The Shameful State (13 page)

“I can't do it.”

“Ok, so be it. Have you ever seen your kidneys?”

He rummages rummages and rummages. He insults your badly fucked mother who should have done a better job of raising you like the real mothers around here do. Do your job in God's name, do your job! Around here, doing your job means allowing yourself to be disemboweled. And he does nothing to stop himself from being disemboweled. I'm just doing my job; all you had to do was do yours.

“I fought in the war of liberation.”

“Why should I give a fuck about that?”

He wrung him out like an old rag. Opens him up, tears him apart, closes him up again. Man is worthless. It reminds me of the day when I visited some slaughterhouses in California. It was so horrible that I haven't eaten meat since. But you have to be wise around here: because when you make them mad, they just put a bullet in your brain and the official version is that you attempted to flee. That's the version the national radio station will talk about and that's the version your friends will discuss: “How incredibly naïve to think he could run away from those monsters!” And one by one they'll make their way back into their little corner and will soon forget about you: death only happens to others. But I think such deaths condemn humanity to resurrection; for, without resurrection, then creation is nothing but a crime.

Master Kidneys was pacing up and down like a caged lion, dripping with blood, why don't you take a break for a few minutes and then I'll try out a few Pedro Moulinars on you, Blacks have a thick skin, you can't hold anything back, Blacks are like crabs: you can't tell where the head is, so to find it you've got to pound away all over; smokes a cigarette. Throw some water over these dunces! Freshen them up a little for the next session, and you're reminded of Diaz's words in
Hell at Close Range:
“The fundamental contradiction then becomes man's barbarism against man, and this barbarism
appears as injustice, exploitation, and through all forms of physical and mental torture. . . .” Someone has poured water over a group of men sleeping; a few of them woke up, others the national radio will say attempted to flee, but in reality, they merely saw their kidneys; but over there, are you still able to look beyond the national radio? Those who fabricate other versions of the story can come over and see their kidneys unless they attempted to flee from over there, and Sarcomata, Karnansar, Laminondo, Famo Rodrigues, Damanta, the universe's monologue, the light's monologue, already there in the horrifying monologue of all matter that enters the world. They deflower you, each taking their turn, and you catch Yambo-Yambi smiling at you, you haven't guessed that he'll soon be looking at his kidneys and you smile back at him, “You do know there was never a plot, right?” Yes, I knew that, and he smiles at you again: that's how we die around here, reluctantly, but with a smile on our face, that's the shameful way in which you join forces in the shameful cause of those brought down for high treason, treason of treasons, but who was betrayed? I saw Master Kidneys a few years later. “You remember that whole business about seeing the mote in your brother's eye, but not seeing the beam in your own eye? For the most part my bosses wanted results, and in police work good intentions aren't enough; to get results you also needed a good imagination; I mean who, when it comes down to it, hasn't at least once dreamed of having beautiful women, fine wines, nice cars; who hasn't dreamed of having a great life? I was searching, and since things first went to the police chiefs, I just did my best to please them so that things would go smoothly for me. You really have to have fallen pretty far to have the right to rise up again, so I thought about it and threw everything away and left, because my son there is no greater salvation than choice, and barbarism can only end in demise, destruction, and misery. . . .” I continued speaking but I had already left. Yambo was sentenced to death posthumously because, thanks to Master Kidneys' report,
the national radio decided he had committed suicide in his cell, and Dr. Nourmandi Santos prepared the medical certification of cause of death: Lopez of my hernia stopped off at Alberto Stadium to publicly condemn the man of our hatred mixed in with this heavy anger that's eating me up, Yambo of my bitter entrails, whose plot was to deprive Mom of her national son, Yambo of the legs of every badly fucked girl, who's just gone and killed himself from shame in his cell, and make this long list of curses available to him. I make this other selection available to Mom, with a few left aside for the “Flemish” because once again my brothers and dear fellow countrymen the “Flemish” were pretty useless at hiding their intention to wipe me out so that they could hand power over to my shameful brother Cataeno Pablo; the French have also chosen their man, and so have the Russians and Mom's Latins as well, the whole world wants my demise, and if the head diplomat from the French embassy is here among us today, let me make it very clear that the people's power I incarnate will never leave this sovereign territory of my hernia to go off wandering the hallways of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs at the Quai d'Orsay and then return and trip over some swine like Cataeno Pablo, and don't let anyone deny me the right to arrange my hernia as I see fit in the spirit of the constitution; he parades it around and coughs up a ball of mucus right into Colonel Vasco Nomini's face who's grinning as I'm talking. And he administers ex-Major Douma do Sabato a slap followed by a spank who's busy staring at a group of high school girls while I'm educating the people, he grabs General Fatassio by the ears who seems to have forgotten that I'm the one around here who hands out military stripes, and then he parades it some more before warning my brother, same father same mother, that I'm gonna make his wife swallow sixteen versions of my dick if she doesn't stop jabbering while I'm delivering my speech; then he turns his attention back to Yambo the biggest bastard ever born into the Bha tribe, national bastard, unfortunate national, civet in perpetuity,
traitor from his toes to the hair on his head, and there aren't enough adjectives, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, him, nourished by my hernia, housed by it, enriched by it, spitting in the hand that feeds him, but he came up against it, he felt ashamed and now he's gone and killed himself with this shame, oh! I'm pretty sure I would have forgiven him, because my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, I am and shall remain a good president, misunderstood, always misunderstood, but I am and shall remain a good president, and to prove this I'll pardon all those condemned to death who plotted against me who hand me a written request for mercy, and he parades it up and down; I said a written request. This was met with cheers and a standing ovation, because my brothers, you won't get another one like me, you won't get another Papa father-of-the-nation, and they applauded, the part of the crowd that always annoys my hernia starts to stir, they've never quite grasped National Mom's son's good will, he talks about the only real difference between humans and animals: animals don't know how to be appreciative but humans do! Animals will forever be ignoble, but not humans. And we're gathered here talking about the request for mercy when Darkans says he won't kneel down in front of his hernia because I want to die with my head held high, Léa also wants to die with head held high, Pereira wants to die with head held high, and I won't go grazing on his big sour herniated balls, that'll never happen; then number fifteen came up: you won't believe me but I'm going to die with head held high, then number twelve: keep talking so that we don't for even a second consider this bullshit. Then number eleven: Lansa Marta, how on earth did you manage to get hold of National Dorsonto's wife? With her of all people, the rectangle was squared, a former nun if you can believe it! Oh, and mark my words, a total waste of time: so frigid it hurts your thing. You know the type, girls that are like a cold dead fish in the sack. The ones you have to rough up a little to get something out of them. Then there's number eight who
hasn't uttered a word, give him a minute: now come on children, give your souls a minute, and number nine burst out laughing: we should be thinking of our remains that they won't return to our families, my mother will be forced to cry into emptiness, my wife, my children, my friends, it'll last two or three days, my buddies will stop by for a quick look, Floria will bring something over, condolences for mom, perhaps a little something as well for the kids, but nothing for Elsa because Floria can't stand Elsa, my sister doesn't care for my wife: it's absurd of course, but she wanted me to marry Drobando; Guilliano will also die, he'll fold his arms on his chest because: “I told him to steer clear of those things,” poor guy just doesn't get it, he believes everything he hears on the radio, he'll be thinking about it before he heads off, I had a drink with him on the eve of the arrest, we danced quite a bit, and then went to our respective homes around four o'clock in the morning, the roosters had already started crowing, “How could he have . . . ,” he'd never fully understand how the national radio reported it; I owe Morna a thousand coustrani, he was going to drop by and pick them up and since he never listens to the national radio, he'll drop by, they'll tell him I'm dead, he won't believe it, but they'll tell him to turn on the radio, he'll shrug his shoulders. Madra, what do you think death is like? Shut the fuck up, I have no specific views on the question, but it's probably something immense, that's all I know. Do you really think it will be immense? I don't really know, but immense was the first word that came to mind; one person's life is worth the same as the whole world's. Cataeno, you who were once president, how does it feel down there in your balls when you're right there? Who cares about all this, why don't we listen to number thirteen's story, the only serious thing in life is ass; men make you spit, let's talk about women, all their brains have gone into their legs, the first one I slept with tasted of cookies, that was back in my dorm in junior high. . . . Keep your boarding school stories to yourself and quit interrupting Cataeno; some guy came
in to clarify some of the conditions for a pardon: you have to write down all the reasons that drove you to work with that traitor Yambo-Yambi and don't leave anything out, write down what you think of the president who's agreed to pardon you, and don't leave anything out, and he takes the opportunity to add a few words: you lot that go looking for democracy in your mothers' pussies, it's right here in front of you, but you have to learn to handle it . . . number eleven cried out “Mothers' pussies,” and the guy snapped back at him that the way to answer the dead was through silence; then he took off, and Lansa Maria said: democracy my ass . . . and you can tell his rotten decomposing hernia that . . . Lansa Maria, don't speak in that way, some of our comrades might decide to ask for a pardon; and Agostano started screaming like some lunatic: let them go ahead and waste us, let them get on with it. I couldn't hold on any longer, so at around two in the morning I let Lansa Maria know that I wanted to ask for a pardon; he looked at me for a long time, and then said: I pity you; he looked at me some more, he asked me if it was the fear of death that was pushing me to do this, and then his voice thundered: Is it fear or what? But I didn't respond: then I looked at him and said: It's not fear. Well what is it then? The need to speak out! I see, the need to speak out, because you think they don't know we're innocent, let me tell you, my brother, around here, everyone has found a way to get by in the pretend world, to believe in all the pretend things that go on, and they live pretend lives, and in any case you know they won't bother to read your statement, no, my brother, you can't let them start thinking that we need them in order to die. No, my brother, you're going to get us into a shameful situation, you'll bring shame to all those who know we're innocent, but do as you please: in the face of death we all have the right to do what we like with the time we have left: you can't force people to be heroes. You think about all this some more: and then you decide to write: “Mr. President, these are the words of a dead man, and dead people don't know which language they speak and they've no other polite form of address than the
smell of death, and in any case it's awful to have to die because that's what people ask of you, but that's not the question, it didn't take us very long to learn the business of death; you who are not the president of the dead but rather the president of living; I hope you will read these lines all the way to the very end. This would help you see why you must not only pardon us but also make sure that justice is served; death is not harrowing for us wretched folk that have already been written off, we barely feel its touch, and in any case, I've already said so much in my books, my conferences, during my stint in office and at this hour I should probably remain silent, but I'm speaking here in a different voice, yes, Mr. President, you will notice that I'm speaking here now with the words of a dead person. I've always spoken of love, fraternity, understanding . . . but today I realize that those things can't just be spoken, they must also be lived. But today, Mr. President, this is about us, us and this shameful state (by which I mean state as condition) in which we find ourselves. It is our country, continent, race and finally the Black man in general that is speaking through me. The Black man and mankind in general, mankind in the face of the eternal struggle against natural barbarism, mankind in life with its human dimension, and you have to listen to this voice, setting aside preconceived notions. You know how those racists present us in their humanitarian dealings: Blacks are made for emotion, not for reason. And this charge is historically serious. We've been made to plunge into a wholly shameful historic situation. As we see it, it is for us to meet the challenge. Only our particular experiences will tell us whether those prejudices were right or wrong. Ambivalence, Mr. President! Our most sacred duty is to get rid of our ambivalence before it destroys us. We entered history after a series of bad dice rolls, and I'm no longer interested in questioning the image we have of our own minorities as we spend time deploring the White minorities, I'm no longer interested in questioning the image we have of our own helmets as we bury the colonial helmet, I'm no longer interested in questioning the peculiar
way in which we handle freedom, even if the definition is straightforward: He who knows how to handle freedom is human. As things stand today, I no longer need to breathe to be alive, I'd like to remind you that we condemned Malcolm X's death . . . , we condemned Lumumba's death as well as Biko's, while we were busy applauding Yambo's assassination. But who knows the truth about his death, except for my friends and a certain Master Kidneys, who will ever know, who will ever know that Yambo was assassinated? Torture, Mr. President, is torture revolutionary? Is inhumanity somehow humanitarian? Of course, our national radio that treats our people like a horde of forty million toddlers just announced that Yambo had committed suicide in his cell, but I saw what happened, and my brothers saw what happened, and we loathe the national radio. So the big question we're left with is the following: If we are indeed helpless in the face of mankind's fall, just how much longer do we have left as humans? Why condemn the Africa that kills Steve in order to free the Africa that kills Yambo? Am I to conclude then that freedom is not worth fighting for? That the Black man is a false problem? Well if that's the case, then the slave trade probably was as well, and while we're at it, hats off to Hitler and Pizarro, hats off to Auschwitz and to Hiroshima! But in death, Yambo showed me how to see things differently: now I believe in freedom, as the ultimate human dream, as a basic prerequisite for progress, peace, and happiness. Let's not turn freedom into some kind of fool's trap, let's not turn our respect for human flesh into a farce, for in so doing, we would inadvertently be praising Pizarro and Hitler. And Mr. President sir, I know that you're neither Hitler nor Pizarro, that you were averse to the sacrilegious bombing of Hiroshima, I know that you condemn Auschwitz. But Yambo was assassinated: I have no doubt you will hunt down his assassins and bring them to justice, so I'm here to plead the case of all those who were tortured to death, convinced as I am that barbarism will never be humanitarian, convinced as I am that Pizarro was not human. Us Blacks have been historically christened