirits. Everyone is in a better mood, you can tell. They’re chatting and laughing, someone’s playing the guitar, and people are passing mate around.
El Chelo’s on the cadge for a cigarette to help his digestion. I give him one and spark up one for myself. Without saying anything, I get up and go over to give back the crockery some woman lent us so we could eat – a saucepan lid, a disposable plastic tray and a couple of spoons. She’s sitting in the shade of a makeshift tent, breastfeeding her kid. When she sees me coming over, she covers herself as best she can and shouts, ‘Just leave them there!’
I say thanks and turn away so as not to embarrass her. I skirt round a gang of kids kicking a plastic bottle and, passing the bonfire, I chuck my cigarette butt into the flames. The wind shifts every now and then. The thick greasy smoke whirls and eddies. It stings my nose.
‘You want me to introduce you to El Toro López?’ says El Chelo, who’s leaning against one wheel of his cart. ‘He’s over there, the dark guy in the cap talking to that group of unemployed guys, see him?’ He points.
‘No way.’
‘Why not? He’s a good guy …’ El Chelo says, a little pissed off.
‘I don’t care, I don’t want anything to do with leaders. Far as I’m concerned, they can all go fuck themselves …’
‘Whatever you want, loco. Just saying.’
We don’t say anything for a while and I feel embarrassed. Embarrassed for him. Maybe I hurt his feelings. I was a bit harsh. I stand up and, without saying anything, I clap him on the back. El Chelo looks up, gives me a wink. We’re cool.
I wander around, killing time, bored out of my skull, keeping my ears open … I don’t talk to anyone. I go over to where the truckers are playing cards and, since I’ve got a wad of cash, they deal me in to their game of truco. We lose three hands straight. The fat guy partnering me looks like he wants to cap me. He hasn’t had a single decent card for a while and he blames me for it. Says I’m bad luck, says he was on a roll until he was partnered with me. Since the fat guy’s pissing me off by now, I bail. I tell the old guy he’s been sneaking a look at my cards and I fuck off.
The sun is slipping behind the horizon. The sky bleeds red and purple and the air becomes heavy and charged with unease. The sort of electrical charge that builds up before a storm. I see the López guy anxiously pacing among the demonstrators, giving out orders, I can tell from the signals he’s making. The teachers are all grouped together, a tight knot of white smocks; they’re probably wondering what the hell they’re going to do if all this kicks off. Makes sense, they’re all about books and blackboards, what the fuck do they know about bullets and tear gas?
‘Here come the Feds,’ El Chelo warns me.
We watch, fascinated, as the milicos climb out of their trucks. A bunch of them form a cordon with riot shields in front of the patrol cars and the rest of them pile in behind. They’re a tight group, the only things visible above the riot shields, their helmets and their semi-automatics.
Things don’t seem quite so organised our end, but they’re getting there. Anyone not feeding the bonfire is collecting rocks and stones to throw. Chains and knives start to appear and a couple of guns. El Chelo hands out the bolts and ball bearings to anyone with a catapult. I see him in the crowd a few metres away, taking out the .38, putting bullets in the chamber. He looks up and our eyes meet. He gives me a thumbs up. I do the same just as the cop with the megaphone orders us to disband. ‘Clear the road now in a civilised fashion, before the operation commences,’ the milico says. I recognise the voice. It’s the guy I heard talking to El Jetita on the police radio the other night. Commissioner hijo-de-fucking-puta Zanetti. And that phrase, ‘in a civilised fashion’, reminds me of what Chueco said the other day about there being seven ways to kill a cat, but when it comes down to it, there are only two that matter: in a civilised fashion, or like a fucking savage.
And so, in a civilised fashion, we stand our ground. The teachers start up with the national anthem and everyone in the crowd joins in. At the end, there’s a burst of applause, of cheers and whistles like we’re all celebrating coming top of the league. But we didn’t. We’re being hammered. After the last cheers, a gulf of fear opens and the milicos make the most of the silence to start their advance. With every step, the thud of marching boots gets louder. They’re heading straight for us.
In the faces of the people nearest me, I see everything: rage, fear, panic, dread … I look around for El Chelo but find myself face to face with the kid in the glasses. He’s bricking it, it’s obvious. The kid backs away and finally I see El Chelo who’s looking at me grimly.
‘Fuck sake, come on!’ he roars, waving the gat.
I pick up a stone and hurl it; the first shot rings out. It’s raining tear gas. We throw anything we can find at them, including the smoking canisters of tear gas. Now things are really kicking off. In a seriously civilised fashion …
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Copyright © Matías Néspolo 2009
English translation copyright © Frank Wynne 2011
Matías Néspolo has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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First published with the title Siete maneras de matar a un gato in 2009
by Los Libros del Lince, Barcelona
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by
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