Please Make Me a Man (1962) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

“Everybody strip, goddammit!” ordered the técnico, a fifth-year cadet at the Escuela. “I don’t want to see anyone wearing a stitch of clothing. I want you na-ked as the day you were born.”

He managed to make out that only one of the Trece del Gallo, Julián, was standing behind him, in the same column. The others must have been in the other dozens of rows spread out between the parade grounds and the showers.

“Eyes front, you pieces of shit, front! Keep your eyes on the back of the neck of the guy in front of you, goddammit.”

He had already been warned about this welcome.

“The fifth-years, the técnicos, are in charge of the welcoming ceremony. Those bastards can’t wait for their chance to get even, to give back tenfold what was done to them when they started out as zorrinos.”

“Zorrinos?”

“Yeah, that’s what they’ll call you all through your first year. In your second, you’ll be a dog; in your third, an old dog; in your fourth, an aspirante; and in your fifth, a técnico.”

He had heard all this from Lieutenant López, a friend of his father, Francisco. His father had allowed López to take him to a bar downtown to talk, to give him a firsthand account, from the mouth of an Escuela graduate, of what life was like in that place. He had to be prepared.

“Panchito told me you’re leaving for Lima the day after tomorrow, is that right?” The officer gazed at the effervescent foam in his glass and, in its bursting, bubbling surface, recalled his own days as a zorrino.

“Yes, along with twelve other friends from school. Thirteen of us got in. We’re the Trece del Gallo.”

“Why del Gallo?”

Vladimiro realized that present and future generations of Peruvians, civilians and military alike, were and would remain blissfully ignorant of their own history. It confirmed his conviction that the country was heading straight for the abyss.

***

“Are you scared?” Julián asked. Vladimiro had realized that, when they were alone together, Julián showed himself for what he really was: an adolescent prisoner of a million insecurities. He had barely survived boarding school at the military high school, but Chorrillos would be far more brutal. Lima would swallow him whole.

“Things are going to happen whether you like them or not,” Vladimiro said. “All we can do is understand that and be physically and mentally prepared. Whatever life throws at us is beyond our control. We can only control how we react to it. You have to know how to handle any situation and die with honour trying, if it comes to that. We’ve just seen an example.” He pointed to some notebooks. They were in Julián’s room. They had finished the final assignment for their literature course. The teacher had instructed them to pair up and write a four-page report on a work of world literature. “Don’t go bringing me just any old thing, mind you. I’m giving you a month to come up with something decent.”

Beowulf was an ancient Anglo-Saxon epic poem that Vladimiro had read a couple of years earlier. He had been fascinated by the story of the warrior who knew he would die fighting a dragon but fought it anyway. And he died, yes, but on his feet, with honour.

They had met a couple of times at Julián’s house, not to write the assignment together, but so Vladimiro could explain the plot of the lengthy poem to him in detail, ensuring that the teacher wouldn’t realize that Vladimiro had written the whole report himself in just a couple of days.

“Not even the teacher knows this book,” he had proudly told Julián. “And it’s not covered in any school textbook. I found it in my grandfather’s library.”

Julián picked up the book. It was bound in leather. It was heavy.

“You read all this in a month?” he asked in astonishment.

“Yes, a few years ago. But don’t worry, you don’t have to read it. I’ll tell you the story, and we’ll go over the report together. Here. Take a look,” Vladimiro said, handing him a notebook.

“Easy for you to say. I don’t even know if I can last another five years.”

“You’re going to make it, man. We’ll help each other along, just as we always have.”

That frightened teenager was the only person at the military boarding school with whom Vladimiro felt more or less comfortable. He would tell Julián about the books he had read, and Julián always listened attentively.

***

“First, they’ll strip you naked. You know why, don’t you?” Lieutenant López said. He was smoking.

“I suppose it’s to humiliate us.” Vladimiro smoked too. He was forbidden to smoke or drink, but this was a special occasion.

“No. They do it to identify the fags. When a fag sees naked men, he gives himself away. It’s in a fag’s nature. And the military know it. The fifth-years know it.”

There were few drunks in the bar. It was a Tuesday.

“There are other, less obvious and more laborious ways of identifying a fag, but they teach you those as you advance in your career. When you first enter the Escuela, they use the most humiliating method. That’s the ritual. We military men love rituals.”

These bastards are Confucianists, Vladimiro thought. The lieutenant would never understand the reference, so he kept it to himself. Unlike the officer, he was drinking a Kola Escocesa, Arequipa’s pride and joy among soft drinks. Was there a drink in Lima as delicious as this one? He was going to miss it.

“And when they identify a fag, do they expel him?”

 

“No,” the lieutenant laughed. “They don’t expel them, but they make their lives hell. The thing is, there’s nothing a military man hates more than a fag, because deep down, every military man is one himself. And that’s his curse: a burden that fucks him for life.”

“So all it takes is seeing a naked man for a fag to give himself away?” Vladimiro asked. The lieutenant’s theories sounded more like myths than certainties.

The officer filled his glass with beer. The teenager’s skepticism made him laugh so hard that he let the beer overflow.

“No, son. The stripping is just the beginning. The real test comes afterward.”

***

“Now I want the men at the back to hug the ones in front of them. Hug them tight, goddammit, as if they were your mothers, whom you haven’t seen in five years!” the técnico roared.

Very slowly, fearfully, disgustedly, the zorrinos in the line obeyed. Many closed their eyes and tried to imagine themselves in less horrifying situations.

The buttocks in front of Vladimiro were so hairy that not a patch of skin showed through. A thick crust of bristling hair climbed all the way up the man’s back and ran down to his calves.

Vladimiro obeyed quickly, not allowing his brain time to process the images. That would only make things worse. The instant his skin pressed against the sweaty hair of the man in front of him, he felt something hard, hot, and fleshy against his own buttocks, a little higher up. Is that an arm? he wondered. Amid all the terrifying impressions crowding in on him that day, he remembered that the man behind him was his friend Julián.

He feels sorry for me and doesn’t want to fuck me, so he’s put his arm there instead. Good man, brother, he thought.

***

“Vladimiro, you’ve realized that I like men, haven’t you?”

About a hundred meters away, the other eleven members of the Trece del Gallo were saying goodbye to their friends, girlfriends, and families. There were tears and a sadness that matched the cold Arequipa night.

“Yes,” Vladimiro said.

There was no need to elaborate. A natural expert at reading people’s moods and intentions, young Montesinos Torres had known from his very first encounter with Julián what lay behind the sorrow in his friend’s soul.

“Thank you,” Julián said, extending a firm hand, the hand of a soldier, of an honourable and courageous warrior, like Beowulf’s hand, the hand of the hero Vladimiro had described with such passion and clarity in the literature assignment they had earned the highest grade for.

Their hands moved in a silent handshake that signified and sealed a promise: to stand by each other through good times and bad, whatever lay ahead, through all the adventures and misfortunes to which that battered Morales Moralitos company bus would carry them.

***

“Are you hugging properly? Squeezing each other tight?” the técnico bellowed.

“Yes, técnico!” the naked, terrified boys answered in unison, clinging to one another.

Two sentries, also fifth-year cadets, walked along the line, making sure the boys were doing what they claimed.

“Now, without letting go, jump! Jump, goddammit! One, two! Two, three!”

The zorrinos jumped.

“That’s it! Rock back and forth, rub against each other, keep going, keep going. Squeeze tight! Anyone I see failing to squeeze and jump is getting his ass whipped with a belt!”

The sentries shouted orders and egged them on.

“Sing, sing! One, two! Three, four! Four, three! Two, one!”

The boys sang and jumped.

“Now,” the técnico said, allowing a pause to drift through the air like a fig leaf floating on the surface of a pond, “break apart, you pieces of shit, and get back into position!”

When Vladimiro obeyed, he was astonished to discover that his penis was stiff and erect, pearled with droplets of someone else’s sweat. It throbbed, retaining its slight, characteristic curve to the left.

“Freeze right there, zorrino! Don’t move!”

The técnico’s thunderous voice shook Vladimiro’s skull. Not even the fear of humiliation and the blows that were sure to come could diminish the power that kept his member upright and pulsating.

***

“I’ll beat the living shit out of anyone who lays a hand on me,” Vladimiro said.

“If you fight back, you’re fucked. A military man never forgets an insult. You have no idea which of those bastards might end up becoming a general or the president of the country. Because if the asshole you decide to get tough with ends up becoming your superior, your military career is going straight down the fucking drain.”

“So I’m just supposed to let them beat me?”

“Don’t worry. They only humiliate and beat the fag whose cock is still standing after the jumping,” the lieutenant said. “I don’t think you’re going to get a hard-on, are you?” He burst out laughing.

Vladimiro took another sip of his soda. The stony expression on his face made it clear that he hadn’t found the insinuation funny.

The lieutenant cleared his throat, regained his composure, and lit another cigarette.

“I have to go now, but I’ll leave you with a trick in case you happen to get a hard-on by accident. Don’t take offense or get upset. I’m not saying you’re a fag, but it’s better to be prepared, don’t you think?”

 

It was almost eight in the evening. Vladimiro remembered that he still hadn’t finished packing his bags.

***

“Don’t move a single hair, zorrino, or I’ll fuck you right now. And you don’t want that.”

Every atom of his being could feel the técnico’s heavy footsteps approaching. They reverberated like hunger in the gut, producing the same feeling of anxiety. Then Vladimiro remembered the trick the lieutenant had revealed to him for bringing an erection down.

***

“When nobody’s looking, just quietly grab the bit of skin between your two balls with your thumb and forefinger.”

“The scrotum,” Vladimiro corrected him. As a child, he had devoured a little anatomy book from Don Guillermo’s library. His grandfather’s knowledge had never been confined to a single field.

“So that’s what you call the skin around the balls? Anyway, put your fingers where I told you.”

“Am I supposed to pinch my scrotum?”

“No, it’s not a pinch. Let me explain it properly.”

The teenager took a drag on his cigarette. He had learned from Charlemagne, as he had when confronted with his rival Marsil’s promises in The Song of Roland, never to appear gullible and to keep a straight, stupid-looking face when someone revealed something astonishing or mind-boggling. His eyes and mouth had to remain firmly shut. His sharply angled eyebrows seemed to say, I don’t believe a word of your bullshit.

***

Vladimiro moved his right hand to his scrotum. He gripped the space between his testicles with the specified fingers and performed the movement the lieutenant had taught him.

The técnico’s footsteps stopped. He heard the man’s voice behind him.

“Just look at that. What a cock.”

It was clear that he wasn’t talking about Vladimiro. He looked down at his own penis. It had died. It had shrunk.

“Look at those veins! And that big head! What a spectacular head!”

A belt lashed across Vladimiro’s buttocks. His hands and feet went numb, and a wave of fire swept across his face.

“You, zorrino in front. About-face to the left! Left!”

Vladimiro obeyed without a word. His entire skin burned. He suppressed the powerful urge to rub his ass. Instead, he fixed his gaze upward, avoiding Julián’s face. After turning around, he was now standing in front of him.

It had been Julián’s penis, not his arm, that had been pressed against his lower back.

“What’s your name, zorrino?” the instructor demanded.

“Julián.” His voice barely held.

“Look, Julián, this is how a man’s cock should be when he’s among men: dead as my mother’s cunt,” the técnico said, pointing at Vladimiro’s penis. Then, turning to him, he ordered, “Zorrino, look at your comrade’s equipment. Tell me what you see.”

Vladimiro didn’t need to lower his eyes. He knew what stood before him, a few centimetres below the carefully stitched line of his military gaze.

“Tell me what you see, zorrino,” the técnico repeated savagely.

“I see a fag,” Vladimiro said.

“Correct, zorrino! What we have here is an out-and-out fag. He sees naked men and, bam! His fucking thing springs to life. And what a waste of humanity, of the army, goddammit, with a rifle that size and grenades like those. No, no, we cannot allow this, gentlemen. We cannot let such a magnificent specimen keep dancing on the fags’ team. The country needs men, goddammit!”

Julián’s penis remained hard, erect, and drooling.

“And look at that, will you? All this commotion, and the thing still won’t go down. On the contrary, I think this little butt-boy gets even more excited when men like us talk about him. Do you like your comrade? Do you like all of us, you filthy little queer? Speak!”

Julián’s eyes struggled to hold back a torrent of tears.

The técnico turned to Vladimiro again.

“What do you suggest we do to reclaim this man for the country? Because when we send him onto the battlefield, the first thing he’ll do is offer his ass to the enemy. Huh? Speak up! What do we do, zorrino?”

“Make him a man, técnico!” Vladimiro roared.

“So be it, zorrino. So be it,” the técnico agreed, handing him the belt that was swinging in his hands. He looked at Julián with contempt. His lips were split, and he was holding back his sobs through sheer force of will.

“You, get down on all fours, you piece of shit,” the técnico ordered.

Julián assumed the prescribed position.

The técnico brought his mouth close to one of Vladimiro’s ears.

“Now beat the shit out of him until that cock of his dies and he begs you to believe he’s not a fag anymore.”

The first lash split the skin of the boy being punished and splattered Vladimiro’s own face with blood.

The técnico’s eyes bulged. He had never seen such fury in a zorrino.

Por favor, hazme hombre (1962) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

¡Quítense todo, carajo!, ordenó el técnico, alumno del último año de la Escuela. No quiero ver a nadie con ropa. Los quiero ca-la-ti-tos.

Logró percibir que solamente uno de Los Trece del Gallo, Julián, estaba detrás de él, en la misma columna que integraba. Los otros deberían de estar en las otras decenas de filas desplegadas entre los canchones y las duchas.

Miren adelante, mierdas, a-de-lan-te; los ojos en la nuca del compañero de adelante, carajo.

Ya le habían advertido de esa bienvenida.

Los de último año, los técnicos, son los encargados del agasajo. Esos mierdas esperan con ansias el momento de la venganza, el momento de devolver con creces lo que les hicieron a ellos cuando empezaron como zorrinos.

¿Zorrinos?

Sí, así te van a llamar todo el primer año. En segundo, serás perro; en tercero, perro viejo; en cuarto, aspirante; y en quinto, técnico.

Oía estas cosas del teniente López, amigo de Francisco, su padre. Él había permitido que López lo llevase a un bar del centro a conversar, a que le fuera contando de primera mano, de la boca de un egresado de la Escuela, cómo era la vida en ese lugar. Tenía que estar preparado.

Me dijo Panchito que pasado mañana viajas a Lima, ¿no? El oficial miraba la espuma efervescente de su vaso y recordaba, en su detonante superficie, sus tiempos de zorrino.

Sí, junto con doce amigos más del colegio. Ingresamos trece. Somos Los Trece del Gallo.

¿Por qué del Gallo?

Vladimiro se dio cuenta de que las presentes y futuras generaciones de peruanos, civiles y militares, eran y serían unos felices ignorantes de su propia historia. Confirmaba así que el país estaba yéndose derechito al abismo.

***

¿Tienes miedo?, dijo Julián. Vladimiro se había dado cuenta de que, solo ante él, Julián se mostraba como lo que era: un adolescente prisionero de un millón de inseguridades. Había sobrevivido ajustadamente al internado militar escolar, pero Chorrillos sería mucho más contundente. Lima se lo tragaría en una.

Las cosas van a pasar te gusten o no, dijo Vladimiro. Lo único que tenemos que hacer es comprender eso y estar preparados física y mentalmente. Lo que traiga la vida está fuera de nuestro alcance. Solo podemos controlar cómo reaccionamos ante eso. Tienes que saber cómo sobrellevar cualquier situación y morir con honor en el intento, si fuera el caso. Lo acabamos de ver. Señaló unos cuadernos. Estaban en el cuarto de Julián. Habían terminado el trabajo final del curso de Literatura. El profesor había ordenado que se agrupasen en parejas y desarrollasen un reporte de cuatro páginas sobre una obra de la literatura mundial. No me vayan a traer cualquier cosa, ah. Les estoy dando un mes para que hagan algo decente.

Beowulf era un antiguo poema épico anglosajón que Vladimiro había leído hacía un par de años. Le fascinó la historia del guerrero que sabía que moriría al enfrentarse a un dragón, pero aun así lo combatió. Y murió, pero de pie, con honor.

Se habían reunido un par de veces en la casa de Julián, no para redactar el trabajo a cuatro manos, sino para que Vladimiro le explicase en detalle la trama del largo poema, de modo que el profesor no fuese a darse cuenta de que quien había hecho el trabajo, en apenas un par de días, era Vladimiro.

Ni el profesor conoce este libro, le había dicho con orgullo a Julián. Y ningún libro escolar lo trata. Lo encontré en la biblioteca de mi abuelo.

Julián tomó entre sus manos el libro. Estaba forrado en cuero. Pesaba.

¿Te has leído todo esto en un mes?, dijo con asombro.

Sí, hace ya unos años. Pero no te preocupes, no lo vas a leer; yo te lo voy contar, y vamos a repasar juntos el reporte. Toma. Dale una mirada, dijo Vladimiro alcanzándole un cuaderno.

Es fácil decirlo. Yo ya no sé si aguante cinco años más.

Sí lo vas a hacer, hombre. Ahí nos vamos a ir dando la mano como siempre lo hemos hecho.

Aquel temeroso adolescente era el único del internado militar con quien Vladimiro se sentía más o menos cómodo. Le hablaba de los libros que había leído y Julián siempre lo escuchaba con atención.

***

Primero los van a calatear. Sabes para qué, ¿no?, dijo el teniente López. Fumaba.

Supongo que para humillarnos. Vladimiro también fumaba. Le estaba prohibido fumar o beber, pero este caso era especial.

No, lo hacen para detectar a los maricones. Cuando un maricón ve hombres calatos, se delata solo. Es la naturaleza del maricón. Y el militar lo sabe. Los alumnos de quinto año lo saben.

Había pocos borrachos en el bar. Era un martes.

Hay otras formas menos evidentes y trabajosas de descubrir a un maricón, pero esas te las enseñan en la carrera. Al empezar la Escuela, usan la más humillante. Ese es el ritual. A los militares nos encantan los rituales.

Son confucianistas estos mierdas, pensó Vladimiro. El teniente jamás entendería la referencia, por eso no la dijo en voz alta. A diferencia del oficial, él bebía una Kola Escocesa, orgullo gaseosero de Arequipa. ¿Habría en Lima una bebida tan rica como esa? La iba a echar de menos.

Y cuando detectan al maricón, ¿lo expulsan?

No, rio el teniente, no los expulsan, pero sí les hacen la vida imposible. Y es que no hay nada que un militar odie más en el mundo que a un maricón, porque, en el fondo, todo militar también lo es. Y esa es su condena; un lastre que lo tiene cagado de por vida.

¿O sea que, con tan solo ver a un hombre calato, el maricón queda al descubierto?, dijo Vladimiro. Las teorías del teniente parecían mitos y no certezas.

El militar llenó su vaso con cerveza. La risa que le provocó el escepticismo del adolescente le hizo rebalsar el recipiente.

No, muchacho. Luego del calateo, recién viene la verdadera prueba.

***

Ahora quiero que los de atrás abracen al que tienen adelante. Abrácenlos fuerte, carajo, como si fueran sus madres a las que no han visto en cinco años, rabió el técnico. 

Muy lentamente, con temor, con asco, los zorrinos de la fila cumplieron la orden. Muchos cerraron los ojos e intentaron imaginarse en situaciones menos escabrosas.

Las nalgas que Vladimiro tenía enfrente eran tan peludas que no dejaban un claro de piel. La costra de tupidos vellos ascendía por toda la espalda y descendía hasta las pantorrillas.

Cumplió la orden con rapidez, sin dejar que el cerebro procesara las imágenes. Eso solo empeoraría el cuadro. En el mismo momento en que su piel se aplastaba contra los pelos sudorosos del tipo de adelante, sintió en sus propias nalgas, aunque un poco más arriba, la dureza de un cilindro caliente y carnudo. ¿Es un brazo?, pensó Vladimiro. Recordó, entre todas las aterradoras impresiones que se iban sucediendo ese día, que el de atrás era su compañero Julián. Le da pena culearme y ha puesto el brazo. Bien hecho, hermano, pensó.

***

Vladimiro, te has dado cuenta de que me gustan los hombres, ¿no?

A unos cien metros, los otros once integrantes de los Trece del Gallo se despedían de sus amigos, novias y familiares. Había llanto y una tristeza que congeniaba con esa fría noche arequipeña.

Sí, dijo Vladimiro. No había necesidad de abundar. Experto natural en leer los ánimos e intenciones de la gente, el joven Montesinos Torres supo desde el primer contacto con Julián cuál era el motivo de la congoja de su alma.

Gracias, le dijo Julián, tendiéndole una mano firme, una mano de soldado, de guerrero honorable y corajudo, como la mano de Beowulf, el personaje sobre el cual Vladimiro le había hablado con tanto apasionamiento y didáctica para el trabajo de Literatura que aprobaron con la mejor nota.

Las manos se agitaron en un apretón silencioso que significaba y garantizaba un estar en las buenas y en las malas en lo que fuera que viniese, en las aventuras y desventuras a las que ese bus cochambroso de la empresa Morales Moralitos los llevaría.

***

¿Están bien abrazados, bien apachurrados?, rugió el técnico.  

Sí, mi técnico, respondieron en coro los muchachos, desnudos, abrazados, aterrados. Dos centinelas, también alumnos del quinto año, recorrían la fila cerciorándose de que los hechos coincidieran con la respuesta.

Ahora, así como están, sin soltarse, salten. ¡Salten, carajo! ¡Uno, dos! ¡Dos, tres!

Los zorrinos saltaban.

Así, bamboléense, frótense, sigan, sigan. Apachúrrense bien. Al que no veo apachurrando y saltando le rompo el poto a correazos.

Los centinelas ordenaban, azuzaban.

¡Canten, canten! ¡Uno, dos! ¡Tres, cuatro! ¡Cuatro, tres! ¡Dos, uno!

Los muchachos cantaban y saltaban.

Ahora, dijo el técnico, y dejó flotar una pausa como una hoja de parra sobre las aguas de un estanque, ¡sepárense, mierdas, y retomen sus posiciones!

Cuando Vladimiro ejecutó la orden, se dio con la sorpresa de que su pene se hallaba tieso, enhiesto, aperlado por ajenas gotas de sudor. El miembro latía conservando su ligera y característica curvatura hacia la izquierda.

¡Quieto ahí, zorrino! ¡No se mueva!

La atronadora voz del técnico remeció la nuca de Vladimiro. Ni aun el miedo a la humillación y a los golpes inminentes logró amainar la potencia que le mantenía el miembro erguido y pulsante.

***

Yo le saco la mierda a quien me ponga una mano encima, dijo Vladimiro.

Si te defiendes, te jodiste. Un militar nunca olvida una ofensa. Tú no sabes quién de ellos llegará a ser general o presidente del país. Porque si el huevón al que te le pusiste sabroso llega a ser tu superior, tu carrera militar se va derechito a la mierda.

Entonces, ¿me dejo golpear nomás?

Tú no te preocupes. Solo humillan y golpean al maricón que resulte con la pinga parada luego de los saltos, dijo el teniente. No creo que a ti se te vaya a parar la pinga, ¿no?, rio a carcajadas.

Vladimiro volvió a beber de su gaseosa. Lo pétreo de su rostro revelaba que no le había hecho gracia la insinuación.

El teniente se aclaró la garganta, retomó la compostura y encendió un nuevo cigarrillo.

Ya me tengo que ir, pero te voy a dejar un truco por si se te para la pinga accidentalmente. No te resientas ni te molestes. No estoy afirmando que seas maricón, pero es mejor estar prevenido, ¿no crees?  

Eran ya casi las ocho de la noche. Vladimiro recordó que aún no había terminado de hacer sus maletas.

***

No mueva un solo pelo, zorrino, porque me lo cacho ahorita mismo. Y usted no va a querer eso.

Cada átomo de su ser podía sentir los pasos graves del técnico aproximándose hacia él. Resonaban como el hambre en las tripas y producían la misma sensación de ansiedad. Entonces Vladimiro recordó el truco que le reveló el teniente para amainar una erección.

***

Sin que nadie te vea, solapa nomás, chapas con el pulgar y el índice la parte del pellejo que está entre los dos huevos.

El escroto, precisó Vladimiro. De niño, se había devorado un librito de anatomía de la biblioteca de don Guillermo. Los conocimientos de su abuelo no se habían circunscrito a un solo saber.

¿Así se llama el pellejo que envuelve a las bolas? Bueno, pones los dedos como te dije.

¿Me tengo que pellizcar el escroto?

No, no es un pellizco. Déjame que te explique bien.

El adolescente le pegó una calada a su cigarro. Había aprendido de Carlomagno, como lo hizo ante las promesas de su rival Marsil, en el Cantar de Roldán, a no mostrarse crédulo y poner cara de cojudo cuando alguien le revelaba cosas sorprendentes o estupefacientes. Los ojos y la boca debían permanecer en seria cerrazón. No me creo tus cuentos, parecían decir sus cejas enflechadas.

***

Vladimiro se llevó la mano derecha al escroto. Atenazó el espacio entre los testículos con los dedos indicados, e hizo el movimiento que el teniente le había enseñado.

Los pasos del técnico se detuvieron. Escuchó su voz detrás de él: Mire, nomás; qué tal verga.

Estaba claro que la cosa no era con él. Se miró el pene. Había muerto. Se había encogido.

Mire, nomás; qué tales venas. ¡Y la cabezota! Es una cabeza espectacular.

Un correazo cruzó las nalgas de Vladimiro. Se le congelaron las manos y los pies, y un aluvión de fuego le recorrió la cara.

Usted, zorrino de adelante. Media vuelta izquierda, ¡izquierda! 

Vladimiro obedeció sin chistar. Toda la piel le ardía. Refrenó las poderosas ganas de sobarse el culo. En vez de eso, fijó la mirada hacia arriba, evitando ver el rostro de Julián, a quien tenía enfrente luego de haber dado la media vuelta. Había sido el pene y no su brazo lo que había tenido encajado en su baja espalda.

¿Cuál es su nombre, zorrino?, demandó el técnico.

Julián. La voz apenas se sostuvo.

Mira, Julián, así es como debe estar la pinga de un varón cuando está entre varones; muerta como la concha de mi madre, dijo el teniente señalando el pene de Vladimiro. Luego, dirigiéndose a este: Zorrino, mire el armamento de su compañero. Dígame que ve.

Vladimiro no tuvo que bajar la mirada; sabía lo que tenía enfrente, a unos centímetros debajo de la pespuntada línea de su mirada marcial.

Dígame que ve, zorrino, repitió ferozmente el teniente.

Veo a un maricón, dijo Vladimiro.

¡Correcto, zorrino! Lo que tenemos aquí es a un maricón declarado. Ve hombres calatos y, ¡pum! se le para la huevada. Y qué desperdicio para la humanidad, para el ejército, carajo, con tamaño fusil y semejantes granadas. No, no, eso no lo podemos permitir, señores. No podemos dejar que este portentoso ejemplar siga bailando en el equipo de los maricones. La Patria necesita machos, carajo.

El pene de Julián seguía duro, erecto, babeando.

Y, mire, ve, ni todo el alboroto que estamos haciendo le baja la huevada. Por el contrario, creo que se excita más este rosquete cuando machos como nosotros hablamos de él. ¿Te gusta tu compañero? ¿Te gustamos todos nosotros, so pedazo de marica? ¡Habla!

Los ojos de Julián sufrían tratando de contener un chorro de lágrimas.

El técnico volvió a dirigirse a Vladimiro: ¿Qué sugiere que hagamos para que recuperemos a este hombre para la Patria? Porque cuando lo mandemos al campo de batalla, lo primero que va a hacer es entregarle el culo al enemigo. ¿Ah? ¡Hable! ¡Qué hacemos, zorrino!

¡Hacerlo hombre, mi técnico!, rugió Vladimiro.

Así será, zorrino, así será, asintió el técnico y le entregó la correa que bailoteaba en sus manos. Miró con desprecio a Julián. Este tenía los labios partidos; el llanto apenas contenido por pura fuerza de voluntad.

Usted, póngase en cuatro, mierda, ordenó.

Julián adoptó la postura indicada.

El técnico acercó la boca a una de las orejas de Vladimiro.

Ahora rómpale el culo hasta que se le muera esa pinga y suplique que ya no es maricón.

El primer azote abrió la piel del castigado y salpicó de sangre la cara del propio Vladimiro.

El técnico desorbitó los ojos. No había visto semejante furia en un zorrino.

Your Good Life Is Over (1961) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENT OF PERU" A novel by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

The guy laughed in his face.

"Your good life is over, compadre. Now you'll barely be just another paper-pusher. You can start forgetting about practicing as a real lawyer in the courts, you shitty asshole. You thought you were hot shit, didn't you? Well, your expiration date has arrived."

Francisco read the informative note the guy had handed him: his position as ecclesiastical scribe was now relegated to something decorative, cute, but invalid for litigating in the Peruvian judicial system.

"How long have you been getting away with it without even having done two years of university. You're a rat."

Francisco restrained a powerful urge to pound the guy's face in with punches, especially because he knew he'd lose. He was no longer the scrappy kid from back in the day. If he'd been drunk, he surely would have tried.

***

"Where are you going, Dad?" said Vladimiro.

Francisco made a gesture with his hand. He'd be right back. He disappeared into the darkness of the theater. Vladimiro understood that he was going to the bathroom. He would have liked to leave the theater too, not so much because he felt like pissing or shitting, but because that cowboy movie was a bore. But that trip to the cinema had been his father's modest gift for having entered the Military School, the way the whole family was saying goodbye to Arequipa, even though the only one invited to that incredibly boring screening—where the dialogue was more or less idiotic and the violent scenes scarce and poorly executed—was him.

He checked the time on the watch he'd inherited from Grandfather Guillermo, a disc with a golden rim, white face, and black hands, which permanently reminded him of the pomp of his ancestors. There were still a good forty minutes left before the showing ended. He sighed and sank into his seat. He closed his eyes. Within seconds, he began to snore.

***

"These chocolates are imported. They're worth ten times more than what you're offering me. Don't insist and leave. Let me get back to serving my customers," said the cinema's candy vendor.

"What customers? I'm the only idiot standing here. Serve me like you should."

"Hey, I haven't disrespected you. What the hell is wrong with you!"

"Be grateful I came to your filthy shop to throw a farewell for my son who's leaving for Lima to become a great army general," said Francisco, crumpling a couple of bills in his hand.

"And what do I care about your son. If you want these French chocolates, you're going to pay what they're worth."

Francisco hadn't fought in a long time. He hadn't since his school days. He had been good at it. Then he discovered that by working his gift of gab he could achieve a certain respectability. Now, emboldened by the whisky he had discreetly drunk while watching the movie next to Vladimiro, he dared to land a right straight on the candy vendor.

***

"And this?" whispered Vladimiro.

"A little treat we deserve for the great general you'll become and for our new life in Lima," said Francisco near the end of the movie, in a scene that seemed to settle the differences between the protagonist and the antagonist. "They're imported chocolates. Enjoy them slowly. Savor what quality is."

Vladimiro had never tasted chocolates so delicious in his life. "What is quality?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the sensations throwing a party in his mouth.

"Quality is something the poor will never know," said Francisco, his eyes serious and piercing through the screen where a cowboy was dying without spilling a drop of blood. "Never be poor, Vladimiro, never be poor."

Se te acabó la buena vida (1961) - "VLADIMIRO MONTESINOS PRESIDENTE DEL PERÚ" Novela de Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar

 

El tipo se rio en su cara.

Se te acabó la buena vida, compadre. Ahora con las justas serás un papeluchero más. Ya te me vas olvidando de ejercer como un abogado de verdad en los tribunales, pendejo de mierda. Te creías la gran cagada, ¿no? Pues te llegó tu fecha de vencimiento.

Francisco leía la nota informativa que el tipo le había entregado: su cargo de escribano eclesial quedaba relegado a una cosa decorativa, tierna, pero inválida para litigar en el sistema judicial peruano.

Cuánto tiempo te has estado saliendo con la tuya sin siquiera haber hecho dos años de universidad. Eres una rata.

Francisco refrenó unas poderosas ganas de molerle la cara a golpes, especialmente porque sabía que perdería. Ya no era el muchachito peleandero de antaño. Si hubiera estado borracho, seguro lo habría intentado.

***

¿Adónde va, papá?, dijo Vladimiro.

Francisco hizo un gesto con la mano. Ya volvía. Desapareció en la penumbra de la sala. Vladimiro entendió que iba al baño. Le hubiera gustado abandonar la sala también, no tanto porque tuviera ganas de orinar o cagar, sino porque esa película de vaqueros era un bodrio. Pero esa visita al cine había sido el modesto obsequio de su padre por haber ingresado a la Escuela Militar, la manera en la que toda la familia se despedía de Arequipa, aunque el único invitado a esa aburridísima proyección, en donde los diálogos eran más o menos cojudos y las escenas violentas escasas y mal ejecutadas, era él.

Miró la hora en el reloj que se heredó del abuelo Guillermo, un disco de borde dorado, fondo blanco y manecillas negras, que le recordaba permanentemente el boato de sus antepasados. Todavía faltaban sus buenos cuarenta minutos para que terminase la función. Resopló y se hundió en la butaca. Cerró los ojos. A los pocos segundos, empezó a roncar.       

***

Estos chocolates son importados. Valen diez veces más de lo que usted me ofrece. No insista y retírese. Déjeme seguir despachando a mis clientes, dijo el golosinero del cinema.

¿Cuáles clientes? Yo soy el único huevón aquí parado. Atiéndeme como se debe.

Oiga, yo no le he faltado el respeto. ¡Qué chucha tiene!

Agradéceme que he venido a tu mugriento local a celebrarle una despedida a mi hijo que se me va a Lima a ser un gran general del ejército, dijo Francisco, arrugando un par de billetes en la mano.

Y a mí qué me importa tu hijo. Si quieres estos chocolates franceses, vas a pagar lo que valen.

Hacía mucho que Francisco no peleaba. No lo hacía desde los tiempos del colegio. Había sido bueno. Luego descubrió que metiendo letra podía conseguir cierta respetabilidad. Ahora, envalentonado por el whisky que había bebido discretamente mientras veía la película al lado de Vladimiro, se atrevió a encajarle un recto de derecha al golosinero.

***

¿Y esto?, susurró Vladimiro.

Un gustito que nos merecemos por el gran general que llegarás a ser y por nuestra nueva vida en Lima, dijo Francisco ya casi al término de la película, en una escena que parecía dirimir las diferencias entre el protagonista y el antagonista. Son unos chocolates importados. Disfrútalos lentamente. Saborea lo que es la calidad.

Vladimiro no había probado chocolates tan sabrosos en su vida. ¿Qué es la calidad?, preguntó entrecerrando los ojos, dejándose llevar por las sensaciones que hacían una fiesta en su boca.

La calidad es algo que los pobres jamás conocerán, dijo Francisco, los ojos serios y traspasando la pantalla en donde un vaquero moría sin derramar una gota de sangre. Nunca seas pobre, Vladimiro, nunca seas pobre.

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.