The Shameful State (15 page)

“Colonel, they've taken National Mom and that girl.”

Colonel Tuenso, you're really pissing me off, but your day will come and you're going to pay for this. In the meantime I'm going to take care of your brother, your mother, and all your loved ones because infringement is hereditary in our culture. And with this vertical decision of my hernia, that's it, enough with this Good President shit, and too bad for you.

Do you understand Carvanso? When you see these human shits fornicating with your mom, fucking her poor old lady's heart out, fucking her crazy woman's nerves, how can you not think the world is a nasty place? And he cried over my national horse poor old beast dying for the nation, the world is a nasty place Carvanso because the lot of them and I mean
the lot of them
except him Colonel Tuenso that I picked up from the sidewalk, washed, cleaned up, dried off under the sun of my name, ironed up nicely, I had to blow into his lungs to inflate them, he had no idea how to munch on life, I spoon-fed him, showed him how to use his jaw, the correct motion, and all that was left for him to do was to crunch down and you see the thanks I get; the world is a nasty place Carvanso, everyone but him, but no, you must know Mom's proverb:
The finger you nurse may be the one that ends up pulling the trigger that kills you
. . . . And he cries over this nasty world, he cries because I'm beginning to believe in the existence of sin . . . God is right: men are good for nothing but starting fires, century after century, and he parades it about! God is right: we need the Last Judgment, because my hernia cannot understand why you put them on earth and how it is Mom that they've started mentioning your mother's privates, they've started mentioning your father's legs ah my hernia is smoldering loving you and what filthy dog of a response you have for my entrails, what filthy response you have for my fatherly intentions. What an awful brand of meat we are; without me ordering all
the shopkeepers and consorts to buy copies of my portrait, where would all the money you have in your cash registers right now have come from, without me ordering all of them to buy copies of National Mom's portrait at the price you all know, without my hernia that is so strong in the art of looking the other way, what would you have in the country's cash registers?

He jumped out of bed and where's that telegram I want to show it to my hernia, the Pope under my hernia, ah what a pleasure, the Pope, Jesus Christ's father-of-the-nation, let him come in God's name let him come and see for himself, and he made his way into town to see the guys fixing the potholes on the public roads, removing the refuse from the middle of the road, draining the backwaters left by the latest tropical storms, and bury that dog won't you, because we don't want Jesus Christ's father-of-the-nation thinking we're rascals, pick up this dead chicken, move that piece of scrap metal, take this away, dig here, fill that hole over there, and by order of my hernia, so that the father-of-the-nation of the Christians doesn't take us for the last of the rascals; he surveyed every corner of the city, from north to south and from west to east, with national fellow Vauban of my trust following right behind the whole time, and by order of my hernia: paint all the huts white, paint the roofs red and the rest white, let's show the world we're an advanced people, and to prepare for the arrival of the father-of-the-nation of Paradise, he ordered only white horses, five hundred stretch Mercedes, five hundred two-door sports cars, we have to save face even if my hernia runs out of money, what would become of us if the father-of-the-nation of Christians took us for a bunch of losers? He invited all the journalists to the Hotel des Carillons and, ladies and gentlemen, go ahead and ask me anything you like about the functioning of my hernia, the functioning of the ministers and the functioning of the people, at this very moment when we're preparing for the arrival of the father-of-the-nation
of worshippers, come on, now, the floor is open. . . . Mr. President, National Colonel sir, what do you think of human rights? Aha, now that's a good question, I'll answer that one: Man's first right is his hernia, because ladies and gentlemen it may be shameful but it's the truth, and it's no joke that my emblem is the zipper, and take my word: it is the hernia that make the man, and don't be fooled: when the White man speaks of mankind it is to his hernia that he turns, so don't be fooled . . . your shitty power that I have just seized, have a look how it is hand-stitched with pricks; I think I've answered that question, so go ahead and ask Mr. National Lopez another one. . . . He interrupts him to say to him, dear boy, address me like real people do or get the fuck out of my country, and while you're at it take your hands out of your pockets ah you look like you're proud to be White, but my hernia is laughing at you, because the White man's merit is to have brought the world to the ground . . . and that's not a good question anyway, someone ask a different one; Mr. President, sir ah ah let's not have the same people asking questions all the time, you there, ask a question: Mr. President, sir, why the Pope? That's a good question, I'll answer it: because he at least does not spit in the hand that feeds him, the Pope is a good president, there is no better president than him on this earth, trust me on that, remember how National Tonso gave himself to the Russians and how the Russians wiped him out, and National Matos that had entrusted himself to the Amerindians and they didn't think twice about wiping him out, and Juarioni who went and turned himself into a utensil for the French and they didn't think twice about wiping out, but I'm an instrument of the people, that's it, period, I'm not like that Dartanio Diaz who went and gave a chunk of his bald head to the citizens of that Flemishything and poor old Dartanio Diaz, God rest his soul! And he motioned to Vauban of my mom, check out that girl, isn't she something, as beautiful as four women; and Vauban's already extending his officer of prey's claws, I want her tonight, yes Sir!, but I want her perfectly fresh and with no scratches on her, yes you old devil sir! No
bullshit and yes National Colonel, ah Vauban, you see, out of bad comes good, I don't really care for their questions but each time they come here there's always one that's as beautiful as four, who arouses my blood and activates my balls, eh! National Vauban, this beast (he points at his prick) this filthy beast is our next heart, imagine that! And he points at Edouardo Maunicka from the
Tomorrow My Hernia
newspaper, now ask your question, yes, Mr. President sir, what do you think of the financial situation. . . . Ah just the other day I was thinking, no, stop, that's a bad question. . . . The economy is a drink concocted over there in that Flemishy place, what do you expect my hernia to do about it? And Mr. President sir, people are saying that you have purchased several châteaux in Europe? Aha, now that's more interesting, this is a question of space, the Flemish have land under my big sovereign hernia, so we have to have people owning land over there too, and Mr. President sir, what do you think of the death penalty? Lots of good things actually, old chap, do you read the Bible? In any case, the death penalty was discovered by God and he condemned Adam and his concubine, what was her name again? In any case, the death penalty is for women, and for our part, we've replaced it with the male sentence or the sentence of my hernia; it's more refined, more humane, and that makes one hell of a ruckus, because our civilization is a civilization of ruckus, the modern world is above all about making a ruckus; go ahead, ask your questions, this is a democracy and I'll answer them. . . . Mr. President sir, who killed Tarsansio Ahendio? Ah, I'm not quite sure: it was either bilharzia or malnutrition, anyway, let's not worry about our dead buddies: there are still plenty of people alive. Mr. President sir, why do you offer gifts to rich countries?

“Yes, I was expecting someone to ask that question. I give to Vauban's country to show that I too have hands. The hand is a machine for politeness as opposed to the heart and the prick that are political utensils. The hand does not think: it gestures.”

Then he took off to repair the potholes, drain the backwaters, pick up the dead chickens, while waiting for Jesus Christ's father-of-the-nation to arrive.

But on the day the Pope arrived in our capital, at dinner time, as he was dancing with the Christian's father-of-the-nation and was teaching him some local moves no not like that Monsignor, like this, with your butt in the air and your thighs unintelligible, as he laughed his big historical laugh because, Monsignor, you're stubborn your rump should be lighter, brother Carvanso, right at the very moment when the service was offered to His Holiness, lifted the national flag that had been draped over the banquet table to reveal a roast. The guests all jumped to their feet and screamed: Oh my God!

Right there on the large plateau were National Mom's legs and head. The legs were crossed and two big red peppers had been placed into the empty eye sockets, and in red ink, on a piece of cardboard, you could read:
He who uses his big herniated balls will perish by them
. Lopez read the words and started crying.

“Death is so shameful.”

Rivers of tears started arriving from every corner of the country, measured in cubic feet, dear Mom if only you could have seen, I wish you could have seen how your people love you, death is so shameful. His three-piece denim suit, stained with the people's mud, was now soaked with snot, and his eyes all bloodshot. Don't go bothering me with your crocodile tears. He toppled over the twenty-eight thousand six hundred and forty cubic feet container holding all the tears contributed by the people of the fatherland, the one thousand and forty-nine contributed by friendly countries, the two thousand six hundred and forty-eight contributed by the ambassadors and consorts, the five hundred and twenty-nine from the women, now don't go bothering me with your crocodile tears, he gave a great big kick to the saintly amount contributed by the Pope, toppled over the sixteen barrels gifted by my tribe. She loved you all and
look how you go about thanking her. Dressed in that anger we had seen him in back at that time when he had crossed the rue Tarvanso saying out loud: Your Cataeno Pablo, I proclaim him a hero of the nation, your Vermoz Diaz, I proclaim him a hero of the nation, your Yambo-Yambi, I appoint him Minister of the People, just like with your Jango Sunn, Mr. President sir give him the Ministry of Finance as well; ok, fine, why not Justice too, and while you're at it Defense, now those are stories you can run! Defense belongs to Vauban. He cuts off his right hand and gouges out his left eye as an outward expression of grief. Now we'll see what kind of a monster I shall become. And too bad for you: you'll waste me just like you fucked me.

T
HE SUN IS SETTING OVER MY OFFICIAL VILLAGE
,
a light rain is falling, deliciously moistening the raincoats the infantry guard are wearing, these guys are the real deal, they know how to protect me, they've often died for me, and thanks to the late Raondo Hugo ex-major of my hernia, child of the fatherland, national hero, who died taking fifteen bullets meant for me. Thanks also to the late Taranos Pourtanso, child of the nation, Commander in the Order of my prick, killed by flying shards of glass from a bomb that was meant for me. Thanks to my late uncle who absorbed the blast from a grenade that was thrown at my hernia, may God rest their souls, may God rest the soul of my sweet little Polish girl Potiask . . . Mom! I have no idea how to pronounce their barbarian Polish words. But Carvanso comes to remind him that Mr. President the traitor Sarmazo Yarmouna's hearing will be held today, the man who threw pamphlets at your hernia, yes, today, a closed hearing in the palace's courtroom, but he says no Carvanso, I've changed my decision, because of Mom's journalists who don't seem to be able to understand the aspirations of my hernia, things will no longer be done behind closed doors this is the century of starkness, we are the black and white generation, no closed doors in my hernia, we will hear him tomorrow before the eyes and the ears of the journalists, before the eyes and the ears of the television, because this is the century of enlightenment,
and he parades his hernia about deliciously, turning it over lifting it up stroking it up and down gently, releasing that noxious odor into the air, with that love for the people that is stuck deep inside me, that squeezes my gut, National Carvanso says: Mr. President, you must be prudent, Sarmazo is insolent, he will do all he can to ridicule us, he will take advantage of your kindness and throw his meat at you, he'll do it, and if he gets a chance to speak, even for five minutes, he'll blow up the nation, he'll get people to take to the streets, let's not take that risk Mr. President; but Carvanso, my son, power thrives on risk, let him speak, in the name of democracy, because you can't have a country brother Carvanso where people shut up, summon the Nation's Council, summon the ambassadors, summon the journalists, all for eight o'clock and good night Carvanso, it's time for me to have my daily portion of mustard. As usual, he takes his mustard with plenty of spices, he drinks his daily eggplant ration, says his short prayer which is really little more than a sigh: “Dear God, was it you that made me kaki” and he leaps onto my little one from my colleague's country, kisses her with the only real hand he has left, stares at her ravaged body with the only real eye he has left, before serving up “the thick yoke of my big herniated balls” in the midst of the thrashings of this tempestuous flesh that becomes tumultuous, with the smell of my presidential sweat mixed in with the odors of the local nights, he serves her the yoke of his tropical heart deep in this love that you know my girl, my child, my little White girl who alas will never be equal to two Black ones when it comes to these things, because around here testicles are built starting in childhood, they're anticipated, and while the mothers in my colleague's country are busy flattening out their daughters, our mothers are rounding them out, encircling them, that's why my dear those White girls are so flat whereas the Black ones are rounded. His face disappears into the hair of my girl oh be good for daddy, be tender, soft, foaming, be “picassoesque,” don't be like those
filia da puta
who go fishing for coustranis in my hernia, and he tells her the old
story about his prick, he tells her about ex-so-and-so that you must have heard of, he tells her about the late Magloire de Lantana that I found one day deep in my hernia, I asked how he made such a filthy mistake, and he said: “Mr. President, I apologize if I have offended you.” But there are no sorrys when it comes to the business of zippers: to each his own pair; he sees himself again body and hernia before the full Nation's Council; take every historical example sleeping deep in my hernia, before listening to this scoundrel who doesn't understand that I'm not like that Jancio Marti who blew half the Public Treasury on parties and Carvanso I'm going to appear on television to explain to my people why I cannot let Darvanzo Manuel whistle at the nation, but National Carvanso tells him that Mr. President sir that's not prudent. Maybe you're right Carvanso, but I'm a good president and I must do what my people want, that's my duty, that's my life, and he parades it about in that delicious manner, brother Carvanso, we must teach our enemies a lesson, a lesson in freedom, a lesson in understanding, we can't be like Luis de Lamoundia who mistook the nation for his mother's legs, and, in front of the national press, in front of the international press who have never stopped blowing me, he parades it on his desire to teach the world a lesson in democracy, he parades it in front of those god-damn TVs, in that special way, while it emits that noxious ammonia smell and oozes sticky sap; brother National Carvanso come and read the indictment because he needs to be judged in the way we judge traitors around here, you need to roast him in the way we roast traitors around here, and stand up Sarmazo and repeat after me: “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” But Sarmazo just stands there smiling. Now here's one who's going to clash with my hernia if he's not careful. But Sarmazo continues to smile, dignified, and he's watching him, whispers to the representative from my colleague's country: You see how awful people are around here? He winked at the defense counsel, and whispered to my brother whom I like to call Vauban that the real
tragedy here is that these people confuse the president with their mother, because how else can you explain, my dear friend, that some guy who started chewing on your hernia can start laughing when you come to settle the score. Sarmazo says, “Mr. President, it's time to grow up,” he looks over to the diplomats, now gentlemen, it's time to grow up, he tells the journalists, now gentlemen, it's time to grow up, he is greeted with a series of standing ovations in every district, uncontrollable crowds have gathered and stormed the nation's palace where the hearings are being held, and everyone's chanting: gentlemen it's time to grow up, and he thinks this is the end of my hernia. For three days and three nights they laid siege to the nation's palace chanting gentlemen it's time to grow up, a significant branch of the army has joined up with these losers who show no regard for our institutions or the rule of law, who are making my hernia boil, but, Mr. President, it's time to grow up, he speaks to them from the podium, he appeals for restraint and good sense, to the secular traditions of our people, but, Mr. President, it's time to grow up, he calls my colleague: my hernia is in danger, the rule of law is in danger, and my colleague, same hernia, sends him some green berets, nourished with the cadavers of these scavengers who mocked the rule of law, a good week of cadavers, and then things were calm once again and my people must understand why I'm hanging Sarmazo, international opinion does not understand our efforts to safeguard unity, civil harmony and peace, what are you supposed to do with a man who mistook the nation for his mother, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, Sarmazo is a ferocious beast, even his mother asked us to hang him, his children asked us to hang him, his wife asked us to hang him, because he brought down the nation, what would you have wanted us to do with such a man? And he heard the unanimous clamor from the multitude gathered in the stadium: “Hang him!” Yes my people, you sure know how to appreciate the simple things in life, you are a people made of iron not of lead, and you've made it perfectly clear that I'm not anything like that Mario Lafundia
who buggered off to Europe with the National Treasury, I'm National Lopez, Lopez the loved one, praised by all the people, the son of National Mom who is just as loved and praised by all the people, we are the children of forgiveness, but you can't forgive someone like Sarmazo, national vagabond who crisscrossed my hernia in every direction, a Sarmazo like you see him there, right in front of you, an ape of the state, standing naked before you, and the whole stadium shouts out, except for that section that always asks questions, “Hang him!” I hear you my people, but hanging is for barbarians, I can't stand the sight of blood, I hate death, so no death penalty throughout the sovereign territory of the fatherland, we shall only have the “penalty of the hernia.” He climbs down from the podium, takes the knife a virgin hands him on a gold platter, places the knife on another gold platter, takes the gloves, ex-Monsignor Lamizo blesses the knife, then he approaches the prisoner and tells him that in the name of the Revolution and in my own name I'm chopping off your weenie. He severed it with one sharp downward blow, right at the base, taking a few hairs off at the same time, and blood squirts in his face,
madre de dios
, what a filthy brand of male you are, you are a brothel, your blood is spicy, he washed his face in a basin one of the virgins was holding wearing red like the others are. He brings the ceremony to a close and parades it around a little to make it clear that the death penalty is for women, what men need is the penalty of my hernia, because it is their shameful male function that is at the origin of all things, it is their hernias that drive them to betray the nation. The death penalty is abolished for all men throughout the sovereign territory of my prick, I'm replacing it with this national penalty. And since then, once a month, he returns to the always packed National Alberto Stadium to hand down the penalty of my hernia to all the apes covered in hair; sometimes there are as many as ten, twenty, thirty, one hundred of them, and he hands them out to them, in front of the eleven virgins who are there to watch the ceremony swallowing their saliva and the old girls who pity all
these weenies that are being wasted in this shameful manner, and some of the women hang around until the stadium has emptied out and pick up two or three of them as keepsakes, immersing them in formaldehyde, drying them out, or smoking them.