PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 03

 

Only forbidden pleasures are loved excessively;

when they become legal, they no longer excite desire.

Quintilian

 

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

There, mate. Come on.

They both went out into the garden.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello?

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? This was unbelievable.

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

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

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

***

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

Mote couldn’t finish his Moretti.