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.

NOVELA PERUANA EL PROFE BRUTI de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Capítulo 13 (Final)

 

Cristo Jesús no se compra

Con mandas ni con dinero

Y no se llega a sus pies

Con dichos de marinero.

Nicanor Parra

 

El rostro de la presidente del Perú recibía pinchazo tras pinchazo, como una tormenta de agujas diminutas.

Ay, carajo, me haces doler, hombre, le reprochaba de cuando en cuando al médico esteta que le inyectaba bótox en las arrugas.

El asesor se aclaró la garganta: Como le decía, presidenta, el tema del profesor moreno pinta muy bien para tapar el escándalo de Cedrón.

Lenin Cedrón era el fundador del partido político que había llevado a la mujer hasta la presidencia y, desde que fue sentenciado por la comisión del delito de colusión cuando fue gobernador de una provincia del Perú, prófugo de la justicia. La presidente y su aparato político, por simple instinto de supervivencia -cae él y caemos todos-, estaban obligados a protegerlo a toda costa, aunque de manera velada, mientras repetían -en alguno que otro acto público- que harían todo lo posible para capturarlo a como diera lugar, o juro por mis hijos que dejo de ser la presidenta del Perú si no chapo a ese sinvergüenza que le ha hecho tanto daño a nuestro país.

Pucha, Ramírez, no sé. ¿Ese negro no es el lisuriento que me mostrastes la vez pasada?

Ese mismo, doctora, dijo presto el asesor. El médico esteta sudaba inquieto, temeroso de que la presidente le achacara otro reproche. Sabía muy bien que una queja más significaría ser sustituido sin miramientos, perdiendo los jugosos honorarios -cuánta falta me hacen- que obtenía a cambio de unos cuantos pinchazos.

Muévete para acá, hombre. No me dejas verle la cara al huevón de Ramírez, ordenó la presidente, los ojos cerrados, aguantando el dolor del bótox que se infiltraba en ella para remozarle el semblante. Ramírez, mientras tanto, evocó los tiempos en que esa mujer, ahora emperatriz en su propio reino, no era más que la apocada y turbia tesorera del partido político de Cedrón, una especie de secta improvisada al galope con la única misión de hacer mucha plata en nombre de los pobres.

Ya, consideró la presidente, ya veo por donde vas, Ramírez.

Yo sé que sí, presidenta, afirmó Ramírez. Recordó los tiempos en los que él estaba por encima de ella. Pero ahora -cómo era el destino de macabro y jodido, ¿no?- había terminado como el chupe de la mujer, como el asesor maltratado por su ego inflamado de bótox.

¿Cómo se te ha ocurrido limpiarlo, darle una imagen más decente?, dijo ella. Ya se imaginaba viéndose en las pantallas de la tele rejuvenecida y luciendo el atuendo que el Chivo -un personaje cómico de la televisión peruana devenido en facilitador judicial gracias a la aduladora personalidad que desarrolló para comprarse, con viajecitos al Caribe, endodoncias indoloras y encomiásticas presentaciones en su programa sabatino, a todo el poder judicial del país- le había regalado; un traje de diseñador, de color mostaza, glamoroso y ejecutivo al mismo tiempo, perfecto para ser estrenado en el desfile por Fiestas Patrias.  

Está muerto, dijo Ramírez, con tono triunfal.

La presidente, que sabía muy bien de complots y argucias, exclamó: ¡Diosito está de nuestro lado! Nada como la muerte para hacerte un santo.

Ramírez anotó unas líneas en su libreta.

¿Ya te contactaste…?

Ahorita mismo lo hago, presidenta, dijo el asesor, solícito. Solo necesitaba que usted me apruebe el tema. Mañana empezamos en los periódicos y noticieros con la novela del profesor negro, jodido y discriminado, que es lanzado al estrellato en las redes sociales y luego asesinado por manos racistas e inescrupulosas…

Aguanta ahí, pendejo, lo interrumpió la presidente. ¿Lo mataron al negro? Porque yo recuerdo haber leído un informe que decía que el huevón se había resbalado o algo así.

La verdad, la verdad, presidenta, no sabemos muy bien cómo se murió. Lo encontraron al pie de las escaleras de un asentamiento humano partido en mil partes. Pero los medios van a decir que al negro lo mataron. Porque si contamos lo que dijo el perito, que el negro se resbaló por cojudo, entonces nuestra historia del mártir del racismo se va a la mierda. Por eso, ya tenemos capturados a unos sospechosos. Toditos van a cantar en el momento preciso. Primero, durante dos semanas, se van a negar. Van a decir que ni lo conocían. Eso nos da el tiempo valioso para que el señor Cedrón llegue a Cuba tranquilo. Luego, a partir de la tercera semana, comenzarán a cantar. Y la historia que cuente uno va a ser más alucinante que la que cuente el otro. Así tendremos novela para llenar un mes y unas semanitas más, presidenta.

Claro, claro, repitió la presidente.

Ya, señora presidenta. Terminamos, dijo el doctor esteta mirando científicamente el rostro de su paciente, apreciando la calidad de su trabajo. Ahora, repose y…

¿Más?, dijo la presidente. Si sigo reposando más, se me van a volver a levantar estos indios. Y se rio como una urraca desaforada. Ya he descansado mucho, doctor. Tengo que salir a decir que estamos trabajando y esas huevadas necesarias para mantener las formas.

Claro, claro, pero no se agite mucho, nomás, convino el doctor.

No, si yo no me voy a agitar nadita. El que se va a agitar como huevo de cojo va a ser el cojudo del Cedrón que va a tener que viajar en la maletera del auto presidencial hasta Ecuador, se volvió a carcajear la presidente.

Ramírez volvió a anotar unas cosas en su libreta: Listo, presidenta. Mañana empezamos con el novelón del profesor negro y su duro combate contra el racismo en redes sociales.

Claro, claro, aceptó la presidente. Ahora, dime ¿a qué hora me reúno con el Gato-K-Ch-Ro y el RompeCulos? 

Ramírez comprobó la hora en el Rolex femenino que destellaba desde su muñeca izquierda: Están agendados para dentro de cuarenta minutos, presidenta.

La presidente miró con nostalgia el reloj de Ramírez. No te vayas a encariñar mucho con mi reloj, cojudo. Cuando termine toda esta payasada, me lo vas a devolver. No te olvides, maricón. Apunta eso en tu agenda.

NOVELA PERUANA EL PROFE BRUTI de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Capítulo 12

 

Te llamó el dueño de la academia, dijo su mujer sin dejar de revolver la cacerola, los golpecitos rítmicos del cucharón semejantes a los de un cronómetro gastronómico.

Gonzalo frunció el ceño: ¿Qué academia?

Para la que trabajas, pues, replicó la mujer sin levantar la vista de la danza espesa de los comestibles. Miró el reloj colgado en la pared y calculó que aún disponía de poco más de media hora para dejar listo el almuerzo y atender al bebé que pronto demandaría su atención.  

Estuvo a punto de volver a preguntar ¿cuál academia?, pero se detuvo a tiempo luego de caer en la cuenta de que su esposa jamás supo que lo habían expectorado de la academia preuniversitaria Venus 3000. Gonzalo mantenía a su mujer en la más completa ignorancia sobre cómo él se procuraba los medios para dejar el diario en la mesa de la casa. La chamba de Gonzalo era dejar lo suficiente para que nunca faltasen el agua, la luz y la comida; en tanto que su mujer estaba a cargo de estirar los dineros que él proveía. Punto. Ese era el tácito acuerdo de convivencia.

Ah, ya, murmuró Gonzalo, el tono indiferente. ¿Qué querían?

No sé, respondió la mujer. El señor que me habló me dijo que lo llames a ese número. Señaló un retazo de papel sobre la mesa.

Hubiera sido muy fácil darse cuenta de que Gonzalo ya no asistía a la academia. A pesar de que aún seguía el mismo ritual: camisa bien planchada, pantalón ajustado y corbata anudada con precisión, salía al amanecer y volvía a la hora usual de las dos de la tarde; ya no llenaba las tardes preparando las clases futuras, o revisando las tareas o corrigiendo exámenes. Ahora, en lugar de todo ello, consumía sus tardes y sus noches (incluso las madrugadas) gritando y exaltándose enfrente de la computadora o, en algunas ocasiones, yendo a sabe Dios dónde para regresar muy tarde en la noche, a las once o doce. No obstante, su mujer jamás le reprochaba cosa alguna. El dinero familiar siempre estaba presente sobre la mesa semana tras semana. Incluso, ella había notado un aumento importante en la cifra acostumbrada, como si una extraña bonanza hubiera llegado sin motivo aparente.

Gonzalo tomó el pedazo de papel y se lo embolsicó. Hoy voy viajo a Chincha. Regreso el viernes, soltó antes de abandonar la cocina. Su esposa devolvió el acostumbrado silencio. Se echó un poco del guiso en el dorso de la mano y probó su sazón. Estaba en su punto, justo como a Gonzalo le gustaba, aunque él ya estuviese camino a otra parte.

***

Lora no era el gordito bajo de cara infantil y voz de mujer que algunos imaginaban. Sí, su rostro tenía la suavidad del de un crío y su voz la delicadeza del gemido de una hembra en celo, pero su estatura de casi metro noventa lo colocaba en otro nivel. La gruesa capa de grasa que forraba su corporalidad no lo hacía ver panzón, sino robusto, hasta se diría que fortachón.

Gonzalo, aunque sorprendido por el recién descubierto tamaño de su oponente, supo disimular su desconcierto; ya que dejarlo expuesto hubiera significado empezar el combate en clara desventaja.

¿Qué quiere, Profe?, dijo Lora, tranquilo, sin exaltarse, conservando la calma. Llevaba un delantal y un gorro de cocinero. Su voz era el epítome de la serenidad: Estoy trabajando. Usted ha venido en plena hora punta. Tenemos muchos clientes esperando atención. Si me va a decir algo, que sea rápido.

Gonzalo no tenía modo alguno de saber que la punta del lapicero que descollaba del bolsillo de la camisa blanca de Lora era una moderna cámara oculta de gran resolución.  Esa cámara iba registrando, en vivo y en directo, cada gesto en la cara del maestro Gonzalo, quien había viajado hasta Trujillo, hasta la mismísima puerta del restaurante El PezCabro -cuyas especialidades eran el ceviche de pescado y el cabro a la norteña- para romperle la cabeza a Lora, a ese traidor conchasumadre que se pasó totalmente al bando del maricón de Monte, que vende el poto en Italia por unos cuantos euros y del maniático malparido del Tío Marley que fríe hamburguesas en Australia, según había afirmado en una de las emisiones de su canal de YouTube.  

La audiencia del Habla, Montecito traspasaba cotas nunca antes alcanzadas: cuatro mil personas atentas a cada pulso de la pelea. El enfrentamiento con el Ciego no había capturado tanta expectación; sin embargo, desde que Lora hubo abandonado el programa de Gonzalo, harto de las interminables mentadas de madre que este le endilgaba por trabajar gratuitamente para Monte y hacerlo para él con apatía y por unos pocos soles, Gonzalo no paró de repetir, con furia, que iría al mismísimo y peligrosísimo asentamiento humano Ramiro Prialé, en el distrito de La Esperanza, en Trujillo, para tocar las puertas del negocio familiar de Lora y partirle la cara al mantenido de mierda ese que, a pesar de que sus padres se partieron los lomos para pagarle la carrera de ingeniería industrial, el muy vago no trabaja de lo que estudió y se la pasa horas de horas produciendo programas cochinos como el del maricón de Monte.

Tanta promoción había desembocado en un torrente de vistas reunidas en el canal de Monte, vistas ávidas por conocer con qué técnica pugilística el Profe Bruti le abriría la cabeza a Lora.

He venido a sacarte la mierda, conchatumadre. A ver, dime en la cara que soy un negro resentido, malcriado y lisuriento, hijo de puta. Vamos, ven, dime que no debería ser profesor porque solo sirvo para hablar huevadas y conchasumadrear a la gente. Vamos, dímelo, cobarde hijo de puta.

No contestes nada, decía el Tío Marley en la transmisión.  Deja que el negro se siga yendo de boca. Todito está quedando grabado para que el mundo sepa qué clase de profesor es este negro. Lora llevaba un diminuto auricular a través del cual escuchaba los comentarios de los panelistas del programa: Monte y el Tío Marley.

Profe, váyase nomás, que tengo que regresar a ayudar en la cocina, dijo Lora, quien, además de pasar horas de horas frente a la computadora produciendo programas de YouTube, también, dedicaba ciertas mañanas a colaborar en el negocio familiar, la cevichería El PezCabro, con cuyas modestas ganancias, el señor Mauricio Lora pudo sufragarle los estudios en la Universidad Particular del Norte, conocida por engendrarle a la patria los más insignes profesionales de esa zona del país. 

Cuál ayudar, oe, vago. Tú no serías capaz de mover un dedo ni para rascarte las bolas que no tienes, cabrazo, dijo Bruti, feroz como lobo en ciernes.

Oe, Lora, dijo Monte al audífono de aquel. Yo creo que sobrao le sacas la mierda al Profe, ah. Métele un combo para cagarnos de risa.

El Tío Marley, que seguía la transmisión echándose una cerveza desde un barcito clandestino en el corazón del Centro de Sydney, comentó: Métele una patada en los huevos al negro y te mando veinte dólares al PayPal.

Lora no pensaba atacar. A pesar de su altura y corpulencia, era consciente de su nulidad para la mechadera. La única vez que cruzó puños con alguien había sido en tercero de primaria, cuando Javiercito Pulgar le arrebató el paquete de galletas que había llevado como lonchera. Lora, hijito mimado, fue a buscarlo para recuperar su galleta y hacerse respetar, pero no contó con que Javiercito, mucho más curtido en el arte de la sacadera de mierda, le extraería un molar con un potente gancho de izquierda. Desde ese momento, Lora no volvió a ponerse belicoso con nadie, ni siquiera con el malcriado que, en su presencia, se atrevió a meterle la mano al culo de la chica con la que había iniciado un romance adolescente, allá cuando contaba apenas trece años.  

Te llegó tu hora, maricón traicionero, dijo Bruti, llegándole al pincho que Lora se mantuviese impertérrito y calmado.

El terreno no era plano. Siempre había que ascender. Para alcanzar la puerta de El PezCabro, Bruti tuvo que enfrentar una loma de doscientos metros de altura, surcada por angostas escaleras de cemento. Muchos de los escalones, para complicar la ya agobiada vida de los habitantes de la zona, estaban carcomidos por el viento, las pisadas y la desidia de las autoridades. Entonces, a mitad de camino hacia su objetivo, Bruti se detuvo. El rostro se le deformó en una expresión de franco terror. La sorpresa alcanzó los predios de Lora. ¿Qué pasa, Profe?, dijo, verdaderamente intrigado.

Temblando, blanco del susto, Bruti extendió su largo y grueso dedo hacia el pecho de Lora: Tienes una arañota ahí.

Lora se miró el pecho, cándido, porque podía tratarse de una estratagema de Bruti para que bajara las defensas y pudiera él arremeter con todo; pero no: efectivamente, una araña de considerable tamaño, con un vientre redondo, negro y mate, que brillaba al resplandor de ese potente sol trujillano, merodeaba a la altura de su bolsillo, acercándose a la cámara que también captaba el rostro temeroso de Bruti. En la transmisión, los dibujitos empezaban a hacer escarnio de él: ¿En serio es una araña? ¿El grone le tiene miedo a las arañas? ¿Y así quería sacarle la mierda a Lora cuando no puede ni aplastar una araña? Las carcajadas podían oírse a través de la potencia y causticidad de los comentarios denigrantes sobre la masculinidad de Bruti.

Sin temor alguno, Lora cogió al arácnido de una de sus patas y lo lanzó al aire.

Así como el sol en Trujillo es potente, el viento también lo es. Los cronistas más cercanos a los acontecimientos de la Conquista del Tahuantinsuyo, y más específicamente a las andaduras de Diego de Almagro, dan cuenta de que el germen de su desgracia se debió a ese viento fuerte y errático, pues luego de fundar Trujillo de Nueva Castilla, Almagro se echó una meada. Sin embargo, antes de sacarse la pieza para liberar toda la pichi que llevaba contenida tras haber celebrado la ocasión con el vino de uno de los odres que acarreaba, dibujó sobre el suelo un boceto de lo que se conocía de América del Sur hasta ese momento. Esbozó al Cuzco y a Chile. Dijo: adonde caiga la meada me dirigiré con mis huestes a reclamar lo que es mío. Y él se apretó fuertemente la pinga para que el chorro cayese en el círculo que representaba al Cusco, donde planeaba asegurarse la mitad de los tesoros que su socio Pizarro ya se estaba embolsando en nombre del Rey, cuando ese potente viento trujillano desvió el chorro hacia el círculo que simbolizaba a Chile. Y, puesto que había jurado ante Dios dirigirse a donde cayera su meado, así lo hizo, y así se cagó, puesto que la expedición a Chile lo sumió en la pobreza, en la depresión, en el rencor, y apresuró su muerte por garrote vil a manos del cachaciento y crudelísimo Hernando Pizarro.

Ese mismo potente y travieso viento trujillano condujo el cuerpo de la araña hacia el rostro de Bruti, quien, cegado y presa del pánico, sin saber qué hacer y dando alaridos de terror, se desbarrancó por la escalera por la cual había ascendido tan penosamente hacia los fastos de la cevichería de los padres de Lora.

Fueron los peldaños treinta y cuatro y sesenta y ocho los que se encargaron de romperle la columna y quebrarle el cráneo, respectivamente, al Profe Bruti. Esos escalones fueron los encargados de segar la vida del ignoto maestro de academia preuniversitaria trucha transformado, gracias a la negra magia de las redes sociales, en el más renombrado youtuber de la Brutalidad.

***

Esta vez, el dueño y director de la academia preuniversitaria Venus 3000 sonreía de oreja a oreja, con una repugnante expresión de servilidad. Gonzalo tomó asiento con cautela. ¿Qué querrá este mugriento?, pensó.

Voy a ser franco contigo, querido Gonzalo, empezó el director. Luego, extrajo de uno de los cajones de su escritorio una chata de ron y dos vasos de plástico. Con calma, vertió en los vasitos el blanco líquido en similares proporciones. Gonzalo, tras los finos tragos que había degustado durante las grabaciones de su vídeo con la Golosa y los que adquiría gracias a los ingresos que su canal de YouTube le proporcionaba, hizo una mueca de repulsión ante la visión de aquel ron vulgar.

Quiero que regreses a la institución, dijo el director, extendiéndole uno de los vasitos.

No, gracias, dijo Gonzalo, rechazando el vasito. No tomo huevadas, acotó, firme y decidido, consciente de que el dinero en efectivo que le habían entregado por la grabación del cache a la Golosa lo erguía por encima del director y de su academia pedorra, miserable, angosta y con el mobiliario cayéndose a pedazos.

Comprendo, comprendo, querido Profe, dijo el director, lanzándole un guiño cómplice: lo estaba llamando por su famoso apelativo.

Gonzalo, que comenzaba a irritarse, apuró la situación: Mira, Maicol -era la primera vez que se dirigía al señor Maicol Huapaya por su nombre y no por su apellido y anteponiéndole el debido ‘señor’-, me tengo que ir. No estoy para huevadas. Y tras mirar la hora en el reloj de pared de la oficina de Huapaya, agregó: Por las huevas perdí mi tiempo viniendo hasta aquí.

Profe, tranquilo, dijo Huapaya, con una sonrisa apaciguadora. Voy a ir directo al grano. Se tomó de un trago su vasito de ron y continuó: Me acabo de correr la paja con el vídeo suyo y de la Golosa. Gonzalo respingó las cejas, sorprendido por tal declaración. Usted es un éxito, querido Profe, prosiguió Huapaya. Quiero ofrecerle el puesto de director de esta institución y, a cambio de usar su imagen en el frontis de la academia, le cedo el cuarenta por ciento del accionariado.

Gonzalo observó con atención al zalamero hombrecito que tenía enfrente: ¿era el mismo que hacía unos meses lo había botado de la academia como a una rata carachosa?