Mexico City Noir

Later, just as I was sliding my car out of the garage, a young man started attacking the gringo. I jumped out of the car and shoved the guy before he began to kick the old man. The gringo got up and, after spitting and wiping some blood off his face with the sleeve of his shirt, growled at me to stay out of it, that it was none of my business, and then he called me an idiot. What?

A couple days later, I found Alice and the gringo having coffee and chatting amiably in our living room. I greeted her with a kiss and she said, in Spanish, “You remember him, he lives next door?”(“We say neighbor,” I whispered.) I remembered him, of course. I made eye contact with the old man for a passing second. Then I locked myself in the study. Alice soon appeared with a drink for me, took a seat on the rug next to the armchair where I was reading, and hugged my legs.

“You know,” she began, “I think that cabron killed somebody, perhaps many people, and I don’t mean in a war. He’s like a serial killer.”

“He’s gotten away with the murder. In Spanish we say, he got away with it, Alice.” Of course, there was no need to ask why she thought this: it was female intuition. “They almost killed him the other day,” I said, and I told her what had happened.

“Ah, yes,” she responded, apparently aware of the incident,“that’s how it is with his kids.” Alfonso, the handyman on our street, had told her about worse incidents, even shootings; he’d never been hurt badly, but imagine the shock. “Did you know that Wilson fascinates him? He likes cats. He has a kitten now, he doesn’t know what kind, but she’s spotted. He actually named her Spots.” How imaginative, I thought. “He says she has a face like a whore, a made-up whore,” Alice laughed, “like in Cats. And she wears a flea collar. But when the gringo tried to pet Wilson, he clawed the guy.”

“We say scratched, Alice.”

Things changed, or went to hell, after that day. When I think of it now, it’s as if I woke up and the new situation was already there, just waiting for me to open my eyes.

I grew anxious as I headed out to the garden. There was a short ladder up against the garden wall, which I would have to climb in order to leave food and water for Spots.

A few days before, I’d woken up in the middle of the night and met her. I’d seen some branches move through the bedroom window-a rustling of leaves on the garden wall-and thought it was Wilson coming back from a night of mischief. But what emerged from the weeds instead was a spotted kitten, with a flea collar and the face of a whore; she took a few steps around the cornice when-suddenly-Wilson appeared behind her. Frightened by the sheer size of the “sabertoothed tiger,” Spots fell on her back. Wilson simply watched and smiled.

That same morning, Alfonso, the handyman, had knocked on my door and asked, on the gringo’s behalf, if I’d seen a spotted kitten in heat. It was impossible to know for sure (of course, that same dawn, I’d suspected, by virtue of the meows and shrieks outside my window), but the possibility of more than one spotted kitten wandering the neighborhood was remote: she had to be his cat. What was the plan? Alfonso shrugged his shoulders. Just imagine, I said, how difficult it will be to catch a female in that state. “If she were human, at least I’d have a chance.”

How many weeks had it been since Spots deserted her house and began subsisting on the water and croquettes I was leaving for her on top of the garden wall? Time had lost its coordinates since Alice made her final trip back to Texas, and marks on calendars and clocks meant nothing. I suppose I could calculate the months since I’d come home with company and Alice was still there, her flight canceled. This time it wasn’t a coffee-colored woman but a European, as blond and tall as Alice. They had looked each other over as I introduced them, and I’d considered it a good sign that Alice didn’t feel the need to clarify our relationship. I’d already decided to sleep with the European. “Will you excuse us?” I was on my way up the stairs when I heard about the canceled flight; she’d try to book another in the morning.

Alice went away and didn’t come back. On the phone, in Spanish and with Mexican irony, she recommended I do whatever I wanted; it was my life, after all, and she was no longer interested in my well being or whatever earthly goods she might be entitled to in the divorce.

I put the ladder up against the garden wall and took another drink for courage. I began to climb, holding a bowl of croquettes; I was stretching to place it on top of the wall when I was knocked back by a sudden weight collapsing on my neck; I scratched at the air, my back slammed down against the turf. It was better not to move for a bit. I breathed. Wilson climbed on my chest, cuddled up, and quickly fell asleep in spite of the drizzle. How many more kilos had he gained in the past week?

A court decision forced me to deal with business matters and discover that my partners had cheated me out of my share. Lazy in the comfort of her pension, my mother, in a tone of retroactive warning, said, “The idea was to sell over time, hijo.” According to her, I had my father’s tendency to think I was clever, like most gringos in Latin America. Then she issued another warning, this time in a more severe tone: “And don’t sell the house!” Although it was already mine and I had power of attorney, it would be best to claim it as an inheritance when she died.

The truth is, I’d already sold it. Twenty days before turning in the keys, I went looking for a carrier to take Wilson back to Dallas with me. (The only suitable one I could find was actually designed for rottweilers.) I boxed things up, dealt with the furniture, and packed my luggage.

One wretched Saturday afternoon, it grew cold outside and looked like it was going to rain. I wanted another drink but couldn’t find a single drop in any of my bottles. To top things off, not even the cat was home. Then I heard him when he dropped onto the roof of the shed, and by the time I got to the garden he was already coming down the trunk of the palm tree, his second stop before touching ground. I grabbed him by an eyetooth and carried him up to my room, where I let him loose and closed the door. “Stop trying to crawl under the bed, you already know you don’t fit,” I advised. So he jumped on the blankets, curled up, and pretended he was asleep. Very well. I looked for his brush and began to comb his head. I remembered that the sonic frequency of a cat’s purr is capable of destroying cancer cells.

A few nights later, much worse-after another bad calculation regarding the content of my bottles-the screams coming from Spots no longer sounded like she was in heat. She was hungry and cold. After my fall, I was no longer enthused about climbing to leave her food. She’d been on her own for the last week. When I could, I’d leave croquettes for her on the roof of the shed, but it wasn’t easy for her to get up there. Wilson invariably finished her rations.

That night, however, I heard Spots jump from the garden wall to the roof of the shed. It was a dull thud, weak in comparison to the thunder from Wilson’s heavier impact. Wilson began dozing while I went out to investigate. I ascended the ladder, and there was Spots, eating what was left of the croquettes. She saw me and immediately began flirting. She meowed and purred and rubbed her body on the roof. I went back down for a slice of ham, returned, and tossed her a small piece. She ate it quickly, so I tossed her another. Each time, I dropped the pieces of ham a little closer to me. I talked to her about the weather, I told her it was cold and that it would rain again soon, and that it’d be better to go home or allow herself to be caught. The stepladder started shaking and I could hardly maintain control as Spots munched away. I suddenly lunged and caught her by the flea collar and was able to grab the scruff of her neck; I don’t know how I managed to avoid falling with that cat. There were kicks, scratches, howls; looks that said, I will never trust a human being ever again. I wanted to snatch the phone and the neighborhood directory at the same time, without letting go of her. I ended up using Wilson’s rottweiler carrier. That’s how I should have begun.

There was a gun collection on the wall. A huge rifle with a scope. No hunting trophies. The gringo seemed proud of his little mahogany bar lined with bottles. He fixed cocktails for both of us. Instead of toasting, he merely said, “Boozing time.”

Drinking hour, I said to myself, and then, like him, I nearly downed the full cocktail in one swig.

He asked about Alice. Her? Fine. I would be going back to the United States soon. I pointed to the carrier in which I’d brought back his cat. That’s for transporting my Wilson. The gringo finished another drink. I did the same.

“I’ve never seen a bigger cat,” he said. I agreed: if he were any bigger, he’d be in some museum as the live part of a Paleolithic diorama.

Not a muscle moved on the man’s face. His gaze was intimidating. There were moments when I wanted to leave, but another drink-or perhaps my fear of simply excusing myself, grabbing Wilson’s carrier, and taking off- kept me in my seat. I had a feeling that the old man was using my visit as an excuse to start some kind of party. From the moment I arrived with Spots, I noticed an eagerness that I first thought was relief at his pet’s rescue. His