Correcting the Past (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

"That good-for-nothing Vladimiro doesn't know what to do with his life," said Francisco after finishing his fourth glass of pisco. "But I do."

The shoemaker listened attentively: Francisco would be paying for the night's drinks. Though merely a scribe, he had defeated a distinguished, decorated lawyer in a smuggling case. Francisco possessed resources that could only be learned in the dives and judicial cantinas; resources capable of bending any verdict.

"He's going to Lima, damn it. I'm sending him to the Military School."

He gestured to the waiter: another bottle.

"Wasn't he going to be a lawyer, buddy? What happened with all that Ugarteche business? People were already saying he'd end up working as an assistant to President Prado," the shoemaker joked.

"I won't allow you to mock me, compadre."

Pancho didn't tolerate mockery from anyone—not even from the shoemaker, who was his best friend.

"That good-for-nothing Manuelito Ugarteche, since he's got his uncle in the presidency, doesn't want to do me any favours. He says they could later denounce him for influence peddling. Shitty coward. He doesn't want to get his hands dirty, he says. As if he were some holy dove. And that's after I defended him from the school bullies when we were kids. But that's how people are: ungrateful. Fortunately, my contacts at the barracks are real men and reliable."

"You've got contacts there, compadre?"

"Of course. Military men always need someone to wipe their asses. I've told you several times how many I've saved from the clink. And me being a paper-pusher, as those pompous, stuck-up shitty lawyers call me. The thing is, I know how the judicial system in this country is run. Justice loves discretion."

The shoemaker, who drank moderately, fixed his attention on the establishment's door. A man, who made no effort to hide the revolver tucked into his belt, over his shirt, entered looking in every direction.

"Where's Pancho?" he shouted.

"Hey, Captain," Francisco celebrated. "Come over here. We were just talking about you."

The captain approached Francisco and took a seat at one side of his table.

"Your Vladimiro already has his spot reserved at the School. My contact bumped a guy from Huaraz," said the military man. "Where's my glass? I know how to be thirsty too."

***

"What do you mean he doesn't meet the age requirement?" Francisco grew agitated. Two empty bottles of pisco drummed on the table.

"He doesn't meet it, Doctor," said the major. He picked up the pistol he had left on the table. "I'm leaving now. I just came to tell you that." The idiot captain hadn't noticed that detail.

With that static gesture, thousands of ideas tumbled through Francisco's mind, tripping over each other and tangling together, leaving him even more confused.

"I came to tell you in person so you don't think I played you dirty. I entrusted the matter to that fool of a captain, and now look how that crap slipped past him."

"And when does admissions close?" said Francisco, a light in his eyes.

The pistol already in his belt, a cigarette lighting his mouth, the major said in a week. "But it's pointless: in a week your son won't meet the required age."

"Of course he will," said Francisco, rising from the table, lucid and steady, as if he hadn't drunk a single drop of pisco. "You had one foot in jail and I got you out even though the prosecutor had everything to convict you. Not even the devil himself could have saved you."

The major looked at Francisco from a distance. Was he throwing the jail matter in his face again? He had done the favour Francisco asked in exchange for the matter being buried forever. If he was going to keep up the same old song, he was a damn fool; a bullet to the head would end everything. He put a hand to his pistol.

"No," said Francisco, reading the major's intentions. "I'm not blackmailing you, major. Nor am I going to ask you for another favor. I'm only reminding you that for me, nothing is impossible. I kindly ask you for one hour of your time; nothing more."

"One hour?" said the major, checking his watch.

"One hour. In one hour, Vladimiro will meet the required age to enter the School. Come with me to my office."

The major, invaded by curiosity, thrust his jaw forward. "Let's go."

***

"Just like that?" said the major, not believing what the paper Francisco had just handed him said.

"Just like that," he confirmed. "Just as easy as it was to beat the prosecutor in your case, major. In this humble office, without grand adornments, without titles, without medals, without decorations, I can resurrect Hitler and, if I want, take him to the presidency of the country."

The major tucked the document into his briefcase.

"Well, with this Vladimiro is part of the School. I'll take care of the paperwork myself. Congratulations."

They shook hands.

"Staying a while longer? There are still two bottles of pisco they owe me at the tavern," said Francisco, proud, about to burst with happiness.

Corrigiendo el pasado (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

El huevón de Vladimiro no sabe qué hacer con su vida, dijo Francisco tras terminarse la cuarta copita de pisco. Pero yo sí sé.

El zapatero lo escuchaba atentamente: Francisco pagaría los tragos de la noche. Siendo apenas un escribano, había derrotado a un abogado de fuste y galardones en un caso de contrabando. Francisco poseía recursos que solo se aprendían en los cuchitriles y cantinas judiciales; recursos que eran capaces de torcer cualquier veredicto.

Se me va para Lima, caracho. Lo estoy mandando a la Escuela Militar.

Le hizo un gesto al camarero: otra botella.

¿No iba a ser abogado, cumpa? ¿Qué pasó con toda esa historia de los Ugarteche? Ya por ahí se decía que terminaría trabajando como asistente del presidente Prado, ironizó el zapatero.

No voy a permitir que te burles, compadre.

Pancho no le aguantaba mofas a nadie; ni al zapatero, que era su mejor amigo.

El huevón de Manuelito Ugarteche, como tiene al tío en la presidencia, no quiere hacerme ningún favor. Dice que después lo pueden denunciar por tráfico de influencias. Cobarde de mierda. No quiere mancharse, dice. Como si fuera una santa paloma. Y eso que, de chiquillos, yo lo defendía de los matones del colegio. Pero así es la gente: malagradecida. Afortunadamente, mis contactos en el cuartel sí son machos y consecuentes.

¿Tienes contactos ahí, compadre?

Por supuesto. Los militares siempre están necesitados de alguien que les limpie el culo. Ya te he contado varias veces a cuántos he salvado de chirona. Y siendo yo un alcanza-papeles, como me llaman esos abogados encopetados y engreídos de mierda. Y es que yo sé cómo se maneja el sistema judicial en este país. A la justicia, le encanta la discreción.  

El zapatero, que bebía moderadamente, fijó la atención en la puerta del establecimiento. Un hombre, que no se preocupaba por ocultar el revólver que llevaba al cinto, encima de la camisa, entró mirando a todos lados.

¿Dónde está Pancho?, gritó.

 Oiga, capitán, celebró Francisco. Véngase para acá. Justo hablábamos de usted.

El capitán se acercó a Francisco y ocupó un lado de su mesa.   

Tu Vladimiro ya tiene su cupo reservado para la Escuela. Mi contacto descartó a un serrano de Huaraz, dijo el militar. ¿Dónde está mi vaso? Yo también sé tener sed.

***

¿Cómo que no cumple con la edad?, se alteró Francisco. Sobre la mesa tamborilearon dos botellas vacías de pisco.  

No cumple, pues, doctor, dijo el mayor. Tomó la pistola que había dejado sobre la mesa. Yo ya me voy. Solo vine a decirle eso. El huevón del capitán no se percató de ese detalle.

Con el gesto estático, por la mente de Francisco rodaron miles de ideas que se tropezaron y enredaron, dejándolo todavía más confundido.

Vine a decírselo en persona para que no crea que le he jugado mal. Le encargué el tema al cojudo del capitán y ya ve cómo se le pasó esa huevada.

¿Y cuándo se cierra la admisión?, dijo Francisco, una luz en los ojos.

La pistola ya en el cinto, un cigarrillo iluminándole la boca, el mayor dijo que en una semana. Pero es por las huevas: en una semana su hijo no va a cumplir la edad requerida.

Cómo que no, dijo Francisco, levantándose de la mesa, lúcido y equilibrado, como si no hubiera bebido una gota de pisco. Usted estaba con un pie en la cárcel y lo saqué a pesar de que el fiscal tenía todo para condenarlo. Ni el mismo diablo lo hubiera podido salvar.

El mayor miró a Francisco con distancia. ¿Otra vez le sacaba en cara el tema de la cárcel? Él había cumplido con el favor que le pidió a cambio de que se enterrara el tema para siempre. Si iba a seguir con la misma cantaleta, estaba bien huevón; un balazo en la cabeza acabaría con todo. Se llevó una mano a la pistola.

No, dijo Francisco, leyendo las intenciones del militar. No lo estoy chantajeando, mayor. Tampoco le voy a pedir otro favor. Solo le recuerdo que para mí no hay nada imposible. Le pido amablemente una hora de su tiempo; nada más.

¿Una hora?, dijo el mayor consultando su reloj.

Una hora. En una hora, Vladimiro va a cumplir con la edad requerida para ingresar a la Escuela. Acompáñeme a mi estudio.

El mayor, invadido por la curiosidad, adelantó la mandíbula. Vamos.

***

¿Así de fácil?, dijo el mayor sin creer lo que decía el papel que le acababa de entregar Francisco.

Así de fácil, confirmó él. Así de fácil también fue ganarle al fiscal en su caso, mayor. En este humilde estudio, sin grandes adornos, sin títulos, sin medallas, sin condecoraciones, puedo resucitar a Hitler y, si quiero, llevarlo a la presidencia del país.

El mayor guardó el documento en un cartapacio.

Bueno, ya con esto Vladimiro es parte de la Escuela. Yo mismo me encargaré del papeleo. Felicitaciones.

Se apretaron las manos.

¿Se queda un rato más? Todavía hay dos botellas de pisco que me deben en la taberna, dijo Francisco, orgulloso, a punto de reventar de felicidad.    

Wake of failure (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

La Cucufata told him that his father had died. The old woman wore the Franciscan habit that had long ago scared away her husband's sexual appetite.

The news didn't sadden him; on the contrary, it made his day. He suddenly felt liberated. This could have been his last day at military school. Goodbye, you shitty soldiers. He wandered through the city. He began to enjoy his freedom. He ventured down streets that had been forbidden to him. As night fell, it occurred to him that he hadn't done the first thing they'd taught him at school: fact-checking.

So he ran home.

He found his mother ironing clothes. Her gaze was sad. Everything about her was sad. And silent.

Did something happen?, he said, without greeting her.

Without lifting her weary eyes from the iron, the woman shook her head.

Vladimiro looked for his siblings. Some were playing, others sleeping. It didn't seem like they'd lost a father.

He went back to the small living room.

Where's Francisco?

Without stopping her accompaniment of the iron's steaming path, his mother murmured: On the street.

“The street” could only mean the tavern where his father and the town shoemaker met to drink.

He didn't run, but he quickened his pace.

There he was. He could see him through one of the tavern's two windows. The disappointment hurt more than the beatings from the sadistic lieutenants at school.

Francisco was alive. And very drunk. He leaned on the shoemaker to keep from falling to the ground. He moved his mouth with effort, but with vigor. He was surely recounting some overly repeated story, distorted, exaggerated, and spiced up several times over.

He stayed crouched down. He strained to hear something that might clarify what La Cucufata had told him hours ago: The shoemaker was keeping vigil over him. Your father was laid out on a table. He had pieces of cotton coming out of his mouth and noses.

Noses, you stupid woman, thought Vladimiro, straining to hear the conversation. As if one had several noses.

You lying old woman, you went too far making up something like that, he murmured, already giving up on spying on his father. This idiot is more alive than you and me put together, and he'll keep ruining my life for many more years.

Then he heard a commotion and poked his head back through the window. Francisco, his father, had fallen to the ground.

Now he's really dead, he thought, exultant. He entered the bar.

I was passing by, he told the shoemaker when the man asked what he was doing there. In truth, he would have loved to answer, What the fuck do you care?

Together, the two of them lifted Francisco and dragged him home. It would be a long, heavy walk. He regretted being there. He blamed himself for being so gullible. He should be resting after an infernal week at the military boarding school, not dragging his drunkard of a father through the alleys of Arequipa.

He drank like never before today, said the shoemaker. He was very happy.

Oh, really? Why?, asked Vladimiro. He wanted to leave his father's body propped against some wall. He'd find his way home by morning on his own. Thieves in Arequipa weren't a problem. The city was a safe place for drunks who had nothing to lose.

Because he gave the scare of their lives to those shitty churchy old women who, on their way to mass, always catch us drinking at your place. They stick their noses through the window and then go around saying we're disgusting drunks. Can you believe it, dammit?

There was still a considerable stretch to go. The conversation shortened the path.

How did he scare them?

The shoemaker, tired, suddenly let go of Francisco's arm. Vladimiro didn't see the movement coming, and his father's body felt twice as heavy. So he let go too.

The face hitting the cobblestone pavement made the sound of beef innards slamming against a cutting board.

Careful!, shouted the shoemaker. Damn, your old man's going to be all bruised tomorrow. The man was panting, his hands on his knees.

Vladimiro sat on the edge of the sidewalk and lit a cigarette.

You smoke already, kid? How old are you, anyway? The shoemaker could only conceive of Vladimiro—a tall, lanky young man with a lively, though childish, face—drinking milk and going to bed before seven in the evening.

Don't mess with me, man. I already smoke and fuck, said the student, loudly, without a giggle. That was how you earned respect among the soldiers. Go on, how did they get scared?

Your old man played dead.

Played dead?

He'd been planning it for a while, and we did it this morning. The church sacristan—who, by the way, is a tremendous son of a bitch—and I set up the scene of his wake so that anyone who peeked through your house's window wouldn't have a single doubt that your old man had died. We laid him out on a table. He had his dark suit on, the cotton in his nose and mouth, the candles on each side. Anyone could have sworn that Francisco Montesinos had finally left this world to keep drinking in the next.

He was a child enjoying his prank. Vladimiro found him a lesser man, ridiculous. That's why his father felt so at ease around him, because he was just like him, another ridiculous man. He never liked to surround himself with prestigious people, with people who could give some lift to his mediocre life.

And what did he gain from all that nonsense?, Vladimiro challenged. He stood up. He smoothed out his military school trousers.

The question threw the shoemaker off balance. What do you mean, what did he gain?, he said in a murmur.

Nothing, you idiot, nothing, Vladimiro answered himself. He flicked away the cigarette butt and started walking. Nothing!, he shouted before turning a corner and disappearing.

Hey, you little shit, where are you going, help me with your father!, shouted the shoemaker, but the barking of some dogs drowned out his complaint.

Velorio del fracaso (1960) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

La Cucufata le dijo que su padre había muerto. La vieja vestía el hábito franciscano que hacía mucho tiempo le había espantado el apetito sexual a su marido.

La noticia no lo apenó; por el contrario, le alegró el día. Se sintió de pronto liberado. Ese podría haber sido su último día en la escuela militar. Adiós, milicos de mierda. Dio vueltas por la ciudad. Empezó a disfrutar de su libertad. Se metió por calles que le tenían prohibidas. Al caer la noche, se le ocurrió que no había hecho lo primero que le enseñaron en la escuela: la comprobación de los hechos.

Entonces, corrió a casa.  

Encontró a su madre planchando ropa. Tenía la mirada triste. Todo en ella era triste. Y callado.

¿Pasó algo?, le dijo, sin saludarla.

Sin despegar los ojos mustios de la plancha, la mujer negó con la cabeza.

Vladimiro buscó a sus hermanos. Algunos jugaban, otros dormían. No parecía que hubiesen perdido un padre.

Volvió a la salita.

¿Dónde está Francisco?

Sin dejar de acompañar el humeante recorrido de la plancha, su madre murmuró: En la calle.

“La calle” únicamente podía significar la bodega donde su padre y el zapatero del pueblo se reunían para beber.   

No corrió, pero apuró el paso.

Ahí estaba él. Lo podía ver por una de las dos ventanas de la bodega. La desilusión dolió más que los varazos de los sádicos tenientes en la escuela.

Francisco estaba vivo. Y muy mareado. Se apoyaba del zapatero para no caer al suelo. Movía la boca con esfuerzo, pero con vigor. Seguramente relataba alguna historia harto repetida y varias veces distorsionada, aumentada y aderezada.

Permaneció agazapado. Se esforzó por oír algo que pudiera esclarecerle lo que la Cucufata le había dicho hacía unas horas: El zapatero lo velaba. Tu padre estaba echado sobre una mesa. Tenía pedazos de algodón saliéndole por la boca y las narices.

Las narices, cojuda, pensó Vladimiro, esforzándose por oír la conversación. Como si uno tuviera varias narices.

Vieja mentirosa, te pasaste para inventar algo así, murmuró, ya desistiendo de seguir espiando a su padre. Este idiota está más vivo que tú y que yo juntos, y seguirá jodiéndome la vida por muchos años más.

Entonces oyó un alboroto y volvió a asomar la cabeza por la ventana. Francisco, su padre, se había caído al suelo.

Ahora sí se murió, pensó, exultante. Entró al bar.

Pasaba por acá, le dijo al zapatero cuando este le preguntó qué hacia allí. En realidad, le hubiera encantado responderle a ti qué chucha.

Entre los dos, levantaron a Francisco y lo arrastraron a casa. Sería una caminata larga, pesada. Se arrepintió de estar allí. Se culpó de haber sido tan crédulo. Debía de estar descansando luego de una semana infernal en el internado militar y no arrastrando al borracho de su padre por las callejuelas arequipeñas.

Hoy ha bebido como nunca, dijo el zapatero. Estaba muy contento.  

Ah, ¿sí? ¿Por qué?, preguntó Vladimiro. Deseaba dejar el cuerpo de su padre recostado contra alguna pared. Él ya sabría encontrar el camino a casa por la mañana. Los ladrones en Arequipa no eran un problema. La ciudad era un lugar seguro para los borrachos que no tenían nada que perder.

Porque les dio el susto de sus vidas a las cucufatas de mierda esas que, camino a misa, siempre nos aguaitan chupando en tu casa. Meten sus narices por la ventana y luego van diciendo que somos unos borrachos de porquería. Habráse visto, carajo.

Todavía faltaba un trecho considerable. La conversación acortaba el sendero.

¿Cómo las asustó?

El zapatero, cansado, soltó súbitamente el brazo de Francisco. Vladimiro no vio venir el movimiento y el cuerpo de su padre le resultó el doble de pesado. Por eso, también lo soltó.

La cara contra el suelo de adoquines produjo el sonido de unas vísceras de vacuno estrellándose contra una tabla de picar.

¡Cuidado!, gritó el zapatero. Caramba, tu viejo va a estar todo morado mañana. El hombre resollaba, las manos apoyadas en las rodillas.

Vladimiro se sentó al borde de la vereda y encendió un cigarrillo.

¿Ya fumas, muchachito? ¿Cuántos años tienes, pues? El zapatero solo podía concebir a Vladimiro, un jovencito alargado, de rostro vivaz, aunque infantil, tomando leche y acostándose antes de las siete de la noche.

No joda, hombre. Yo ya fumo y cacho, dijo el estudiante, fuerte, sin risitas. Así era como uno se hacía respetar entre los milicos. Cuenta, cómo se asustaron las viejas.  

Tu viejo se hizo el muerto.

¿El muerto?

Ya lo tenía planeado desde hacía un tiempo, y hoy en la mañana lo hicimos. Entre el sacristán de la iglesia, que, dicho sea de paso, es tremendo hijo de puta, y yo, armamos la escena de su velorio para que a cualquiera que husmeara por la ventana de tu casa no le quedase ninguna duda de que tu viejo se había muerto. Lo echamos sobre una mesa. Tenía su traje oscuro, los algodones en la nariz y la boca, los cirios a cada lado. Uno podía jurar que Francisco Montesinos por fin se había retirado de este mundo a seguir chupando en el otro.  

Era un niño disfrutando de su travesura. A Vladimiro le resultó un tipo menor, ridículo. Por eso, su padre se sentía tan a gusto a su lado, porque era como él, otro ridículo. Nunca le gustó rodearse de gente de prestigio, de personas que pudieran darle algún vuelo a su mediocre vida.

¿Y qué ganó con toda esa tontería?, interpeló Vladimiro. Se paró. Se alisó el pantalón del colegio militar.

La pregunta descolocó al zapatero. ¿Cómo que qué ganó?, dijo en un murmullo.

Nada, pues, idiota, nada, se contestó Vladimiro. Tiró la colilla y echó a andar. ¡Nada!, gritó antes de doblar una esquina y desaparecer.

Oye, mocoso de mierda, adónde vas, ayúdame con tu padre, gritó el zapatero, pero los ladridos de unos perros ahogaron su queja.

The peeping hero (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro couldn't believe that watching Damián—his bully—and Germán—the harasser of his nine-year-old sister—commit that monstrous aberration in that ruined corner of the school would excite him so much.

Damián and Germán gave themselves over to the heat of their bodies. They knew they were safe from any prying eyes, and that made the whole affair even more delicious. But Vladimiro, the scrawny, weakling teenager they harassed daily at school, had followed them stealthily and taken cover behind amorphous concrete blocks.

Warmed by what he saw, well hidden among the rubble, Vladimiro began to masturbate. The image of Germán spreading his accomplice's buttocks was powerful, overwhelming.

Feverish, Vladimiro kept working his dick. A moment later, he came.

His urges relieved, he coldly assessed the situation. What he had just witnessed meant the total destruction of Germán and Damián. If everyone found out, they wouldn't just have to change schools; they'd have to leave the planet.

Now, he had to find a way to prove to the world what those two did in secret. He was sure this wasn't their first encounter. It must have been one of many, part of a habit he would have to study patiently and stealthily to catch them in the act.

***

Did they bother you again? said Vladimiro. He handed a handkerchief to his sister. The girl was crying softly in a corner of the tiny living room. The family occupied what, in the opulent days of Grandfather Guillermo, had been the servants' shed. It was the only inheritance that had fallen to Pancho, their father.

The girl remained silent. Her sorrows choked her words.

Calm down, okay? Tell me, did Germán bother you again?

A whimpering tremor was her response.

Then, barely audible, she added: Germán and Damián. Both of them.

Vladimiro stifled a cry of rage.

Come on, let's go to the room. He held out the handkerchief. Here, dry your face. It's better if Francisco doesn't see you like this. When he comes home drunk, he'll take it out on you.

They took refuge in the room they shared with their three other siblings, in cramped bunks.

It's time to wipe them off the map, he told himself before sleeping. It's time to remove them from our lives.

***

He had them figured out. Every Thursday at noon, they'd vanish. No one missed them. They'd head to the vacant lot, to the same spot. They'd pull down their pants and start their filthy business.

This particular Thursday, Vladimiro came equipped with a tiny camera. An invention of his grandfather Guillermo's. The clarity of the reproduced images wasn't the best, but it was enough to recognize the faces of the depraved ones.

He overcame the urge to touch himself and focused on recording every position the camera's film allowed.

Enjoy your last days, he thought with every click of the machine. You have no idea what's coming.

***

Did you hear? she announced with a smile. She hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Hear what? he played dumb. Tell me, what did you hear? he smiled.

***

Separate envelopes arrived at the homes of Germán and Damián. Their parents opened them—men who were ruthlessly Catholic.

Upon discovering the contents of the packages, they beat their sons' backsides without an ounce of mercy.

A note accompanied the photos. It recommended withdrawing the boys from the school, or the photographs would be made public knowledge.

***

Were they expelled?

Yes, she said, happier than ever.

Why?

I don't know. I don't care either. She looked at the wall. She began to speculate. Surely, they finally found out they were evil. She locked eyes with her brother. The only thing that matters to me is that they won't bother us anymore. School will be a nice place. Today was a perfect day, for example. But how thoughtless of me, little brother, is your cough any better?

Yes, said Vladimiro, I'm fine now. But with the news you've given me, I'm much better. I wasn't able to give those scoundrels what they deserved, but God did it for us, little sister. He's on our side.

El héroe fisgón (1958) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

Vladimiro no podía creer que el ver a Damián -su abusador- y a Germán -el acosador de su hermana de nueve años- cometiendo esa monstruosa aberración, en aquella zona ruinosa del colegio, lo excitara de ese modo.

Damián y Germán se entregaban al calor de sus cuerpos. Se sabían a salvo de cualquier mirada y, por eso, el asunto les resultaba aún más delicioso. Pero Vladimiro, el esmirriado y debilucho adolescente a quien ellos hostigaban a diario en el colegio, los había seguido con sigilo y se había parapetado detrás de amorfos bloques de concreto.

Calentado por lo que veía, muy bien oculto entre los escombros, Vladimiro empezó a masturbarse. La imagen de Germán abriéndole las nalgas a su compinche era poderosa, arrolladora.

Enfebrecido, Vladimiro continuó agitándose la pinga. Un momento después, eyaculó.  

Aliviados sus ímpetus, aquilató con frialdad la situación. Lo que acababa de ver significaría la destrucción total de Germán y Damián. Si todo el mundo se enteraba, no solo tendrían que cambiarse de colegio; tendrían que irse del planeta.  

Ahora, debía buscar el modo de probarle al mundo lo que esos dos hacían a escondidas. Estaba seguro de que ese encuentro no era el primero. Debía de ser uno de tantos que obedecían a una costumbre que tendría que estudiar con paciencia y sigilo para sorprenderlos en pleno acto.

***

¿Otra vez te molestaron?, dijo Vladimiro. Le acercó un pañuelo a su hermana. La niña lloraba quedamente en una esquina de la diminuta sala de la casa. La familia ocupaba lo que, en los opulentos tiempos del abuelo Guillermo, fue el galpón de los sirvientes. Era lo único que le había tocado en herencia a Pancho, el padre.

La niña seguía en silencio. Las penas le sofocaban las palabras.

Tranquila, ¿ya? Dime, ¿otra vez te molestó Germán?

Un temblorcillo gemebundo fue la respuesta.

Después, apenas dejándose oír, agregó: Germán y Damián. Los dos.

Vladimiro contuvo un grito de rabia.

Ven, vamos al cuarto. Le extendió un pañuelo. Ten, sécate. Es mejor que Francisco no te vea así. Cuando llegue borracho, se la agarrará contigo.

Se refugiaron en la habitación que compartían con sus otros tres hermanos en camarotes apretujados.

Ya es tiempo de borrarlos del mapa, se dijo antes de dormir. Ya es tiempo de sacarlos de nuestras vidas.

***

Los tenía estudiados. Todos los jueves al mediodía, se hacían humo. Nadie los echaba de menos. Iban a parar al descampado, en el mismo sitio. Se bajaban los pantalones y empezaban sus cochinadas.  

Este jueves en particular, Vladimiro iba premunido de una diminuta cámara fotográfica. Un invento de su abuelo Guillermo. La nitidez de las imágenes reproducidas no era la mejor, pero sí la suficiente para reconocer los rostros de los depravados.

Venció el impulso de tocarse y se enfocó en registrar todas las posturas que la cinta de la cámara le permitió.

Aprovechen sus últimos días, pensó con cada clic de la máquina. No se imaginan lo que se les viene.

***

¿Te enteraste?, le anunció con una sonrisa. Hacía tiempo no estaba tan contenta.

¿De qué?, se hizo el loco. Dime, ¿de qué te has enterado?, sonrió.

***

Sendos sobres llegaron a las casas de Germán y Damián. Los abrieron sus padres, unos hombres católicamente despiadados.

Tras descubrir el contenido de los envíos, les partieron las nalgas a sus hijos sin ningún tipo de misericordia.

Una nota acompañaba a las fotos. Recomendaba retirar a los muchachos del colegio o las fotografías serían del conocimiento general.

***

¿Los expulsaron?

Sí, dijo ella, alegre como nunca.  

¿Por qué?

No lo sé. Tampoco me interesa. Miró a la pared. Echó a andar conjeturas. Seguro por fin descubrieron que eran unos malvados. Clavó los ojos en los de su hermano. Lo único que me importa es que ya no volverán a molestarnos. El colegio será un lindo lugar. Hoy fue un día perfecto, por ejemplo. Pero qué desconsiderada que soy, hermanito, ¿ya estás mejor de tu tos?

Sí, dijo Vladimiro, ya estoy bien. Pero con la noticia que me has dado, estoy mucho mejor. No fui capaz de darles su merecido a esos bribones, pero Dios lo hizo por nosotros, hermanita. Él está de nuestro lado.

Nitrous oxide addict - "AUSSIE FLASH STORIES" Book of Short Stories by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - 12

 

The nang’s first conquest was my arms. I discovered it the moment I tried to grab a piece of toilet paper. Not only was I unable to perform such a simple and routine movement, but a horrendous pain also assaulted my muscles.

I wanted to scream, but I held back. I wasn’t the only person in the bathroom; through the cubicle door, I could hear the presence of at least a couple of other office workers.

***

They call them nangs and they contain laughing gas, which is actually nitrous oxide. If you inhale it, you’ll feel the barriers that limit your mind crumble. You’ll be able to express yourself freely and laugh at the world’s seriousness.

And if you get hooked on that feeling, so free of prejudice and so sensorially light, your body will end up trapped right in the same barriers you thought you had torn down. Your muscles will become soft, whiny nuisances, and your brain will wander among swirling dizzy spells that push it towards an extreme lightness until it settles into an absolute numbness.

This last part, however, I’m not going to tell you because I don’t know it. I’m just a salesman. My display window overflows with products and I don’t have the time—nor the intention—to get to know them all in detail. My job isn’t to warn; it’s to sell. So you won’t hear that last part from my mouth. I just offer you the product.

Nangs are available in some Australian shops like this one. And for a modest price, I can sell you the nangs along with some cigarettes and mints to make your trip more pleasant. Are you game?

***

The nang’s second conquest was my legs. When I tried to get up from the toilet bowl, I felt a burning tingling in them.

After giving up on the attempt due to the intense pain, I sank into the bowl. My backside ended up partially submerged in the dirty water. I couldn’t do anything to get out of the jam. Any muscular movement, no matter how small, triggered a criminal pain.

At that moment, stuck in the toilet bowl, feeling the edges of the hole compress my legs and back, I sank slowly and inexorably. I had my entire backside sunk in the cesspool. I didn’t know what or who had left me in such a state of muscular helplessness. An alienating dizziness was the cherry on top.

The cause of this condition is the nang you’ve been inhaling non-stop, the doctor who attended to me and provided first aid at the hospital informed me, after they got me out of the mess.

Who got me out? The office workers from the bathroom and the onlookers who gathered after I, with my last strength, called for help and wished, at the same time, that my whole life would go down the drain of that bowl, disappearing forever.

***

The nang’s final conquest was my will to live.