There was no trace of that Antonio in our memory. A tabby cat with a trembling gaze and eyes filled with the verdigris of early autumn, like a foamy conjunctivitis, prowls under the metal forest of chair legs. Next to him appears another, another and another: a white and enormous one, lame and one-eyed; a shameless cat filled with the impunity that comes with being a very cute cat and another white kitten who has learned that sitting and waiting for something to happen is not just a saying. There are families who are more aware of loving each other less. The sun stings what the shade cools; the wind is calm. The waiter from the terrace arrives trying to flambé a clay pot with garlic prawns and some gypsy children walking down the Cuesta Navarra reproach him for his gastro-incendiary behavior, saying what salary, People are terrible, what are you doing, cousin? while the waiter answers with a haughty and smug air. It’s a pity they didn’t see the result: absolute nothingness; Maybe he thought the spice was burning, or something.
The family of stunted cats that swarm around our table are convinced – rightly so – that if they wait long enough, we will agree with them and feed them. They don’t even care if a wasp sniffs the fried edges of a piece of ham croquette and half a shrimp confined in a film of spicy oil, except for the infinitely patient white kitten. For a while now, we have been wondering whether the city will care if we feed the cats, whether they will get into the bad habit of disturbing customers in the square, or whether anything will happen if we bring them a bowl of food. We wonder because, deep down, we are city dwellers accustomed to operating within the framework of a cold, calculated policy of pest control; for that and because a man at the other end of the bar has been watching us for a while.
