PERUVIAN NOVEL MOTE by Daniel Gutiérrez Híjar - Chapter 06 (Last Chapter)

 

In times of peace, one must think of war.

Niccolò Machiavelli

 

Cleaning up an elderly person’s mess was complicated. However, in Nursing courses, they taught you how to perform this kind of task with the utmost care and hygiene, both for the person doing the work and for the patient. It looked easy when done by an experienced nurse. Mote had watched a few videos on the subject. Even so, when he arrived at the Cannavaros' residence, he was nervous but determined to get the job. Mr. Gianluigi Cannavaro, once a powerful Italian industrialist and driving force behind several food, metalworking, and textile companies, needed someone to watch over him at night and handle his cleaning needs from ten o'clock onwards.

Emilio Quispe, a Peruvian who had been living in Italy for twenty years, managed not only the multiple ventures that had secured him a comfortable life in Milan but also an employment agency for undocumented Latinos. No honest authority was aware of it, yet it was very well-known in the neighborhood where Mote lived. Thanks to this agency, he had landed most of his jobs. Emilio and his partners kept a hefty percentage of the applicant's first three paychecks after landing a job. Few people could say what happened if those first three mandatory tithes weren’t paid. Those who failed to comply ended up in pieces, packed into garbage bags, and tossed into the murky waters of the Lambro River, which cut through Milan like the twisted scar on Tony Montana's face.

***

The first “motherfucker” ever seen and heard on Peruvian television was uttered by Sensei Valencia, a Peruvian sports journalist who gained a bit of national fame after a heated debate with former soccer player Johan Fano, also Peruvian.

The popular incident that gave rise to, or rather solidified, the Brutality movement in network journalism occurred on March 9, 2016. Sensei Valencia was hailed by his followers as the standard-bearer of this movement.

Mote was addicted to Sensei Valencia. He was his favourite sports journalist; his favourite journalist, in general. He toyed with the idea that a president with Valencia's guts and frankness could elevate the country to become one of the most honest and advanced in the southern cone of the region.

The news bounced across all media: Sensei Valencia had shouted get out of here, motherfucker at Johan Fano for criticising the decision of Gianluca Lapadula, a prominent Italian-Peruvian soccer player, to not play for the Peruvian national team and instead try for a spot on the Italian squad.

Who are you? Who are you to tell Lapadula what to do? Mote repeated the phrases that Sensei Valencia masterfully crafted while live on air, tearing apart the former soccer player Fano. Nobody knows you, mate, nobody knows you. And he finished by chanting the phrase that would go down in history: Respect Lapadula, respect him, respect him!

With a president like Sensei Valencia, Peru would stop being a den of thieves, Mote told Jacky while lying on a bed at the exclusive Suiza hotel, on the shores of Huacachina in Nazca. Mote had decided to live it up that week, starting on Monday, March 8. Did he have to work at Caja Huanca? Of course, but he had embezzled so much money from that institution, in a masterful and untraceable way, that he felt free to downplay his boss’s authority. He was absent all week without offering any excuse. He kept his work phone switched off. So, there he was, sprawled out on a king-size bed, with Jacky naked and giving him a blow job, as Mote witnessed how, through the web signal of the ExChistosa channel, Sensei Valencia, fed up with the stubbornness of ex-player Fano, spat out: Get out of here, motherfucker!

That sabbatical week would be Mote's second to last week of freedom. It would also be the second to last week of freedom for Sensei Valencia.

***

He fell for the same reason that the greatest con artists in the world do: greed, gluttony, the foolish obsession with adding one more million to the heaps of millions they already had.

In addition to robbing the bank, having long detected a series of loopholes in the loan system, Mote decided to steal from the customers of Caja Huanca. That was the beginning of the end of his empire.

***

Allora ti chiami Carlo, vero? Non sono un pazzo.

Dai, come ti chiami e che crimine hai commesso nel tuo paese? (Then your name is Carlo, right? I'm not an idiot. Come on, what’s your name, and what crime did you commit in your country?) That’s how direct Mr. Cannavaro was. There’s a reason he had been one of the most powerful and richest men in Milan.

Mote, pretending to be confused, insisted that his name was Carlo and that he was unaware of any crimes. The old man straightened in his seat, adjusted the blanket over his lap, and told Mote not only his real name but also the name of his wife, Roxana, and his little girl, Alice. He then detailed the fraud charges for which he was still wanted by the authorities in Peru.

Quindi non mi prenderai in giro, pezzo di merda (So you’re not going to fool me, you piece of shit), Don Gianluigi added.

The blank look on Mote’s face was of the most primitive kind. His expression confirmed everything the octogenarian had said.

Se vuoi riscuotere lo stipendio che ti pagherò, sarà meglio che tu mi dica sempre la verità. Hai capito? (If you want to collect the salary I'm going to pay you, you'd better always tell me the truth. Got it?)

The old man had spoken clearly and sternly. Mote had no doubt about how well-connected and informed Don Gianluigi was. After promising to do as he said and letting the fright pass, he confirmed that he wasn’t called Carlo and elaborated on the stories of his scams in Peru. The old man’s eyes, covered by thick, long eyebrows, were glued to the tale. Tutti commettiamo errori, ragazzo (We all make mistakes, boy), Don Gianluigi concluded.

A few tears had come loose from Mote after recounting his misadventures.

Il tuo errore è stato raccogliere le mele quando avevi già il melo. Se uno è già sopra, perché abbassarsi? (Your mistake was picking apples when you already had the apple tree. If you're already on top, why stoop down?), the old man continued.

Non ti giudico. Ma mi piace la lealtà. Con disciplina e lealtà si ottengono risultati. Guarda questa stanza (I'm not judging you. But I like loyalty. With discipline and loyalty, you achieve results. Look at this room), Don Gianluigi went on. Mote looked around. Discreet luxury, but luxury all the same, everywhere he looked.

Non ho ottenuto tutto ciò che vedi pagando le tasse e osservando i dieci comandamenti di Mosè. Se l'avessi fatto, probabilmente morirei da solo in una stanza schifosa senza nessuno che pulisca la mia cacca. Capisci? Non catturare mai più le mosche se stai già mangiando altre aquile. Hai capito? (I haven’t achieved everything you see by paying my taxes and following the Ten Commandments of Moses. If I had done that, I’d probably be dying alone in a filthy room with no one to clean up my shit. Understand? Never catch flies again if you’re already eating other eagles. Got it?), the old man said.

Two hours had flown by. It was just past midnight, and the old man was starting to doze off.

Quindi non mentirmi mai e non nascondermi mai nulla, ragazzo. Dimmi sempre la verità. Sii leale con me e forse ti tirerò fuori da questo lavoro di merda e ti trasferirò da qualche altra parte. Hai capito? (So never lie to me or hide anything from me, boy. Always tell me the truth. Be loyal to me, and maybe I’ll get you out of this shit job and move you somewhere else. Got it?). Mote suppressed a yawn, but the old man opened his mouth without a shred of modesty. He yawned until tears streamed down his face. He settled back into the sheets and, as a final act of the night, said: Romolo dovette uccidere suo fratello Remo per fondare Roma. E nessuno ne parla. Tutti parlano solo di Roma, del prodotto, di ciò che resta. Se il tuo obiettivo è fare soldi, fai tutto il possibile per fare soldi. Se per questo devi uccidere tuo fratello, fai pure. Nessuno ricorda uno zio povero e onesto. I film parlano sempre del mafioso milionario. Quello rimane. Questo dura. Non dimenticare (Romulus had to kill his brother Remus to found Rome. And no one talks about that. Everyone only talks about Rome, the product, what remains. If your goal is to make money, do everything you can to make money. If that means you have to kill your brother, go ahead. Nobody remembers a poor, honest uncle. Movies are always about the millionaire mobster. That’s what lasts. That endures. Don’t forget).

Mote, now tear-free and attentive to what the old fox was saying, nodded.

E non dimenticare che cago sempre alle tre del mattino. Sii attento affinché mi pulisca e mi lavi il culo. Tieni tutto pronto secondo le istruzioni dell'infermiera. Buona notte (And don’t forget that I always shit at three in the morning. Be ready to clean me up and wipe my ass. Have everything ready as instructed by the nurse. Goodnight), the old man said before sinking his head into the sheets. Mote turned off the bedside lamp and prepared to keep watch over the old man, who began to snore like a pig with asthma.

***

Coincidentally, on March 24th, 2016, Mote and Sensei Valencia were both arrested; Mote for being caught red-handed scamming a saver from the Caja Huanca, and Sensei for blatantly refusing to obey the order of a young policewoman guarding the entrance to Peru's National Stadium.

Sensei spent several long hours in a holding cell at a police station in the city centre. He was released shortly after thanks to the swift and persuasive work of the lawyer hired by the TV station he worked for. The press captured the emotional moments of his release: the tears on his mother’s shoulder (as he repeated his famous line, My mum, my mum!), the snotty, grateful hug with his saviour lawyer. Mote wouldn’t be so lucky. The time he would spend in jail far exceeded the few hours given to his admired Sensei. It would surpass all his expectations.

***

The nigger's already sitting down at a restaurant, the message reads. He’s having chicken soup and has ordered rice and chicken. He'll be there for a while. Your call, it ends.

Mote thinks it over, reading the message again and again. He doesn't know how to respond. What if they catch this idiot? What if they find the messages and track me down? Will he delete the chats like we agreed? He sits on a bench in Baden Powell Park. One of his fingers is still sore. He’d smashed it with a hammer earlier, distracted, thinking about how old Gianluigi had died in the early hours of the morning. But just a few hours before his death, the old man had given him yet another one of those great pieces of advice that only someone who's trampled over hundreds without being bogged down by useless guilt could offer.

***

(Che consiglio mi daresti?) (What advice would you give me?) Mote asked. Old Gianluigi had listened carefully to his dilemma: the hidden treasure was at risk because some bastard, who had once been one of his best mates, had chosen the path of disloyalty to save his own skin.

Se qualcosa ti ostacola, lo rimuovi. Se non riesci a rimuoverlo, sei fregato. Semplice come quella. Ti scopi o ti scopano? Ho sempre optato per il primo. Hai capito? (If something gets in your way, you get rid of it. If you can’t, you're screwed. Simple as that. Do you screw, or do you get screwed? I've always gone with the first option. Got it?)

That same night, Mote succumbed to sleep. Ever since he'd been hired to watch over Don Gianluigi at night, he’d always stayed alert. But that time, overwhelmed by Gonzalo’s threats, Mote slept like a rock. Because of that, he didn’t notice that old Cannavaro suffered a fatal heart attack, ending his legendary life just hours later.

At dawn, Mote found the lifeless, soiled body of the old man, and in a panic, he fled through the window into the garden.