“The cats of the Alhambra palace” – a short story

By 11 o’clock, the sun was drenching the Alcazaba in warmth.

One by one the cats moved from their spot by the wall and took up residence on the steps. The night had been cold – it was early March – and they were thankful for the heat. They stretched their muscles, did a little grooming and waited for the tourists to arrive. When the weather was good, visitor numbers increased, which meant more treats for them.

There were 14 cats there that morning. At the centre was a black-and-white tom, flanked on either side by two gingers: one male, one female. The gingers looked identical, except the one on the left was without a tail – the result of a vicious battle with a tabby years before. The rest of the cats ranged from kittens to old-timers enjoying their last months, literally, in the sun.

From the direction of the Palacio Nazaríes, a tortoiseshell padded carefully towards the group. She’d woken later than the others and was now making her way to the sunspot on the steps. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she savoured it, picturing the food that would soon be coming her way. Sardines, hopefully. She loved sardines.

The black-and-white tom raised his head and caught her eye.

“What time do you call this, Hernandez?”

Gomez. She hated him – a typically officious <funcionario>. Every morning it was the same. The clock-watching prick had had it in for her ever since he’d taken over from his old man two years ago. Martinez had been the favourite for the top job, but he’d been knocked over by a red Seat near the outer wall and started eating other cats’ shit. There was no coming back from that.

“Have you forgotten how to tell the time?” she hissed. “It’s 11 o’clock. You know when my shift starts.”
“Actually, you’re mistaken. Today – and I have checked this with HR – you, Her-nan-dez, were supposed to begin at 10.45. You’re officially late. And have just won the top prize…”

Gomez paused for effect.

“A fine of half-a-day’s wages!”

If he’d had the ability to grin he’d have looked like a Cheshire cat – ironically, an animal who, like him, was incapable of smiling. Instead, he lay back and let Rodriguez, the female ginger, scratch his back, while he was granted a generous sniff of her arse. Ah, this was the senior management life!

Hernandez sat at the side of the group. Garcia, her best friend at work, gave her a sympathetic pat.

“Don’t let him get to you, Hernañita – he’s like that with everyone. You know Villa, who works up at the gardens?”

Hernandez nodded. Nice fluffy white cat with a pink collar. Solid.

“Well, Gomez discovered she’d been doing some freelance rat-catching on the side. Strictly ‘cheese-in-hand’, right? When he found out, he immediately took her off gardens. Know where she is now?

“No?
“Dog-bothering.”

Hernandez blew through her teeth. Nasty. Dog-bothering was the most dangerous job in the Alhambra. You had to find a sleeping dog, make sure there were plenty of tourists around, and jump on top of it, claws out. The mutt, supposedly in on it, would chase you off until you were both out of sight, then you’d go back to your position. The problem was that dogs, being inherently stupid, always got carried away and ended up taking it too far. As in ‘biting your leg off’ too far.

Despite the awful start, today’s shift wasn’t so bad. Gomez had some “business to attend to actually” so went off on his own, while she, Garcia and Torres, padded off to find the tourists. They worked well, together – the ‘dream team’ they called themselves – and after letting a coachload of grandmas have a tickle, they managed to bag a fair amount of serrano ham, chorizo and cheese. The only disappointment was an English couple in their 60s, who after Torres had pulled out all the stops (purring, walking through their legs, chasing birds in an amusing, exaggerated manner), threw them some popcorn.

“Popcorn!” said Hernandez. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with popcorn?”

At 5pm, the shift ended and the three made their way to the staff quarters outside the palace by the Puerta de las Granadas. They sang Independent Woman by Destiny’s Child as they walked home.

Then she saw it.

The red Seat.

And nearby, deep in conversation with a gormless German shepherd, was Gomez.

The Seat was zipping about, seemingly looking for a parking space.

She imagined what the Seat’s tyres could do to Gomez, especially at speed.

Sad, they’d say, as they told the staff the ‘bad’ news about his demise. There’d be a bit of a whip-round for his mum (who the sad bastard still lived with). But after a week he’d be forgotten – apart from the gigantic piss-up she’d organise when it had all died down. She’d get a karaoke in, that was for certain.

Hernandez pictured it, No more bullying. No more humiliation. Just the freedom to get on with her job as she pleased, and make a decent life for her, Paco and the kids.

Fuck it, she thought, as she saw the Seat do a U-turn and come down the hill. He deserves this.

“Hey Gomez!” she shouted.

He looked up and saw her. Obviously irritated.

“Do you want me to fine you a whole day’s wages this time, Hernandez? Because I will.”

A quick glance. The Seat was approaching – and gathering speed. If she could get him to cross the road now, he’d be in trouble.

“Why don’t you come over here and try it? Prick.”

Furious, Gomez ran toward Hernandez, crossing the road, the red Seat coming within centimetres of his back legs. Fuck! The nearest of near misses.

Then something odd happened. The car both swerved and revved up. Suddenly, it was Hernandez who was facing down the Seat.

The collision was so quick she felt nothing.

In fact, as she lay on her back and took in the vivid blue March sky, she felt unusually calm. There was warm liquid in her mouth, but certainly no pain. She would just rest a minute and then get up. Maybe close her eyes until the numb feeling in her back legs had gone. Christ, she was tired.

Gomez stood above her.

“Do you really think I’m that stupid, Hernandez?”

He caught the eye of the Seat driver and nodded. The car drove off.

Garcia and Torres walked over to him.

“That was… amazing,” said Torres.
“Ruthless,” said Garcia. “No! Magisterial!”

“Thank you, ladies. Couldn’t have done it without you. And without wanting to promise too much, certain members of the HR team will be informed of your cooperation. You may be enjoying a serious amount of overtime in the near future.”

A good day all round then. The promise of bigger wages to come for Torres and Garcia, and a permanent end to the relentless whine of Miss-Fucking-Woe-Is-Me.

“See you tomorrow, boss,” said Garcia to Gomez. Things were definitely looking up.