Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (20 page)

If there’s one out there for me, let it come now, without warning, because I’ve had about as much of this shit as I can take. Now the sun is tracing everything in yellow gold. Like it’s all new. The puddles, the line of shacks, the rubbish bags ripped open by the dogs, the far end of the street, Mamina’s shoulders and Quique’s dark hair framed against the sunlight … Every outline shimmers as though something is about to happen, as though somehow it might be possible to start over.

Cloudless. The clear morning sky greets the sound of bells. The call to Mass, a thankless, never-ending funeral. But it’s not the church bells ringing out, but shots. I can hear them clearly. Three bullet wounds in the silence of the dawn sky. It’s the signal.

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.

I’M GASPING BY
the time I get to the bridge, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, but I don’t stop running until I reach the front of the demo. I sprint the last hundred metres. El Chelo appears out of the crowd, a smile on his face.

‘You made it, I knew you would …’

I want to say something but I can’t get the words out. I’m still panicked. I nod my head and raise my arms trying to get air into my lungs. I interlink my fingers at the back of my neck and stand there, elbows flailing, gasping for breath.

‘They’re really fucking going for it, huh?’ El Chelo says, jerking his head back towards the barrio. ‘When the wind’s blowing this way, you can hear the gunshots even over all the noise we’re making here …’ He stares into the distance, at some indeterminate point between the station and Fat Farías’s bar.

I’m not surprised, it’s not like it’s that far. We’re only about thirty or forty blocks from the shoot-out. But I feel as though I’ve been running for miles, for years. Three or four at least, before I reached the last truck in the traffic jam, and a couple more from the corner by the refinery to here, at the front of the march. I feel I’ve aged seven or eight years during that run.

‘It’s only when they stop shooting that we’ve got to worry –’

I cut him short.

‘Any moment now, it can’t go on much longer …’

‘Yeah, figures. We’ll have to be on the lookout, because when Charly’s people start heading back to Zavaleta, the Feds with them are going to try and infiltrate the march,’ El Chelo says. ‘I’ve already given Toro Lopéz the heads-up – he’s in charge of the demo, but everyone needs to keep their eyes open, otherwise they’ll fuck us over. It’s one thing facing the Feds head-on, but if we’ve got them coming at us from behind, that’s very fucking different,’ he explains, pointing at the
milicos
up ahead like he’s a tourist guide.

The police cordon isn’t exactly much: three squad cars blocking the road about a hundred metres away and half a dozen Feds goofing around. Behind them is a blue riot truck that could be a water cannon or a prison bus, can’t tell from this distance.

‘This is no fucking joke, Gringo,’ El Chelo says, like he can read my thoughts. ‘They’re sending in the army, they’ve just announced it on the radio.’

‘Yeah, but they’d need a fucking regiment to take on all the marchers,’ I say, looking out over the sea of people and trucks. The whole barrio is out. A column of smoke is rising from the road, thick as tar, and the local kids are still stoking the fire. Among the kids chucking rubbish onto the burning car tyres I recognise a couple of faces from Quique’s neighbourhood. He’d probably be doing exactly the same if it weren’t for the fact that he’s dressed in his Sunday best, burying his kid sister.

Behind the pall of smoke is a sea of placards and makeshift cardboard signs. The deafening hammering of drums and saucepans never stops. The teachers are the ones most worked up, it’s obvious from the school smocks fluttering everywhere. The council workers seem more relaxed. Some of them are even chatting to the unemployed, who are all wearing red wristbands to identify themselves. They’re by far the majority. The rest are labourers of various sorts, I can’t really tell who they are, though I recognise the faces. They’re all from the barrio, that I do know. There’s all sorts, from wheeler-dealers and layabouts to construction workers and industrial machine workers.

There’s several groups gathered around the truck at the front of the march. Some drinking
mate
, others playing
truco
on upturned empty crates. I figure they’re truck drivers, and they’re taking this whole thing in their stride. They’re stranded because either the cargo they’re hauling or their rigs are too big to turn them round. So there’s fuck all they can do.

All along one side of the road is a string of tents, some canvas, some plastic, some made out of blankets. It’s like an Indian village: old women, kids and babies. There’s a patch of ground with three or four bonfires and a bunch of big steaming pots. And I’m praying that they’re for everyone, because I’m fucking starving.

‘You think they won’t take us on?’ El Chelo’s comment comes after a delay, as though he too has been surveying the scene. ‘They’ll send a whole regiment, two if they need to …’

He’s laying it on thick. Very thick. I give a mocking whistle and stare into the distance like I can see the cavalry riding to the rescue.

‘You’ve got no clue what’s about to go down here,’ he says.

I spark up a cigarette and El Chelo’s eyes shine. I offer him one before he can ask. With the first drag, he says, ‘I guess you brought the strap?’

‘You guess right …’ I say, putting down the bag I’ve had slung over my shoulder for an eternity. It doesn’t weigh much, but my shoulder and the back of my neck are rubbed raw.

‘Well, at least that’s one more … I mean, with all the people here, you could count the number of guns on the fingers of one hand.’

‘What do you expect? They’re working stiffs.’

‘Yeah, I know,
viejo
, but it’s not like they thought they were coming on a fucking picnic,’ El Chelo says and he’s right. Well, partly right.

‘You carrying?’

‘No.’

‘So what the fuck you bitching about?’ I say. El Chelo glares at me, but he doesn’t say anything. ‘Here, take this,’ I say, handing him the .38.

The guy’s eyes widen in surprise. He can’t bring himself to touch it.

‘Straight up, Gringo?’ he insists. ‘You’re actually giving this to me?’

‘Call it a loan. If I need it back, I’ll ask for it,’ I say, and this seems to do the job, because El Chelo relaxes.

‘Safe, thanks,’ he says finally, taking the strap.

I chuck him the box of cartridges too, without warning, but El Chelo’s got good reflexes. He catches it. He seems really touched. He pats me on the back, gives me a man-hug. Any minute now and he’ll start in with the kisses. I see it coming and push my way through the crowd, looking for somewhere to put down my bag. El Chelo sticks to me like a shadow, blethering on, saying the first thing that comes into his head. Excitement has set his tongue loose.