Seven Ways to Kill a Cat (12 page)

‘When Pampita’s next john is done, make up the bed here. I have a client for you, got it?’ he explains to old Riquelme.

Two whores in one tiny little room. The space might be tight, but they’ve clearly got business turning over quickly. El Negro obviously wants to use the kitchen too, but it’s really narrow and it’s the only way to get out the back.

Right. I’ve heard enough to have a good idea of the cards he’s holding. I’m about to bounce. But just as I’m about to come out from behind the beer crates, the shed door opens. A tall dark-haired guy who looks like he’s from the barrio comes out and heads back through the kitchen. The light from the storage shed hits me right in the face. Pampita leans in the doorway, casting a shadow over me, but she can’t miss me. The john disappears and I whisper, ‘Pampita, Pampita, don’t grass me up …’

Her hair is a mess and she’s wearing a short nightdress. It’s old and worn. You can see her dark nipples and the triangle of pubic hair through it. She’s got no fat on her – I’m guessing she’s doesn’t eat much – and her skin is tanned. All the right curves in all the right places. Those
hijos de puta
have got themselves a fine piece of merchandise.

‘Gringo,’ she starts, ‘what you doing here?’

‘Shh … nothing … make like you haven’t seen me. What you been up to?’

‘Me? Nothing … they don’t give me time to catch my breath …’ she says.

And she stops. Like she doesn’t want to talk about it. I raise an eyebrow and she says reluctantly, ‘Been in here since gone noon. I’ve fucked so many guys I’ve lost count.’

‘What are you bitching about?’ I say. ‘You must be raking it in …’

‘No, El Negro handles the cash. Hasn’t even told me what my cut is.’

‘In that case, I wouldn’t hold your breath …’

Pampita’s eyes well up and catch me off guard. My cynicism disappears faster than a cat about to take a bath. There’s an awkward silence and then I ask a question, it’s dumb but it’s genuine.

‘How did you end up getting involved in all this?’

‘Your friend Chueco, he’s the one who tricked me into coming here. Then, soon as I got here, El Negro started laying into me with his belt. In the end I got tired of being hit …’ There’s another silence then she confirms my suspicions. ‘And since then the bastard’s taken everything I’ve got.’ Pampita brings a hand up to her arse. She’s crying now. El Negro Sosa’s really fucked her over.

‘I’m not surprised Chueco’s involved,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you wait till no one’s looking and do a runner?’

‘What if they catch me?’ she says. She’s terrified.

‘You have to risk it … I don’t know what you were thinking coming here, you’re never going to make it.’

I feel sorry for her, because she’s not stupid. She realises now that just setting foot in Fat Farías’s place was a bad move, but I haven’t got time to tell her just how bad, to convince her to get the fuck out of here. El Negro’s already on his way with the next client. I can hear him telling dirty jokes and the john laughing. I give Pampita a wink, put a finger to my lips for her to keep her mouth shut. She nods and makes a vague gesture, something between an appeal and an acceptance. I sprint across the courtyard and hide behind the half-open door. I don’t move a muscle until the conversation dies away as the client goes into the shack with Pampita and Sosa goes back into the kitchen.

The road is covered with a thin slick of mud. Just enough to break your neck. I decide to take the potholed pavement instead. At least there’s some traction. The soles of my shoes stick to the few unbroken paving stones. All I have to do is dodge the puddles.

The wind comes in fits and starts, but it’s not cold. The night is stifling, humid. The roars of drunks celebrating goals carry from the bar on the wind, fading as I get further away. No one around. Not many lights on. It’s late and tomorrow’s a work day. What’s left of the street light ends here where the tarmac stops. This is where the barrio really starts. A gaping hole in the darkness. The wolf’s mouth, as the cool
porteños
call it.

Solitude, crickets, frogs. The soundtrack of fear. If only it would rain in a biblical way, a downpour that would rip the sky open and make the earth thunder. But the only thing thundering right now is my stomach. It wants food. It’s been gnawing on fear for hours now. I have to feed it something, even though I don’t feel hungry. I walk a couple more blocks down the dirt path of the dark alley and turn down one of the cul-de-sacs by the station. From a distance I can see a light on in Zaid the Turk’s place. He’s always open. Don’t know when he sleeps. Must be the only way to keep the business going.

The Turk set up a stall with what fight he had left in him after his mastiff had to be put down. There wasn’t a dog in the world like Albino, he said, and he gave up going to the dog fights. On one of the walls of the shop he’s still got a huge photo of the dog in mid-slaughter. It’s a blurry, out-of-focus shot, but it says it all. A white form spattered with red standing over a pile of blood and hair.

The Turk spends all his spare time staring at that photo. And he’s got a lot of spare time, because he never closes. Sundays, public holidays, three in the morning, Zaid’s stall is always open, and he’s always standing there, motionless, on guard. Go figure what he sees in that fucking photo. Albino’s the one should be watching over him.

And that’s how he is when I get to the stall. Silently grieving over his memories or the spectre of guilt. What the fuck do I know. Through the bars of the grill, he serves up what I ask for: five
alfajor
biscuits on special offer, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Legui. We barely speak. He gives me a plastic bag with my change, and I take it without a word and put what I’ve bought in it. The Turk’s already sat back down on the bench behind the counter, eyes half closed, staring at the picture of the dog. I leave without saying thanks.

I wander around aimlessly, swinging the plastic bag and stop again by the river. But this time I don’t go onto the bridge. I sit on a pile of rubble on the bank. The water’s still rising. It’s moving like an animal. Swirling and eddying. Washing away all the garbage.

There’s only a sliver of moon visible now in the gaps between the clouds tumbling across the sky. Difficult to tell which is moving faster, the river or the storm.

I peel the foil off the first
alfajor
and eat it half-heartedly. I wash down the rest with a couple of shots of Legui. What with the caramel and sugary quince jelly in the
alfajor
and the sweet liquor, it’s cloying and sickly sweet. But I still feel the same bitterness inside. I try not to think. I light one cigarette after another, chain-smoking until the bottle’s empty. I toss it in the river and it sinks like a stone. I picture it spinning down to the bottom. The riverbed must be more grotty than Pampita’s rickety old bed.

THE PLACE LOOKS
different with her in it. I hardly recognise it. Her presence transforms it. Either that or I was shit-faced the first time I came in. Though what with the weed and the bottle of Legui I’m not exactly sober right now. I’m feeling more cranked than chilled to tell the truth.

‘Come in,’ Yanina says, half asleep.

I follow her down the dark hallway. She is framed, silhouetted by the bluish glow from the far end. Her generous hips and her drooping shoulders. Her loose hair. She’s wearing a baggy T-shirt as a nightdress. Her feet are bare. Her soles slap against the floor with every step. The glow is from the TV. She’s watching a black-and-white movie starring Libertad Lamarque that’s old as the hills. She goes over and turns down the volume until the dialogue is an almost inaudible murmur.

‘You still up?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you have to be up early for school tomorrow?’

‘No. Teachers’ strike.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘I couldn’t sleep …’ She blinks at me repeatedly. I notice that.

She sits in a chair facing the TV, curls her legs under her and pulls the T-shirt over them. It’s a fraction of a second, that’s all, but for that fraction of a second she gives me a flash of her thighs, the curve of her arse, her bare hip that knocks me out. She takes a cigarette from the pack of Lights on the table and sparks it up. She takes a deep drag, blows out the smoke and hugs her knees like she’s still cold.

‘What was it you wanted to say to me?’

No beating about the bush. Straight to the point. So straight it unsettles me. Something and nothing. What am I supposed to say now?

‘Lots of stuff, Yani,’ I say, bringing a cigarette to my lips. ‘I don’t really know where to start.’

I sit down at the table opposite her and she picks up a digital watch hidden behind the ashtray and peers at it in the glow from the TV.

‘Start wherever you like, but get a move on, it’s late. My old man’s going to roll in any moment.’

‘I doubt it, the bar is rammed …’ I say, playing for time. ‘He’ll be a while yet.’

She frowns, sucks on her cigarette and says, ‘Whatever, Gringo. He doesn’t like me letting people into the house, and I don’t want to take the risk. He can be very overprotective …’

‘What is it, Yani? Does he hit you?’

This catches her off guard, though that wasn’t my intention. I said it without thinking. The answer’s obvious. Yani stares at me, her eyes huge and round as a dog that’s been beaten slinking back to be petted. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray.

‘No, but sometimes …’ She looks away.

She’s scared. I realise that. Farías the fat fucker probably beats her all the time. I’m sure he does. It’s obvious. You can smell fear, and I can feel her fear prickling my nose. There’s an awkward silence. This isn’t how I wanted things to go. The whole thing is getting away from me. I clear my throat and light another cigarette.

Yanina stretches out her legs and stares at them for a moment. I lean over the table and stare at them too. They’re beautiful. Especially her knees. Her ankles are covered with tiny red marks. Insect bites. Mosquitos, maybe, or fleas, I don’t know. But I love them. They’re so delicate. She slowly puts on her slippers and gets up.

‘You fancy sharing a
mate
–?’

‘Sure,’ I say before she’s even finished the question. She could offer me cyanide and I’d still say yes.

I get up and follow her into the kitchen. She turns the light on, puts the kettle on the stove. It’s just as filthy as it was the other night, but a little tidier. There are no burnt saucepans in the sink and the table has been more or less cleared. Yanina reaches up to take down the
mate
gourd and the
yerba mate
from a shelf. I make the most of the opportunity to appraise her arse. I can see she’s wearing a thong under her T-shirt. I’m shocked. I’m also horny as hell. Up to this point I’ve behaved like a perfect gentleman, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. She gives me a sidelong glance. She knows. Least I think so, because I see her smile with her eyes. She packs
mate
into the gourds and brews it the Uruguayan way, adding cold water first. She strains the gourds in the sink, turns on the tap and lets the water run. The kettle is whistling by now. Before she turns it off I suggest, ‘Why don’t we add a little something?’

‘Like what?’ She looks at me like a naughty little girl.

‘I don’t know, what you got … ?’

‘Let’s have a look …’ She opens the fridge and stands, staring into it like it was a window at night or a cave filled with shadows. Inside, it’s darker than a wardrobe. Unless I mistake, I’d swear it was empty last time.

‘You OK with gin?’ she says, turning her body, one hand still on the door of the fridge.

‘Perfect. Bols?’

‘No, Llave.’ She bends down, takes out a litre-and-a-half bottle and hands it to me. It’s warm.

‘You keep that thing turned off to save on electricity or am I confusing a cupboard with a fridge?’

She laughs. And everything’s fine between us.

‘No, it’s on the blink,’ she says with an irritated gesture.

I take the top off the bottle, take a sip of the gin and hand it back to her.

‘Yech … the Llave’s a little bitter. Why don’t we sweeten it up a bit . . ?’ I suggest.

‘Hang on, let me see. I think there’s honey somewhere …’ She puts the gin down next to the
mate
and starts searching in the cupboard under the counter. After a while, just as I’m getting impatient and about to tell her not to bother, she stands up again, triumphantly brandishing a bottle.

‘Found it!’

She unscrews the cap and tries to push a spoon into it, but she can’t. The honey is too old. It’s crystallised.

‘Let me have a go,’ I say, seeing her give up.

I go over to the counter and the scent of her skin hits me like 220 volts. The smell is both fresh and intense. I take the bottle and hold out my hand for the spoon. She presses it against my palm but doesn’t let go. I close my fingers around the spoon, and around her fingers. Yanina lets her fingers stay in mine for a moment and our eyes meet.

I carve out a little nugget of honey and let it drop into the gap between the damp
yerba
and the silver straw, the
bombilla
. Yani does the rest. She adds a large splash of gin and pours on the hot water.

‘Help yourself,’ she says and passes me the gourd.

It’s steaming. It’s fucking amazing. I can feel it warming my whole body.

‘So, what’s it like?’ she asks impatiently.

‘Lush. Really lush,’ I say smiling, staring at her eagerly. I’ve never been this close to her.

I hand back the
mate
and our fingers brush again. Accidentally or on purpose, makes no odds. She puts another splash of gin in, tastes it. She likes it. She brews another one for me and moves a few inches away. As a precaution. Our fingers are like bare wires, sending out sparks every time they make contact. Live and earth. Difficult to tell which of us is carrying the electrical charge. Doesn’t matter.

I lean back against the counter and feel the .38 dig into my kidneys. It’s so well holstered, I didn’t notice it till now.

As I drink the last of the
mate
, sucking on the
bombilla
until it whistles. I nod towards the fridge.