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.