I ran with my belongings to give to a friend who already had his bags packed and was running out of time to return to Maputo. I wanted him to put me in his suitcase. I did everything in a hurry, so that the little box of homesickness made a noise like a mug in a well...
I dragged everything to the hotel. The receptionist, before I even greeted him, diverted me by the indicator to the elevator. He was a tall guy who tapped the mouthpiece of his shoulder-balanced phone to make date entries on a piece of paper. "Reservation for the end of the year, two couples."
The departing guy's room was on the fourth floor. The elevator snored, two Germans with their heads planted on the roof of the elevator, like soccer players singing the national anthem, ordered the elevator to move forward. I stood there and watched by the numbers, the elevator endlessly digging through the building: -1, -2, -3...
—
And in the elevator was the minister; on his lap lay a mulatto woman...
I waited for the second corridor. Hotel maids emerged from the ends, like maggots, driving cranes and truckloads of debris of dirty sheets and sour-smelling blankets from tourists. The elevator again reached me, I dragged my junk out and got in.
And in the elevator was the minister; on his lap lay a mulatto woman with a withered head. Every now and then they meowed words, and the minister put his hands on the mulatto woman's bra. The kisses were laden with gallons of saliva, and within these kisses you could hear their tongues swimming like drowned objects.
—
It was he, the minister of my country.
It was he, the minister of my country. The mulatto woman, who had her butt cheeks in the minister's hands, at one point said, "Look, the clock is ticking here. And the minister laughed non-stop, and when he stopped, he moved his pocket and blew another kiss at the mulatto woman.
We got to the sixth floor, I pulled out my junk, they followed me to the ninth floor. I lowered my mask and said at the last second when the elevator door was kissing like they were: "Enjoy, Mr. Minister of my country". Two minutes later, as I was trying to find the guy's room, I saw the minister behind me: "It's you, journalist, isn't it?". And I already knew that the minister was around, because he didn't show up at the last council of ministers.
—
"that's life, buddy. Who doesn't like to live?".
The minister looked at me like a distressed child in a loaf of bread. He made a long speech and at the end he took out 200 euros and told me "that's life, my friend. Who doesn't like to live?".
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