PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 05

 

Someone who knows how to return a favour

is a friend beyond value.

Sophocles

 

You think just because I’m in Italy, you bastard, I’m rolling in cash? You think I’m living it up here, mate? Bloody hell, I’ve had to clean up old people’s shit, walk dogs, haul bricks, work as a security guard, dead tired. And on top of that, I’m miles away from my family. Bloody hell, don’t give me that crap, mate.

Gonzalo’s drunk and has called Mote, who, not missing this golden opportunity, unloads every existential reason he can to convince Gonzalo not to dig up his treasure.

On the other end, Gonzalo seems to be reflecting. He’s gone quiet. Mote takes his silence as a sign of second thoughts. My words are hitting home. I’m convincing him, Mote thinks. He needs to press his advantage and keep going.

You’re my mate, brother. Mates don’t go behind each other’s backs. And listen, mate, having HIV doesn’t mean you’re done for these days. There are blokes with HIV living fine lives. Nothing to stress about, yeah? All good? Talk to me, mate. You’re way too quiet.

Another silence, one that’s hard to read. Mote checks his phone screen. Is the call still connected? Yep, still on. He’s about to say something, but Gonzalo’s shaky voice cuts in first.

I’m in Huancayo already, mate. The day after tomorrow, your treasure will be mine. Good luck in Italy.

Then he hangs up. Mote feels his stomach drop like a rock.

***

The mototaxi driver had spotted him stumbling out of the nightclub, walking in a bit of a zigzag, talking to himself, laughing now and then. This little fish is mine, he thought as he started up his vehicle and casually passed by. Need a ride, mate?

Mote, wearing a white shirt, some stylish ripped jeans, a silver chain hanging around his neck, a hefty silver watch swinging from his wrist, a pair of slick Jordans on his feet, and a black Nike sling bag across his chest, accepted the driver’s offer. Once he was sitting in the small vehicle, he handed over a card. Take me to this hotel, mate.

Of course, boss, of course, said the driver.

***

Young man, young man, are you dead, young man? asked a lady who looked like she’d just come back from the market. She had a bag slung over her shoulder with some potatoes, veggies, and meat. She waved a stick of celery under Mote’s nose, trying to wake him or check if he was still breathing.

Mote squinted his eyes open. Oh, thank heavens, you’re alive! What happened to you, young fella? she exclaimed.

Where am I? Mote asked, feeling his skin burn. The sun was so bright it made him blink.

Where are you? What do you mean, where are you, young man? What happened to you?

Mote struggled to sit up on the same patch of ground where he’d been lying. His silver chain and watch were gone, and so were his Jordans. He was left in his white shirt, now stained with dirt, and his stylish jeans, now dusty. Whoever had taken his valuables had at least left him a grubby pair of sneakers in place of his stolen ones.

Suddenly, he snapped to attention: My bag! Where’s my bag?

What bag? the missus asked.

Bloody hell, my cash, my cards! Mote panicked. He stood up and started frantically searching around.

Are you alright, young man? the woman asked, clearly shaken as she watched him, frantic and desperate, looking all around for something she didn’t understand. Calm down.

Calm down? Are you blind, you old bat? Can’t you see I’ve been robbed? Mote yelled. Startled, the woman backed off and left him there, standing in the middle of a sunbaked patch of dirt.

***

The music inside the truck was bloody brilliant until Borrachito Borrachon came on. Then, the painful memory of losing everything outside a club in Huanuco, thanks to way too much rum, whiskey, and pisco, came rushing back, hitting him hard.

He regretted not joining his mates at the brothel and staying at the club alone, drinking and drinking, trying to impress a woman who’d been giving him the eye for a couple of hours. In the end, he got nowhere with her and lost everything.

On the other hand, the big bloke next to him, driving the truck and whistling along to the tunes coming from his powerful stereo, had been like an angel. Out of nearly a hundred truckers, he was the only one who took pity on him and agreed to give him a lift just past La Oroya.

They’d chatted quite a bit. Mote was keen to keep the conversation flowing, no matter how trivial the topics were. The main thing was to make sure the driver’s eyes stayed alert. He knew that many accidents in the mountain roads happened because drivers would blink off, nod off, and then, bam!, straight into a ravine or smashed into another truck.

A few kilometers before La Oroya, the temperature dropped. The heavy truck had no heating. Outside, it was snowing, then hailing, then raining. The weather in the highlands was erratic and unpredictable. Mate, take this jumper. You must be freezing your ass off. Mote nearly cried; there were still good people in this world, bloody legends.

***

As a financial analyst for Caja Huanca, Mote worked at various branches the institution had, not just in Huancayo but also in the surrounding areas: Junin, Cerro de Pasco, La Oroya. They’d send him off for six months here, another six there, and so on.

In every place he worked, he made not just clients but great friends. One of them was La Tota, a mature gay man on his way to becoming transgender. He’d gotten some breast implants and did relentless squats to bulk up his glutes. Thanks to Mote, when he was stationed at the La Oroya office, La Tota secured the loan needed to top up the funds for launching her venture—a well-stocked pharmacy on the outskirts of town. That pharmacy kept La Tota from having to resort to prostitution, as most transgender people in Peru often do to get by.

After Mote left the La Oroya branch, he lost touch with the one-of-a-kind Tota.

***

Mate, mate, can you back up a bit, please?

The truck driver slowed down. What’s up?

It’s just that I spotted a relative of mine here in La Oroya. As we were passing by, I happened to glance to the right and saw my relative’s face in one of the windows of those houses over there.

Total lie. Mote hadn’t seen any familiar face. But as the truck was leaving La Oroya, and with all the mishaps of that cursed day, he’d remembered—looking to his right and spotting a pharmacy with the lights still on—that he had a friend, La Tota, who might be able to help him out with some cash. As the driver had mentioned when he picked him up back in Huanuco, he wasn’t headed to Huancayo but to Lima. The closest he could drop Mote to Huancayo would be just outside La Oroya. Mote didn’t fancy having to hitch another ride at ten at night in the bone-chilling cold that would have shrunk more than just his balls.

Are you sure, mate? the driver asked.

Yeah, yeah. Please wait for me. I might have made a mistake, and it’s not my relative. And if it is, then I’d stay with them, and I’d come back to let you know, Mote requested.

The driver parked by the roadside and waited while Mote headed toward the house of his supposed relative.

***

Good to see you! It’s been ages! La Tota was genuinely thrilled to see Mote. But what happened to you? Why are you all dirty?

Mote explained the situation: getting robbed in Huanuco, the kilometre-long walk in these shoes that were practically falling apart, for fuck’s sake, the endless hitchhiking, and finally, the truck ride to get here. Which truck? That trailer over there.

Can you lend me a hundred soles, Tota? I’m going to give twenty to the truck driver for bringing me here.

He charged you?

No, not at all. But I should give him something for the trouble. He’s the only one who helped me out. Otherwise, who knows where I’d still be, freezing and in a total mess somewhere along the road. And with the other eighty soles, I can take a shared taxi to Huancayo.

Why don’t you just stay here instead? Look at you. You need to eat, clean up. And what if you don’t find a taxi? It’s nearly eleven at night. Stay here, mate. I’ve got some roast chicken in the fridge. I’ll heat it up for you, and you can have a proper rest. What do you say? Come on. In the morning, you can leave whenever you’re ready, yeah?

Mote thought it over. La Tota’s look was the kind you needed in tough times—a look of genuine generosity. Alright, you’ve convinced me, Tota; I’ll stay.

La Tota gave him the hundred soles as requested. I’ll leave the door ajar. Just come in when you’ve finished with the driver, she said.

What’s up? the driver asked. You took your time, mate.

Yeah, sorry about that. My relative is letting me stay the night at their place. I’ll eat, get some rest. Thanks so much for bringing me this far. May God repay you, Mote said, extending a hand.

Alright, mate. Take it easy next time. The streets are dangerous. See you around, the truck driver said, bidding him farewell.

***

Every day, I close up at nine, mate. But today, I don’t know why, I left the pharmacy open, said La Tota.

It was a miracle, Tota! If I hadn’t seen the lights on, I would’ve just kept going and wouldn’t have even remembered my great friend. Right now, I’d be out there, thumbing a lift on some truck to take me to Huancayo, Mote replied, tearing into a chicken drumstick.

***

But, where are you going to sleep? asked Mote, genuinely perplexed.

Right here, mate, on this side of the bed, replied La Tota, completely casually.

What? You don’t have another room?

Nope. But what’s the problem? I’m not going to eat you.

Jeez, Tota, if you’d told me this, I would’ve just stayed on the truck.

Oh, don’t be dramatic. The bed’s big—you won’t even notice me. Plus, we’re mates, aren’t we? said La Tota, extending a hand with painted nails.

Yeah, we’re mates, Mote relented, shaking the hand.

Right, but before you hop into my bed, you’re having a shower. Look at you, filthy. And judging by the state of those shoes, I bet your feet stink. C’mon, off to the shower!

***

After showering and brushing his teeth (La Tota had pulled out a new toothbrush from the pharmacy), Mote lay down. He was wearing a pair of boxers that La Tota had set aside for him because the underwear he had on stank. A few minutes later, the figure of his benefactor appeared in the doorway. She had just come out of the shower, wearing a loose, very short pair of shorts and a tiny top that clung to her, highlighting her erect nipples stimulated by the cold air seeping into the room.

I’m ready. Want a little tequila before bed? It's great for fighting the cold, La Tota announced. Mote pushed aside the thick blankets and realized: Shit, this chick wants a root.

No thanks, I’ll pass. Believe me, the last thing I want right now is to drink. I've lost everything because of drinking and have been hitchhiking for hours and miles. My feet hurt. I just want to sleep, Totita.

You’re such a drama queen. I didn’t know you were like this. C’mon, sit up. Let’s have a little chat with some tequilas to warm you up so you can sleep like a baby, La Tota proposed.

Warm up, Mote thought maliciously. This chick wants to get laid for sure.

***

La Tota's back wasn't that broad. Her skin was soft. It's because I use creams, lots of them. I've got a cream for my face, another for my hands, and another for my bottom. Oh, down there my skin is super soft, do you want to check? Mote's hands moved in circles across her back. The tequilas had warmed his blood. His eyes weren't focused on the massage he was giving but rather on that arse, which Mote remembered wasn't as round as the one just inches from his cock, rigid and wet under the borrowed red boxers.

Shit, Tota, don’t tempt me, please, Mote pleaded, using his knuckles on his friend’s back to work out the tension. Don’t tempt me, Totita, or I won’t be responsible.

Oh, don’t be mean. I see you've got a good touch. Just massage my arse, then. Just as friends. What's wrong with that?

His hands gently left her back and trailed down, following the spine until they reached that curvy backside.

Shit, Tota, your skin here is even softer! Mote surrendered.

I told you; the skin on my bum is super soft, La Tota confirmed.

And what a great arse you have! I didn't remember it being like this, Mote said, kneading his friend's buttocks. They were firm yet soft. He felt an urge to smack them, but it wasn't the right time yet. You got to know a woman in the heat of the moment. In the preliminaries, things needed to flow calmly, with invitations and rejections.

And it's not fake, just so you know. My bum is natural. Lots of training at the gym, La Tota boasted.

Shit, Tota, I've had my hands on a lot of arses, but none like yours. Can I tell you something?

What?

My cock is hard, Mote said, his voice sharp and raspy.

And what are you waiting for? La Tota replied, parting her cheeks with both hands. What Mote saw was irresistible: a smooth, clean anus, fresher than any woman's. In the top drawer of my nightstand, there’s a condom.

***

Mote struggled to get his penis into La Tota's arse. This thing feels like a fortress, he thought. He felt his shaft advancing by five millimetres at a time. Bloody hell, Tota, you've got a lot of arse; my thing isn’t going in.

It's just that I'm a bit tight, you know? I don’t do this with just anyone. I'm a lady who knows how to choose.

After many attempts, Mote managed to conquer his friend's arse. He made it his own. They both surrendered to unrestrained and delightful pleasure.

Hit my arse, spank me, La Tota shouted.

What?

Destroy my bum, pull my hair, punch me, La Tota begged. Her moans could disarm even the most heterosexual of Peruvians.

Overcome by euphoria, Mote surrendered to his friend's requests. He slapped her backside and pulled her hair while thrusting with all his might.

Oh, yes, how nice. Kick my arse, kick my arse! La Tota demanded.

Mote, standing over the bed, kicked his lover’s backside. Oh yes, like that, kick me harder, harder. With each kick, her backside quivered, driving Mote wild. See? My backside is all gym. No oil whatsoever. Mote lay back down behind La Tota to thrust again. The fray continued, fueled by the thrill of their rough play.

Hit me in the face, La Tota moaned, hit me in the face.

I'm going to kick the shit out of you, motherfucker, Mote stirred, and landed three or four furious blows on her face. La Tota stopped moving. Mote didn't notice that her friend had stopped moaning.

***

What's with this black guy? La Tota says. He looks like he wouldn't hurt a fly.

He’s a good bloke, Mote replies, but right now he’s causing me trouble and wants to bring down my family, especially. Only you can help me, Totita. I can't do anything from Italy, and if I come back to Peru, they'll throw me in jail. You know my story.

Don’t worry. You know I’m your loyal friend. I’ll do whatever you ask, La Tota offers, eager and firm.

You need to go to Huancayo right away. I’ll cover all your expenses, so don’t stress about that. But I need you to be there. When you arrive, let me know, and I’ll tell you how you can help me. Don’t delete that photo of the black guy. In fact, memorise his face, the urgency and seriousness in Mote’s voice touch La Tota’s sensitive side.

Of course, of course. I’ll close the shop right now and catch the first bus to Huancayo. I’ll let you know when I arrive.