The Shameful State (5 page)

“What are you talking about?”

My anger took over: I cut open her belly and showed her the umbilical cord.

“You women are all the same, that's the truth; you don't want us to confuse you with men. Do you know ex-Colonel Miguel Tournanso? What's up with you, Carvanso, why do you come barging in like that unannounced?”

“Colonel, the nation is in danger: Ayelé Ayoko Tite has risen up and is bearing down on the capital.”

“How many men does he have with him?”

“No one really knows, Colonel.”

“Bring it on! My hernia is waiting for them. What's a bunch of upstarts straight out of a shithole like Galzarra think they're going do? Let them come.” Then he set off across the capital on his big white horse, dressed in the way Vauban dresses, his head held high, a hand held proudly across the chest. We prayed he would be killed during this military campaign and that our virgins would finally be safe from his hernia. Candles were now scarce in Zamba-Town: the people had exhausted the supplies. Cardinal Dorzibanso made a fortune from all the extra confessions he heard. I'm remembering all those
huamani
we burnt at night at all the crossroads, poor plant! We stopped eating meat on Fridays: “Let him die.” But he wasn't going to die that easily.

He summoned ex-Colonel Carvanso to make it clear that he wanted the Zamba-Town–Maha railway line cleared for his big balls the week of the wedding; he called Cardinal Dorzibanso to inform him first-hand that you'll be the one to marry us; he sent for his brother same father same mother to remind him to let the authorities know that highways 1, 2, 3, and 4 should be open for my hernia to use, let the Italians know while you're at it that the Three-Continents Hotel should be at my disposal, as well as the beach at Valtaza-Diego; he instructed the Minister of Dough to give National Mom three hundred and twelve million for the catering and to set aside the same amount again for the wedding attire and consorts.

Now hurry up with the preparations. He paraded his hernia up and down the hallways of the presidential palace
to check that everyone was hard at work. Hurry up now will you! Ha, if I was Darbanso I'd have you shot at the first opportunity! And what if I were like Manuel Lansio who took the precaution of having two cooked as a way to ensure the third was giving his all! But I'm a good president and you take advantage of that to climb in my pants. Where the fuck is Razo Fansa?

“Right here Mr. President sir.”

“I've never quite understood why that parking facility of yours never has the right number of cars available for my hernia to use, but if you stumble this time, you're a dead man.”

He has a word with his cousin Martillimi Lavouza who'll never fully understand why he isn't president yet, but if you mess up this time I'll shove the PA system down your throat. He has a word with the Minister of Audiovisuals and National Mom because I'm begging you Mom none of your mommy handmade official invitations, this is how you hold a fork, and the knife this way, the drinking glass like this, hold your napkin in this way and I'm begging you Mom no stuffing your face like a pig, and no grazing like a cow at the table: just remember you're the President's mom.

He drops in on Simone des Bruyères, my babe from Vauban's country, to explain to her why I'm getting married but my heart is still with you I won't stop loving you with an irreproachable love, you are as beautiful as the sun and as copper.

“I want to hear you say I am even more beautiful.”

“You are as beautiful as the papaya fruit in my garden.”

“Even more beautiful.”

“You are as beautiful as the day I was born.”

Mother from Vauban's country. Who knows how she came into the world. Love me in the way people love in your country. He buries his face in her bosom and laps up the droplets that have started running. Show me that the world over is still in the world. Be good. And he plants his fallacious hernia in her.

“Gently now, Mr. President.”

“You can't make love properly by being gentle. Be strong. Don't be fragile like they are in my colleague's country. I'm handling you in the way we do around here. You see, you see?”

He goes and has a few words with Colonel Isidro who spends the nation's money like he sprays his juices about. He reviews his calendar: Thursday night: rue de la Buomba; Saturday night: Payadiso; Sunday night: the Arcades. . . . He goes to say good night to his little Indian babe you should have tasted her Isidro, sober as you are, you would have given up looking for other women: she handles you like no other. That Senegalese girl Sey is a good fuck too, if only you'd tried her. . . . He has a shot of
sowassi
to give him a little boost. This wedding's the chance to get drunk like my people do. He eats and then vomits. Tell me what my people are saying, Comrade Carvanso, anything.

“They say you're a good president. But you're marrying the one who tried to kill you.”

“That's true, Carvanso: she's beautiful in a way no other woman has ever been. She's the Queen of Sheba. Have you seen the hips on her?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I'll take her thrusts anytime.”

He turned away from Carvanso and took a nice long piss in a flower vase just like my people do, splashing urine on his kaki legs, fermented urine.

“You know, Carvanso, I don't see how the consumption of pussy can possibly interfere with the smooth running of the affairs of the state.”

“You're right, Mr. President.”

“You must have heard about Louis XIV, and you know Vauban—well, those guys had all kinds of mistresses, and I'm telling you, Carvanso, screwing is the next heart of humanity.”

“Yes, Mr. . . .”

This god-damn country where the president is expected to do everything himself. He heads over to see National
Thoulouse, also known as Vauban, head of personal security:

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Since no one is currently engaged in anti-national activities, I head out to the districts to see my people. Without an escort: Vauban though isn't far behind, but don't let anyone see you. And he disguises himself as a peasant so that he won't be recognized and to see what the people are saying about him. He mingles with a group of construction workers and shuffles along with them, trampling the mud and dirt under foot. No one takes any notice of him. He overhears them bickering, singing, and speaking badly about his hernia, saying awful things about National Mom for giving us such a shameful son, National Mom who's still fornicating at her age; they talk about that bastard Colonel Carvanso, of his brother who stashed the National finances away over in Switzerland as if we had no need for money; they speak badly of the infantrymen who have no shame or modesty pissing on the nation the way they do. . . . Blending in with the masses, he just goes along with them, joins in the singing. He's surrounded himself with a bunch of rascals. Nevertheless he sings:

If I were a little little mouse

I'd go digging in his big greasy hernia

If I were a little little cat

I'd go hunting in his hernia

If I were a little little flea

I'd choose his hernia . . .

He sings the chorus with them. His denims are now covered in mud, his heavy artillery dangling about to the pace and rhythm of the tune; those who come over to fetch the mud for the hut they're building are picking up the tune.

“My people are beautiful when they sing.”

And he starts singing louder than the rest, introducing words from the national anthem. One guy bawls him out,
because who the hell gets the mortar ready with work boots on. But he keeps on singing and steps on the guy who then hurls mud at him. He's got mud all over him, in his nostrils, his ears, his hair.

“Who the hell told you to get the mortar ready with your boots?”

A big muscular guy knocks him down in the mud and they all laugh at him.

“What's the deal with this guy, he's dumber than a woman's backside!”

And only then do they catch a glimpse of his hernia and they're mortified.

“It's . . . it's the President!”

They see themselves at the gallows, facing the firing squad, the infantrymen on their knees with their rifles to the ready waiting for the order.

“It's . . . it's the President!”

That was enough to send them scurrying off in different directions shouting, “It's the President!” Those who couldn't run away threw themselves before him, on their knees, shaking, licking his big greasy herniated balls; they're in tears, begging for mercy.

“This won't happen again. It's Larso Laura's fault for misleading us, it was his song mercy mercy mercy for the sake of our children; it's Larso Laura who's against you . . .”

“You have nothing to fear, I'm the forgiving kind. Because I'm a good president. I'm not like Alto Maniana who used to hang you like monkeys. And anyway, that song is beautiful. And in any case, you can't stage a coup d'état with clay. You can't seize power with songs.”

And he massages his hernia.

“I'm not like Sadrosso Banda who put stuff in the eggplant. Nor am I like that Manuelo de Salamatar who drank your blood to make him feel like he was in the world. Almost a gallon of blood every night.”

They're singing, but in his honor this time. He shuffles along with them until lunchtime. Then he heads back to his jeep, drenched in mud, and no way I'm washing it off,
I'll get married as you see me now. That's my gift from the people. Where the hell are you, Colonel Thoulouse, oil-rubbed bronze, gray eyes, blonde hair, 5 feet 9 inches tall, lasting symbol of my long and tumultuous cooperation with Europe, 210 pounds of brain and muscle at my disposal, a pederast (every country has its own monuments), and goes home to give National Mom a kiss, you see Mom how the people love me. He teaches her the words to the beautiful song they sang in his honor. The heavens have not been good to him: but they did let him hold on to a lovely national male voice, the beautiful eyes of a wild animal, and his shiny white teeth and goatee. Then, without undressing, his boots still on, grubby, he pounced on his presidential bed and fell like a lion into a deep sleep, sleeping on his seventy-five medals from the war on communism, his hands tightly clenched, fly unbuttoned, a real muddy caiman crocodile, teeth poking out, right hand on his gun, stinking of eggplant beer, snoring.

“I want to get married in this outfit.”

National Carvanso tries to convince him otherwise:

“But Mr. President sir, the Whites will mock you. They'll mock you for sure. Reporters will take advantage of this.”

“But Carvanso, the Whites can mock me as much as they like: their very own Louis XIV only washed a handful of times and that was the life of Louis XIV, and then there's Vauban, and Frederic II. He fell into his historian's laughter to describe Catherine of Russia who . . .”

“But Mr. President, I'm convinced they'll mock you, it's in your nostrils, all over your ears.”

“It's the mud of the people. Let them mock me. Africa must remain Africa. Yes, Africa must give the world back to the world.”

And so, covered in mud, he walked the route past the invited delegations and their representatives. Everyone applauded. He shakes hands with His Majesty of the Flemish and embraces him in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on him; then the hand of Her Majesty
the Princess of Denmark in the way of the ancestors, leaving some historic mud on the back of her royal costume; he embraced all the friends of the people in the way of the people and with the gift of his historic mud. Hey, it's you, my colleague from the neighboring country, and he lets him have some of the people's mud. You can see a faint smile on the face of the people with all these illustrious guests getting a dose of his hernia and local mud on them, on this historic day when I'm marrying the most beautiful girl on earth. And then the delegation makes its way to the exact site where National Mom buried my placenta and no bullshit: this is now a place of worship; then from there on to visit the cathedral my hernia erected thanks to the Good Lord. Next they boarded a plane and headed four hundred and thirty-five miles north of my hernia to see where I will be buried. . . .

Cardinal Dorzibanzo, who's refusing to marry me, is brought in. “Untie him and let him get to work!”

“Mr. President, Dorzibanso says he can't.”

“Why the heck not?”

With his torn cassock, bloody eyes, hands tied, his mitre all wrinkled, they bring him before his hernia.

“I'll cut your dick off if you fail me on this.”

Ex-Cardinal Dorzibanso asks if, for better, for worse, his hernia wants to take this girl.

“But Dorzibanso, the worst has already happened since the infantrymen cut off her speech utensil; they cut off her kissing instrument.”

He gives him his yes, his historic yes and here's her yes, yes for me and yes for her.

“Historic Colonel, Your Excellency, I can't bless this union.”

“Watch out Dorzibanso, my hernia is about to explode.”

He looked at him with astonishment and said it again: I can't do this.

“You're going to come up against my hernia. And believe me, it won't be like banging on butter, so you'd better
watch out: my intestines are growling. You're stirring my kaki nerves and the shame I feel in front of the Whites who'll think I'm no longer the supreme master in my own house. Now just get on with it and bless this union or be prepared to die from this national anger that I can feel swelling. Show some respect for my meat stick that's bowing here before your God.”

“Mr. President, I can't bless this union, not with this girl here who's crying when she should be smiling. The Church would be ashamed, our Lord would die a second time of shame. Because, Mr. President, Christ is watching me and I can't go pounding shit into the scars left by the nails; I can't give him piss instead of water.”