PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 05

 

Someone who knows how to return a favour

is a friend beyond value.

Sophocles

 

You think just because I’m in Italy, you bastard, I’m rolling in cash? You think I’m living it up here, mate? Bloody hell, I’ve had to clean up old people’s shit, walk dogs, haul bricks, work as a security guard, dead tired. And on top of that, I’m miles away from my family. Bloody hell, don’t give me that crap, mate.

Gonzalo’s drunk and has called Mote, who, not missing this golden opportunity, unloads every existential reason he can to convince Gonzalo not to dig up his treasure.

On the other end, Gonzalo seems to be reflecting. He’s gone quiet. Mote takes his silence as a sign of second thoughts. My words are hitting home. I’m convincing him, Mote thinks. He needs to press his advantage and keep going.

You’re my mate, brother. Mates don’t go behind each other’s backs. And listen, mate, having HIV doesn’t mean you’re done for these days. There are blokes with HIV living fine lives. Nothing to stress about, yeah? All good? Talk to me, mate. You’re way too quiet.

Another silence, one that’s hard to read. Mote checks his phone screen. Is the call still connected? Yep, still on. He’s about to say something, but Gonzalo’s shaky voice cuts in first.

I’m in Huancayo already, mate. The day after tomorrow, your treasure will be mine. Good luck in Italy.

Then he hangs up. Mote feels his stomach drop like a rock.

***

The mototaxi driver had spotted him stumbling out of the nightclub, walking in a bit of a zigzag, talking to himself, laughing now and then. This little fish is mine, he thought as he started up his vehicle and casually passed by. Need a ride, mate?

Mote, wearing a white shirt, some stylish ripped jeans, a silver chain hanging around his neck, a hefty silver watch swinging from his wrist, a pair of slick Jordans on his feet, and a black Nike sling bag across his chest, accepted the driver’s offer. Once he was sitting in the small vehicle, he handed over a card. Take me to this hotel, mate.

Of course, boss, of course, said the driver.

***

Young man, young man, are you dead, young man? asked a lady who looked like she’d just come back from the market. She had a bag slung over her shoulder with some potatoes, veggies, and meat. She waved a stick of celery under Mote’s nose, trying to wake him or check if he was still breathing.

Mote squinted his eyes open. Oh, thank heavens, you’re alive! What happened to you, young fella? she exclaimed.

Where am I? Mote asked, feeling his skin burn. The sun was so bright it made him blink.

Where are you? What do you mean, where are you, young man? What happened to you?

Mote struggled to sit up on the same patch of ground where he’d been lying. His silver chain and watch were gone, and so were his Jordans. He was left in his white shirt, now stained with dirt, and his stylish jeans, now dusty. Whoever had taken his valuables had at least left him a grubby pair of sneakers in place of his stolen ones.

Suddenly, he snapped to attention: My bag! Where’s my bag?

What bag? the missus asked.

Bloody hell, my cash, my cards! Mote panicked. He stood up and started frantically searching around.

Are you alright, young man? the woman asked, clearly shaken as she watched him, frantic and desperate, looking all around for something she didn’t understand. Calm down.

Calm down? Are you blind, you old bat? Can’t you see I’ve been robbed? Mote yelled. Startled, the woman backed off and left him there, standing in the middle of a sunbaked patch of dirt.

***

The music inside the truck was bloody brilliant until Borrachito Borrachon came on. Then, the painful memory of losing everything outside a club in Huanuco, thanks to way too much rum, whiskey, and pisco, came rushing back, hitting him hard.

He regretted not joining his mates at the brothel and staying at the club alone, drinking and drinking, trying to impress a woman who’d been giving him the eye for a couple of hours. In the end, he got nowhere with her and lost everything.

On the other hand, the big bloke next to him, driving the truck and whistling along to the tunes coming from his powerful stereo, had been like an angel. Out of nearly a hundred truckers, he was the only one who took pity on him and agreed to give him a lift just past La Oroya.

They’d chatted quite a bit. Mote was keen to keep the conversation flowing, no matter how trivial the topics were. The main thing was to make sure the driver’s eyes stayed alert. He knew that many accidents in the mountain roads happened because drivers would blink off, nod off, and then, bam!, straight into a ravine or smashed into another truck.

A few kilometers before La Oroya, the temperature dropped. The heavy truck had no heating. Outside, it was snowing, then hailing, then raining. The weather in the highlands was erratic and unpredictable. Mate, take this jumper. You must be freezing your ass off. Mote nearly cried; there were still good people in this world, bloody legends.

***

As a financial analyst for Caja Huanca, Mote worked at various branches the institution had, not just in Huancayo but also in the surrounding areas: Junin, Cerro de Pasco, La Oroya. They’d send him off for six months here, another six there, and so on.

In every place he worked, he made not just clients but great friends. One of them was La Tota, a mature gay man on his way to becoming transgender. He’d gotten some breast implants and did relentless squats to bulk up his glutes. Thanks to Mote, when he was stationed at the La Oroya office, La Tota secured the loan needed to top up the funds for launching her venture—a well-stocked pharmacy on the outskirts of town. That pharmacy kept La Tota from having to resort to prostitution, as most transgender people in Peru often do to get by.

After Mote left the La Oroya branch, he lost touch with the one-of-a-kind Tota.

***

Mate, mate, can you back up a bit, please?

The truck driver slowed down. What’s up?

It’s just that I spotted a relative of mine here in La Oroya. As we were passing by, I happened to glance to the right and saw my relative’s face in one of the windows of those houses over there.

Total lie. Mote hadn’t seen any familiar face. But as the truck was leaving La Oroya, and with all the mishaps of that cursed day, he’d remembered—looking to his right and spotting a pharmacy with the lights still on—that he had a friend, La Tota, who might be able to help him out with some cash. As the driver had mentioned when he picked him up back in Huanuco, he wasn’t headed to Huancayo but to Lima. The closest he could drop Mote to Huancayo would be just outside La Oroya. Mote didn’t fancy having to hitch another ride at ten at night in the bone-chilling cold that would have shrunk more than just his balls.

Are you sure, mate? the driver asked.

Yeah, yeah. Please wait for me. I might have made a mistake, and it’s not my relative. And if it is, then I’d stay with them, and I’d come back to let you know, Mote requested.

The driver parked by the roadside and waited while Mote headed toward the house of his supposed relative.

***

Good to see you! It’s been ages! La Tota was genuinely thrilled to see Mote. But what happened to you? Why are you all dirty?

Mote explained the situation: getting robbed in Huanuco, the kilometre-long walk in these shoes that were practically falling apart, for fuck’s sake, the endless hitchhiking, and finally, the truck ride to get here. Which truck? That trailer over there.

Can you lend me a hundred soles, Tota? I’m going to give twenty to the truck driver for bringing me here.

He charged you?

No, not at all. But I should give him something for the trouble. He’s the only one who helped me out. Otherwise, who knows where I’d still be, freezing and in a total mess somewhere along the road. And with the other eighty soles, I can take a shared taxi to Huancayo.

Why don’t you just stay here instead? Look at you. You need to eat, clean up. And what if you don’t find a taxi? It’s nearly eleven at night. Stay here, mate. I’ve got some roast chicken in the fridge. I’ll heat it up for you, and you can have a proper rest. What do you say? Come on. In the morning, you can leave whenever you’re ready, yeah?

Mote thought it over. La Tota’s look was the kind you needed in tough times—a look of genuine generosity. Alright, you’ve convinced me, Tota; I’ll stay.

La Tota gave him the hundred soles as requested. I’ll leave the door ajar. Just come in when you’ve finished with the driver, she said.

What’s up? the driver asked. You took your time, mate.

Yeah, sorry about that. My relative is letting me stay the night at their place. I’ll eat, get some rest. Thanks so much for bringing me this far. May God repay you, Mote said, extending a hand.

Alright, mate. Take it easy next time. The streets are dangerous. See you around, the truck driver said, bidding him farewell.

***

Every day, I close up at nine, mate. But today, I don’t know why, I left the pharmacy open, said La Tota.

It was a miracle, Tota! If I hadn’t seen the lights on, I would’ve just kept going and wouldn’t have even remembered my great friend. Right now, I’d be out there, thumbing a lift on some truck to take me to Huancayo, Mote replied, tearing into a chicken drumstick.

***

But, where are you going to sleep? asked Mote, genuinely perplexed.

Right here, mate, on this side of the bed, replied La Tota, completely casually.

What? You don’t have another room?

Nope. But what’s the problem? I’m not going to eat you.

Jeez, Tota, if you’d told me this, I would’ve just stayed on the truck.

Oh, don’t be dramatic. The bed’s big—you won’t even notice me. Plus, we’re mates, aren’t we? said La Tota, extending a hand with painted nails.

Yeah, we’re mates, Mote relented, shaking the hand.

Right, but before you hop into my bed, you’re having a shower. Look at you, filthy. And judging by the state of those shoes, I bet your feet stink. C’mon, off to the shower!

***

After showering and brushing his teeth (La Tota had pulled out a new toothbrush from the pharmacy), Mote lay down. He was wearing a pair of boxers that La Tota had set aside for him because the underwear he had on stank. A few minutes later, the figure of his benefactor appeared in the doorway. She had just come out of the shower, wearing a loose, very short pair of shorts and a tiny top that clung to her, highlighting her erect nipples stimulated by the cold air seeping into the room.

I’m ready. Want a little tequila before bed? It's great for fighting the cold, La Tota announced. Mote pushed aside the thick blankets and realized: Shit, this chick wants a root.

No thanks, I’ll pass. Believe me, the last thing I want right now is to drink. I've lost everything because of drinking and have been hitchhiking for hours and miles. My feet hurt. I just want to sleep, Totita.

You’re such a drama queen. I didn’t know you were like this. C’mon, sit up. Let’s have a little chat with some tequilas to warm you up so you can sleep like a baby, La Tota proposed.

Warm up, Mote thought maliciously. This chick wants to get laid for sure.

***

La Tota's back wasn't that broad. Her skin was soft. It's because I use creams, lots of them. I've got a cream for my face, another for my hands, and another for my bottom. Oh, down there my skin is super soft, do you want to check? Mote's hands moved in circles across her back. The tequilas had warmed his blood. His eyes weren't focused on the massage he was giving but rather on that arse, which Mote remembered wasn't as round as the one just inches from his cock, rigid and wet under the borrowed red boxers.

Shit, Tota, don’t tempt me, please, Mote pleaded, using his knuckles on his friend’s back to work out the tension. Don’t tempt me, Totita, or I won’t be responsible.

Oh, don’t be mean. I see you've got a good touch. Just massage my arse, then. Just as friends. What's wrong with that?

His hands gently left her back and trailed down, following the spine until they reached that curvy backside.

Shit, Tota, your skin here is even softer! Mote surrendered.

I told you; the skin on my bum is super soft, La Tota confirmed.

And what a great arse you have! I didn't remember it being like this, Mote said, kneading his friend's buttocks. They were firm yet soft. He felt an urge to smack them, but it wasn't the right time yet. You got to know a woman in the heat of the moment. In the preliminaries, things needed to flow calmly, with invitations and rejections.

And it's not fake, just so you know. My bum is natural. Lots of training at the gym, La Tota boasted.

Shit, Tota, I've had my hands on a lot of arses, but none like yours. Can I tell you something?

What?

My cock is hard, Mote said, his voice sharp and raspy.

And what are you waiting for? La Tota replied, parting her cheeks with both hands. What Mote saw was irresistible: a smooth, clean anus, fresher than any woman's. In the top drawer of my nightstand, there’s a condom.

***

Mote struggled to get his penis into La Tota's arse. This thing feels like a fortress, he thought. He felt his shaft advancing by five millimetres at a time. Bloody hell, Tota, you've got a lot of arse; my thing isn’t going in.

It's just that I'm a bit tight, you know? I don’t do this with just anyone. I'm a lady who knows how to choose.

After many attempts, Mote managed to conquer his friend's arse. He made it his own. They both surrendered to unrestrained and delightful pleasure.

Hit my arse, spank me, La Tota shouted.

What?

Destroy my bum, pull my hair, punch me, La Tota begged. Her moans could disarm even the most heterosexual of Peruvians.

Overcome by euphoria, Mote surrendered to his friend's requests. He slapped her backside and pulled her hair while thrusting with all his might.

Oh, yes, how nice. Kick my arse, kick my arse! La Tota demanded.

Mote, standing over the bed, kicked his lover’s backside. Oh yes, like that, kick me harder, harder. With each kick, her backside quivered, driving Mote wild. See? My backside is all gym. No oil whatsoever. Mote lay back down behind La Tota to thrust again. The fray continued, fueled by the thrill of their rough play.

Hit me in the face, La Tota moaned, hit me in the face.

I'm going to kick the shit out of you, motherfucker, Mote stirred, and landed three or four furious blows on her face. La Tota stopped moving. Mote didn't notice that her friend had stopped moaning.

***

What's with this black guy? La Tota says. He looks like he wouldn't hurt a fly.

He’s a good bloke, Mote replies, but right now he’s causing me trouble and wants to bring down my family, especially. Only you can help me, Totita. I can't do anything from Italy, and if I come back to Peru, they'll throw me in jail. You know my story.

Don’t worry. You know I’m your loyal friend. I’ll do whatever you ask, La Tota offers, eager and firm.

You need to go to Huancayo right away. I’ll cover all your expenses, so don’t stress about that. But I need you to be there. When you arrive, let me know, and I’ll tell you how you can help me. Don’t delete that photo of the black guy. In fact, memorise his face, the urgency and seriousness in Mote’s voice touch La Tota’s sensitive side.

Of course, of course. I’ll close the shop right now and catch the first bus to Huancayo. I’ll let you know when I arrive.

PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 04

 

The prison makes the prisoner.

Victor Hugo

 

Any experienced prisoner knows that the worst thing that can happen on their first day in a new prison, one they’re unfamiliar with, is having diarrhea—having the runs. That was exactly Mote’s situation, though for him, it ended up being bizarrely fortunate.

On that March day in 2016, during a cold morning under the scorching sun of Huancayo, Mote entered the Huamancaca prison along with nine other criminals.

Victor Centeno, aka Rompepotos, was the boss of the north wing of the Huancayo prison complex. Among his many privileges was the power to decide which of the newly arrived prisoners would be available to satisfy the depraved desires of the slaves in his sector. Centeno would sit on his throne (a spot specially arranged for him) and from there, he had a clear view of the lineup of newcomers. He would signal to his secretary which asses were "sacred" (those who had paid a hefty sum to avoid being touched, instead being protected from any kind of sexual assault or humiliation) and which were "edible" (those who would be available for his slaves to "feast on"). If Rompepotos saw one of the new inmates (obviously, one of the "edible" ones) particularly ignite his lust, he would set them aside for himself. Pezuña, he’d say to his secretary, the sixth one in line is mine. I want him in my room tonight. His orders were unquestionable, practically a death sentence.

One of the fresh prisoners from that March of 2016, who stirred Rompepotos’ passions, was Mote. Set that one aside for me, Pezuña. The perky ass of the former financial analyst from the Caja Huanca had caught the eye of one of the most feared residents of Huamancaca prison.

***

It's been a while since he quit smoking. At least since he's been in Italy, he’s managed to keep his lungs clean. But now, with Gonzalo’s threats eating away at him, he's puffing on his fourth cigarette of the day. It's a Monday night, and he’s one of the few patrons on the terrace at Bowls bar, around San Camilo square. He’d walked part of the very Peruvian Padova street and ended up in this bar that, with its calm atmosphere, feels more like a sweet shop. He has a Moretti in front of him and is already lighting his fifth cigarette. This is the last one, for God’s sake, he mutters. I’ve got to be back on the construction site tomorrow. The Moretti and the five cigarettes haven’t helped him find a solution to his problem. How’s that idiot going to dig up my treasure? Mote thinks. He’d have to dig through three hundred square meters of land. No way he’ll find it. Besides, he doesn’t even know how deep I buried it. Let’s imagine he starts digging at the spot where my half-million soles are. He digs one, two, three meters, and finds bugger all. He’ll give up straight away. There’s no way that idiot’s gonna screw me over. Plus, how’s he gonna do it without my wife seeing him? What lie would he even tell her?

Mote can’t find a solution to his dilemma, but he finds several reasons that weaken his fears: That little weasel Farfan has no chance of digging up my treasure. Problem solved. He finishes the fifth cigarette and leaves some coins on the table. The waiter had given him a dirty look when he came in an hour ago. Ti avverto che la birra costa venti euro, eh (I’m warning you, the beer costs twenty euros, alright?), he’d said. Mote, unfazed and calm, replied that he already knew and, if he wanted, could pay him up front.

No, non è necessario (No, that’s not necessary), the waiter replied—a guy who, in Peru, would’ve been the leading man in any soap opera and the impossible love interest of thousands of girls who, for someone like Mote, wouldn’t have given half a cent. Despite this reply, the waiter kept an eye on Mote through the window facing the terrace. This prick thinks I’m going to leave without paying. Twenty euros for a beer is a luxury. But Mote can afford such extravagances now. Sure, he can afford to have a twenty-euro Moretti at a bar like Bowls—but just one. All in good time.

He crosses Carlo Tenca street and turns onto Napo Torriani. He hasn't walked more than forty meters when, from one of the nearby establishments, a woman is thrown out onto the street. She falls heavily to the ground, gets up quickly, and sees Mote. She hurries over to him. He notices dark liquid trickling down from her head.

Per favore aiuto! Vogliono uccidermi, vogliono uccidermi (Please help! They want to kill me, they want to kill me), the woman cries. Her voice isn’t very feminine, and Mote realises she’s actually a tranny.

From the doorway she was thrown from, another woman appears. Another faggot, Mote thinks. This one is carrying a knife. Mote starts to panic. The injured one screams louder.

Non ho ancora finito con te, fottuta stronza (I’m not done with you yet, you filthy bitch), snarls the one with the knife as she moves closer to her rival, who, her face painted with fear and bleeding, hides behind Mote. She whispers: Mi ha tagliato l'orecchio. Vuole uccidermi. Aiutami! (She cut my ear off. She wants to kill me. Help me!). Mote tries to calm the aggressor, telling her to calm down, that everything can be worked out with a good conversation, that things can be resolved if we listen to one another.

Vuoi sentire? Vuoi sentire? (You want to listen? You want to listen?), says the knife-wielder, her eyes gleaming, craving more blood. Portati ad ascoltare (Here, listen to this), she adds and throws her rival’s ear at Mote. The mutilated piece smacks onto Mote’s shirt, sticking there like a patriotic rosette on Peruvian Independence Day celebrations.

The aggressor, likely high on some kind of drug, watches with a dazed expression as the ear seems to twitch on Mote’s shirt, as if revealing to the world the secrets it’s heard in its short life. Mote takes advantage of her distraction and lunges at her, landing a firm blow on the hand holding the knife. It falls to the ground, as do Mote and the aggressor, tangled up together. Fully in control, Mote starts pummeling the ear-cutter. Suddenly, the wailing of a police siren fills the area. Three police officers step out of the car, aiming their weapons at Mote and the trans.

Mani in alto, merda! (Hands up, scum!) one of them shouts.

***

He fought using all his street smarts, but he failed. Rompepotos had his cock ready to shove up his arse. Two big cholos had him firmly held. There was no way to escape. The blows he had taken during the fight had pushed him to the brink of his strength. The adrenaline from the scuffle had tightened his sphincters. Now, resigned and with the adrenaline faded to nothing, that inevitable urgency to shit returned. He had diarrhoea right at the entrance, ready to explode at the first trigger.

Serrano, I loved watching you fight, you bastard. I really love little thugs like yourself. Rompepotos spat into the palm of his right hand, rubbing it along his cock. I’m going to break your arse like butter, darling, he whispered in Mote's ear, his cock probing Mote's hole, eager to bury itself in that fresh pair of cheeks.

Hold him tight. I want to stick it in one push, Rompepotos ordered the cholos.

The head of Rompepotos's cock was already in position. The drooling tip was dangerously close to Mote's arsehole. Just relax, darling; you’re going to like it, said Rompepotos, when an orange torrent erupted from Mote's arse, filled with vegetables, beans, and bits of peanuts.

Rompepotos's scream echoed throughout the prison. He stepped back in panic, seeing his cock covered in shit. He tripped over a piece of wood sticking out from under his bed. During the fall, his head hit a protruding bar in his cell. His death was instantaneous.

***

Her name is Cenza, an abbreviation of Vincenza. Well, she claims to be called Cenza. She refuses to reveal her first name, that boy's name that her parents officially registered with a priest in a pristine robe and a clear face, the regent of some church in Piedmont.

He was an ordinary boy. Very studious, that’s for sure. With few friends. When he discovered that he might like cock, he was fifteen years old and as innocent as The Little Prince by Saint-Exupéry.

He remembered perfectly the moment he felt the thrill of having a foreign phallus inside him, moving back and forth with the innocent smoothness of a game of hopscotch played on a bright spring afternoon. 

It was a Saturday that he still remembered vividly. He was playing at one of his cousin's houses, an immense mansion whose garden, due to its vastness, resembled a forest. In that place, thanks to the gathering of uncles that took place on weekends, the cousins, all between twelve and fourteen years old, would often lose themselves among the trees and bushes, engrossed in countless games they invented themselves. That Thursday, Gianni, the oldest cousin, suggested they play Dragon Ball. You, he told the boy who once was Cenza, are going to be Cell. Cell was a character from that animated show made up of the cells of other powerful characters: Goku, Vegeta, Freezer. Hence his name: Cell. Cell fed by absorbing the energy of his adversaries. To do this, he used the tip of his tail, which had a needle that sucked them in.

You have to absorb our energy, said Gianni.

How do I do that? Cenza asked.

With your tail, mate, like Cell does, Gianni replied, pulling his pants down. You’ve got to absorb this from me. And then from Franco, Giorgio, and Dino. The three of them pulled their pants down, letting their bits hang in the air.

You’ve got to chase us and catch us. When you do, you absorb our energy with your bum. Right here, he said, pointing at his penis, is where we lose our strength. You have to absorb us from here.

So, Cenza started chasing his little cousins. To move freely, they’d all ditched their pants. Cenza noticed that his cousins weren’t exactly trying to run away from him, to avoid having their energy and powers absorbed. Quite the opposite—they’d let themselves get caught easily. They’d even approach him, approach Cell, asking to be absorbed. The first was Gianni, who placed his small, eager member between his cousin's cheeks like a hot dog in a French roll. After seeing how Gianni finished, exhausted but satisfied, the other three cousins demanded to be absorbed, too. My turn now, they’d say. And mine. Me, too.

Mote listens to Cenza’s story, both of them sitting on the only bench in that cell at a police station in Milan. They’re waiting to be transferred to different detention centres. The officer in charge has told Mote that he’ll be handed over to immigration authorities in a few minutes. All the time he’s been in Italy, he’s remained undocumented, living off odd jobs that didn’t require any formal identification.

Mote has listened to Cenza’s story and, for a few moments, he’s forgotten that his time in Italy is about to come to an end. He’ll be going back to Peru covered in disgrace and failure, where he’ll be confined to a maximum-security prison to keep paying for the scams he pulled before fleeing the country. So much effort in Italy for this, he thinks after Cenza—this transgender woman he met in the holding cell—finishes her curious story.

Cenza is in the cell for street prostitution. She’s got a bruise on one cheek. She’d fought with her captor, but with one quick blow, he’d knocked her out and easily brought her here, where she now lay, resigned to her fate.

Ever since Gonzalo had dramatically revealed that he had AIDS, Mote has been plagued by terrible anxiety, as suffocating as the idea that Gonzalo himself might rob him of his treasure. Mote’s been with several trans women, but always used protection. So, in that sense, there’s no real chance of infection. What worries him is knowing when Gonzalo contracted AIDS. Did he get it back when he let others suck him off in Peru? Can you get AIDS from oral sex? Or could that moment when Rompepotos brushed against him in prison (because he did feel the tip tickle his arse) have transmitted the virus? Did Rompepotos have AIDS? All these questions keep nagging at him there, in that small cell. He reckons any way to rid himself of these overwhelming doubts is worth a try. So, he decides to ask Cenza about AIDS.

She tells him no one dies from it anymore. She has AIDS herself, and guardami; se non fosse stato per questo livido, sarebbe regale. Oppure come mi vedi? (if it weren’t for this bruise, I’d be looking regal. Or what do you reckon?) she says. Indeed, Cenza did look quite appealing. But knowing that AIDS is manageable these days doesn’t matter to Mote. He wants to know if you can catch it from oral sex.

Se hai ferite sul cazzo, sì (If you’ve got cuts on your dick, yes), Cenza declares, with an authority that leaves no room for doubt.

In just a few minutes, Mote’s luck, which had seemed promising despite staying in a foreign country illegally, would come crashing down just like Cenza, who, feeling a bit worn out, lies down on the cell floor to get some rest.

He hears footsteps approaching. Then the jangle of keys. The figure making these sounds hasn’t yet appeared on the other side of the bars, but he already knows what they want: they call Mote’s name so loudly it wakes Cenza, who was already drifting off. Mote braces himself for the worst.

PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 03

 

Only forbidden pleasures are loved excessively;

when they become legal, they no longer excite desire.

Quintilian

 

I like you, mate, Gonzalo Farfan, a forward from Sport Huanca's reserve team, said to him, grabbing his cock, still wet from the recent shower. Farfan was a slim, dark-skinned bloke from Chincha with big hands. His fingers wrapped around Mote’s long, thick cock like climbing vines.

Despite the forward's dark skin, his left eye still showed the remnants of a recent bruise.

***

Getting into the National University of Central Peru to study Economics wasn’t easy. It was almost as hard as getting into any program at the National University of Engineering in Lima. So, when the group found out that Mote had secured a spot at such a demanding university, the celebration was massive.

This time you're gonna get laid for free, mate, Gonzalo Farfan told him. We’ve all chipped in so you can have a go at Claudita.

It was Sunday night. The team went to Waka Lounge, the most popular nightclub in Huancayo. The team’s coach, Pelao Sanchez, was one of the leaders of the group. His coaching style was about being a real mate to his players. He knew exactly what they were up to when they weren’t training. And if they were going out partying, it was better to join them, even take the lead. He didn’t believe in punishments. When there's friendship and trust, there's no harm or jokes, he’d often say.

Pelao Sanchez had reserved a table on the second floor of the club. Despite his modest salary from Sport Huanca, he was the one who chipped in the most for the collection. Pelao’s heart was bigger than his problems. Gonzalo Farfan, the star forward, made the second-largest contribution.

There were seven young men and Pelao Sanchez. He got up from the table and returned with four beers. No one’s leaving. Either we all go, or no one goes, Pelao said after opening the first bottle and starting to fill his players’ glasses. After two hours of stories about Mote, laughter, banter, and non-stop drinking, Pelao Sanchez, as was his habit, passed out into the deepest sleep. Julio Chavez and Patricio Zamora offered to take the coach to the club’s office, cause there’s no way we’re leaving him at his house, mate. His missus will beat us with a broom.

The rest of the team, already tipsy, and a few of them having had a bit of coke, headed to the brothel.

Wait, wait; one last quick one and we’re off, Mote said. Even though Sport Huanca was a Huancayo soccer team, the players actually born and raised in Huancayo were few and far between. Mote was one of them. The other players came from different parts of Peru’s coast.

Hurry up, mate, urged Bala Rodriguez, a promising midfielder from Chimbote, who, along with top scorer Gonzalo Farfan, was one of the strongest contenders for making the first team the following year. Hurry up, I want to get laid.

Maybe I’ll go too, Farfan said quietly. It wasn’t clear whether he said it to Joel Utani, the sly and untrustworthy defender on his left, or to Luciano Alvarez, the goalkeeper’s eternal substitute, on his right. I wanna get straight to wetting the clown.

Taking a piss at Waka Lounge on Saturdays, or more precisely, in the early hours of Sunday, was a near-impossible task. The line was long, and the toilets were packed with blokes. You had to squeeze through sweaty bodies to reach the urinal or one of the two cubicles where you could relieve your bladder. But Sunday nights were much quieter; it was the perfect time for a chat and some banter, to move freely on the dance floor, and to use the bathroom at your leisure. That’s why, when Farfan reached the toilets, he only found Mote standing in front of the urinal. His cock was limp, but still thick and long. Farfan stood next to him. Mote’s stream was powerful. Farfan began to feel uneasy. The sight of Mote’s cock, its proximity, disturbed him. Now, with his body flooded with alcohol, the feeling was much stronger, much more destabilising. That’s why, as Mote tucked himself away after shaking off the last few drops, Farfan couldn’t help but comment: Nice one, mate.

Mote didn’t take the forward’s comment seriously. He assumed it was just part of the banter that ran through the Sport Huanca reserves’ camaraderie. Now I’m gonna give this cock to Claudita. She better watch out, Mote said, laughing. Gonzalo waited for Mote to leave the bathroom and quickly tucked his own cock back into his pants, not having taken a single piss.

***

Mote had taken the precaution of burying most of the money he was embezzling from Caja Huanca, the financial institution that had hired him thanks to the prestige he had gained at his previous jobs: first at Banco del Continente, and later at Banco de Creditos.

The idea had come from Gonzalo Farfan, his close mate. At first, Mote thought it was crazy. Crazy, mate? It makes perfect sense. Are you going to keep stuffing your mattress with cash? Your lounge furniture is almost full. What’s next? The kitchen? Your missus is gonna find out, mate.

And where the hell do I bury the stuff? Mote asked.

Sixty thousand soles were necessary for Mote to buy a house with a hundred square metres of living space and a garden, or farming area, of three hundred square metres behind the house.

There, mate. Come on.

They both went out into the garden.

You’ve got heaps of space to hide your treasure, mate.

From the ploughed field, a few shy, lance-shaped corn leaves were sprouting. A few months ago, Mote had harvested a tonne of broad beans from his land, which he had sold at a good price to several of his contacts at Huancayo’s Mercado Modelo.

Mate, you know I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Mote said. You were the only one who visited me in jail. The rest of those bastards who used to hit me up when I was on top disappeared as soon as they saw me down and out. I really appreciate you, mate, but I’m not going to tell you where I’m burying the money. Yeah, I’m gonna bury it here, but I’m not telling you where.

Don’t worry, mate. I’ve already shown you how much I care for you. You know I’ve got your back. I just want to see you relaxed, mate, and he gave him a pat on the shoulder.

***

Claudia had just finished rinsing her mouth with Listerine (she had just swallowed the semen of Paco Jerte, a guy in his sixties, retired from teaching, who spent his pension on a few roll in the hay with her three times a week) when Mote knocked on her door, room fifteen. Gonzalo Farfan was with him. He was carrying a hefty amount of alcohol in his system. If he wasn’t falling over, it was because he was leaning against the walls and Mote.

Oi, mate, look at you, bringing company. The trio costs a bit more, eh.

No, nothing like that, Gonzalo clarified. This guy’s going in alone. I just wanted to make sure I left him in the hands of his gift.

And what are we celebrating? Claudia asked, pulling away a bit from Gonzalo. The smell coming from her mouth was pretty rough.

He's just gotten into university. He’s going to be a great economist, Gonzalo explained. So make sure to drain him dry because he deserves it. He’s worked hard, bloody hell.

Oi, how those balls must be! said Claudia, giving Mote’s package a gentle stroke. Yeah, they’re all swollen, bursting with milk.

Well, it’s all you then, said Gonzalo. I’m off, mate. I’m going with the lads. We’ll be at the bar.

When Gonzalo stepped away a few metres, still leaning against the hallway walls, Claudia shut the door. Your mate’s a bit of a mess, eh? she said to Mote.

***

It’s six forty-eight in the morning. Mote quickens his pace to catch the bus that will drop him near the Navigli neighbourhood, where he works as a bricklayer on a construction site. Today, he’ll be carrying bricks. The pay is good, but by evening, he’s absolutely knackered.

That’s why, after work, he grabs a cold Moretti at one of the nearby parks, Baden Powell. He often does this alone; sometimes, he shares a beer with one or two mates from work. Whenever he’s on his own, like today, he can’t help but reminisce about Huancayo, his childhood, his university days, and his time as a soccer player with Sport Huanca. And that’s where he pauses.

Baden Powell is a park filled with slender trees and sparse foliage. The shadows they cast are a joke. Thank God it’s not hot. The day is pleasant. Looking up at the sky gives him a déjà vu. It’s the same sky, the same clarity that witnessed him mark the spot on his land where he’d bury his treasure (over half a million soles in cash), carefully wrapped in several layers of black bags. And while he was digging the hole, his close mate Gonzalo Farfan, who by then was retired from soccer and working in informal urban transport, was having lunch with Roxana at a restaurant in town, pretending to discuss a project that Mote had asked him to consult with her. Just make up any old rubbish, mate. You’re a charmer like no other. Gonzalo was a trustworthy bloke, a loyal mate.

During the first few months in Italy, Mote kept in regular contact with Gonzalo. Over time, their communication dwindled to nearly nothing. Despite this, Mote knows that his bond with Gonzalo is unbreakable. What’s that bloke up to? He opens the messaging service on his phone, finds Gonzalo’s number, and sends a message. Hey, mate! What are you up to I’m here, having a beer, reminiscing about the good old days. He attaches a photo to the message, smiling with his half-empty Moretti.

He’d just finished drinking when his phone buzzes. It’s Gonzalo. A voice message from Gonzalo. Mote hits play. Cholo! Cholito! the message says. The sender is crying, sobbing like that time he confessed, in the hazy atmosphere of that Huancayo bar, that he was in love with him and it hurt like hell to hand him over to the promiscuous arms of that bitch Claudia. Cholito! Your message has been a sign from Heaven. I begged God for a sign, made so many sacrifices for this, and look, here’s your message, the answer from the Lord.

Mote can’t comprehend what kind of distress Gonzalo could be going through. Once the message ends, Mote texts back: Can I call you, Gonzalo?

No reply. He walks around the park, killing time. He gives Gonzalo a chance to send a “yes,” but nothing. The silence is worrying. What could be happening, for fuck’s sake? Baden Powell Park is large, like almost all parks in Milan. Mote walks around once, twice, three times, and still no message comes through. He decides to call him.

Hello?

Hello, mate, sorry, Gonzalo’s voice breaks up, mixed with sobs that could shake anyone to their core. What’s wrong, mate? Mote tries to calm him. Take it easy, take it easy. Just tell me what’s going on so I can help you. Gonzalo keeps saying that his message has been a sign from Heaven, with a capital H.

***

He thought it was a joke, but the tears streaming down Gonzalo’s face, there in his arms beside three or four beer bottles, made him doubt. I’m in love with you, you bastard. I like you, you fucking hillbilly.

He took the chair next to him. He tried to revive him; they had to get going. La Bala and the lads had already left. Training was on Mondays. Coach Sanchez would be at the club, probably already showered and well into a couple of good cups of coffee, ready to start the drills.

Oi, mate, we’re off, you idiot. Get up, Mote said.

I told Cinthia to get lost, you bastard. I called her up and told her to get stuffed because I can’t get it up with her. It only works when I see you pissing, you bastard. He had lifted his face from Mote’s arms. He spat this out straight in Mote’s face, without filters, without beating around the bush. Was it true? At least the part about not being able to get it up was accurate. Just a few weeks ago, the same Gonzalo, sober and in his right mind, had privately mentioned it to him.

Alright, you bastard, come on, come on. You’re talking crap now. Come on, mate, Mote lifted him up.

Look at me, you idiot, Gonzalo said, surprisingly recovered, pinning him against the wall. Look at me closely. You’re never going to be mine, are you? I’m never going to be a Claudia to feel your cock, am I, you bastard? Mote, overwhelmed by his friend’s sudden and disorienting reaction, and precisely because of that, docile as a rag doll, felt Gonzalo’s scorching breath. Fueled by euphoria, he kissed Mote. He pressed his lips into Mote’s half-closed mouth and, with full intent and plenty of advantage, buried his tongue deep.

This felt like a hit of heroin (the kind of hits he would witness thousands of times during his time in Huamancaca Prison) that made Mote react like a wounded rat and, bam! he slammed a right hook into his drunken mate’s eye. He fell backward to the ground like a sack of cement, unconscious.

***

You must already know that I like you, Gonzalo continued. Mote recalled what had happened in the bar. It was true, he thought. Gonzalito is a queer.

Gonzalo had planned this situation. He knew the lads would immediately rush home so they wouldn’t miss the Champions League semifinal. To keep Mote around, who also wanted to watch the match, he promised they’d go to a restaurant to see it. The grilled chicken’s on me, mate, he had said hours earlier. Despite being smart, Mote was a bit of a freeloader: a grilled chicken wasn’t something he could just casually afford.

Gonzalo let go of his cock. I was dying to touch it. Sorry about that. It won’t happen again. I’ve fulfilled my fantasy now. From now on, I’ll keep my feelings for you at a distance. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. He stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in a towel.

Do you really like me, mate? Mote asked as he emerged from the shower, tying his towel around his waist and sitting on the same bench where Gonzalo was already drying his feet. So, was it true, what you said the other day at the club? Did you break up with Cinthia because you’re queer?

Gonzalo’s feet were long and covered in calluses like any soccer’s. Yeah, he replied, it’s true. I like you.

So, you’ve discovered you’re queer with me, huh? Mote let his towel drop to the floor, so interested was he in uncovering the truth.

No, mate, it’s just that since I’ve had this fixation on you, I can’t get it up with anyone else. I don’t know what’s going on, mate. This has never happened to me before, he said, drying his balls. They were big, but his cock was pretty average, way too average for a black guy.

What do you mean ‘it’s never happened before’? The curiosity was immense, immense and big like the cock he had there, naked and thickening, slowly getting hard like a cat settling down to pounce on its prey.

I’ve been with other blokes. Not far off, two from the reserve team and three from the first team, Gonzalo detailed.

What? This was unbelievable.

Yeah, mate, but with none of them did I feel this sick attraction I have for you, Gonzalo cupped his face and started to cry. Shit, mate, my life is messed up.

Mote moved closer to Gonzalo. What if I let you give me a blow job? Mote suggested. Maybe if you fulfill your fantasy, everything will go back to normal in your life. But, Mote got serious, if nothing happens, I won’t help you anymore, mate. And don’t even think I’m going to stick my cock in you or that we’re going to kiss. I’m not into that crap.

Gonzalo saw a light. He knelt in front of his mate and, with the same devotion as an old lady approaching her favourite saint to touch it for good luck, leaned in towards his mate’s erect cock.

***

I’ve got AIDS, mate. They’ve detected AIDS, man. I’m gonna die. A jolt of terror surged through Mote's body. What, mate? AIDS? Without stopping his sobbing, mucus surely smearing his mouth and dropping to the floor like thick oil, Gonzalo continued: I need money, mate. I’m going to Huancayo to dig up your treasure, mate. I’m really sorry, but I can’t die and leave my family on the streets, mate. I asked God for a sign, and see, he gave it to me: you messaged me after all this time, man. That means I have God’s permission to go for that money that ‘I’ helped you protect, mate. If I hadn’t given you that idea, the cops would’ve blown all your treasure. I know you’ll forgive me, mate. I know you will.

Mote couldn’t finish his Moretti.