The Shameful State (7 page)

“Mr. President, we found poop in your bed; looks like Laure and the Panther was behind this.”

He rushes over to see. Mother of Mom! And there, right there for all to see, on top of the photo of the girl, right in the very middle of the bed, lay a steaming blood-stained turd, with undigested stems of wild fruits protruding everywhere. He stares at this odious turd, studded with peanuts and peppers.

“Am I dreaming?”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. President. What you see there is Laure and the Panther's shit.”

“And what the fuck are the infantry guards up to? What in God's name are they doing? Ah, this time I've really had it. And he summoned us all before him: the whole Council of Ministers of my hernia, the female representatives of the national unions for women, youth representatives, the representatives of the High Command of my hernia may God curse all of you. He summoned us all before this anger that's eating me up, diplomats, the Apostolic Nuncio, representatives from the police as well as the gendarmerie, writers, musicians, painters, and no question of leaving anyone out, he summoned us before his kaki heart, and hurry up, the Companions of the People's Action Committee, as well as
representatives from friendly countries, along with the entire Supreme Committee for National Democracy. And he checks:

“Who's missing?”

“Everyone's here, Your Excellency.”

“Good. Now go ahead and take your damn power. I'm going back to the village to grow macaronis.”

He grabbed his eleven pairs of kaki pants, his eleven pairs of slippers, his other pair of work boots and his thirteen Phrygian caps; he picked up all thirteen hundred medals won fighting the communists, the machete Mao Zedong had personally given him and loaded it all into his small truck himself because I see how much you envy the President, he takes his gas lantern, his two mattresses that we had to keep in the palace library; he picks up National Mom's mortars, I can see how envious you all are, the pestles, a millstone, his flask, a gas can, go ahead and take your damn power! He tied up his sheep, chickens, rabbits, hummingbirds, his parrot, his three ducks, go ahead and take your damn power, as he takes down the photos of the girl and those of Mom, he gathers his brooms, he tears up the official document from his oath of office! He tears up the decree that placed him at the head of this chaos of chaos, he tears down the portraits of all your mothers hanging all over the palace walls, he tears out all the pages signed by your mothers in the presidential guestbook. This is when we realized he really meant it, that this wasn't a joke like when National Louvendo threatened to leave, and we threw ourselves at his feet, joined our hands together, and started begging him:

“Mr. President, Your Excellency, please don't leave. You're a good president. You're the country's honor and peace. We started licking his big fat greasy acetylene-drenched herniated balls. Mr. President, please don't go. Please don't go, Colonel.”

“Give me one reason why I should stay.”

“Yes, Mr. President. It has been said that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

And that's when we caught a glimpse of him again, with Vauban right behind him, at daybreak, making his way down what we called Ofmybigballs Hill, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush for sure. We saw him again, Vauban right behind him, Vauban who still loved Africa in spite of his skin color, jogging along now, his fly unbuttoned, we watched him open the letter in which the new head diplomat from my colleague's country across the way presented his credentials and you see Vauban they can't do without us. He reappeared at Alberto Stadium, his fly unbuttoned, electrocuting the crowd and making his presentation with his hernia: “The earth will no longer be the earth; it's up to us to get by and figure out how to live on it.” He started dancing the dance of my people, eating the people's food, and no more bullshit: I'll drink what they drink. And with brother National Robondia, the Minister of Zippers, shadowing him, we caught sight of him making his way over to District 45 and bringing down those shacks in which women were sprawled out on mats selling their wares. And you should all join me in this task; instead of selling yourselves on the black market, you should make an effort to ensure that men grant you a more honorable place on earth than in these brothels. But you can't help yourselves, so much so that we all saw what we saw when my hernia decided the first time around to close down these shameful houses where you were all busy selling your butts. By will or by force I'll make sure you end up where you belong on this earth. No no and no again: you are not politeness utensils, you are not mere items for consumption: the heart of the earth lies in your entrails, and so, throughout the sovereign territory of my hernia, no more giving women the meaning they give to their bodies.

He gives ex-brother Carlos as a striking example, who gave his life the meaning of his gonads and, well, you all know how he ended up. And he gave the striking example of ex-Cardinal Jullianno Moussa whose privates gave meaning to his life and, well, you saw how far that got him. And there's also the example of my colleague in the country
across the way who went and gave his queen gonorrhea and, well, let's not get into that, and you all know how they took revenge . . .

It was at this time that we spotted several trucks heading toward Vatney, the seat of power. We assumed they were carrying weapons and ammunition from Amerindia. But nothing could have been further from the truth. They were in fact transporting mustard supplies. It took us quite a bit of time and science to figure this out: jars of mustard with his portrait on them, made by my new mother-in-law's very own family in Haute-Savoie, because they're going to poison me if I'm not careful. He had just taken Mom's decision that henceforth I would only eat this mustard, I'm done with the dishes my people eat, done with those drinks your mothers prepare and with which you tried to get me.

I
GAVE THE ORDERS TO THE FIRING SQUAD
that executed brother Esperancio. We had to get out of town. He was speaking. I didn't want to listen to him, but I still overheard what he was saying. I can still hear those words. He started by saying: “God is not serious.” Then he repeated it over and over. Almost as if he was trying to convince me.

“Man, ah man, what a fragile creature. Armanda will find another man. They'll live happily ever after. Without me. Far from me. I'm jealous of those who will live on after me. Without me. Far from me. It's almost as if they're taking something from me. But I'm not sure I would be able to say what exactly.”

It's that time of day when the early morning fog appears. I went to his cell and handcuffed him.

“Ah, they chose you for this?”

Truth was, I'd chosen myself. Because I didn't want them to chop him up into little pieces like they had done with Colonel Diégo Corso, I didn't want them to tear him in half like they had Dorzibanso. I looked at him: he looked sad, with blurry eyes, a silly grin on his face.

“Are we there yet?”

“Yes, we've arrived.”

“Well get it over with then.”

He seemed distracted. Then he lowered his head. He said he was jealous of those who will live on. But this time he
was speaking to himself. While his buddies were busy digging the hole he'd have to drop into I tried to think about something else.

“Why did they choose you for this?”

He had to ask several times. He needed an answer. But what could I say? He wouldn't let it go. There was no ill intent: surely he must know that the dead are more fortunate than the living.

“Now don't go telling me you volunteered for this?”

“But I did.”

“Well, I never!”

I have nothing to say to him. After all, he's dying in a position of strength. I probably could have given him an answer. Have explained myself. That way he would have died in peace. Alas! How can I tell him now? I could have made him feel like a comrade right up to the very end. He asked for a cigarette. I'd never seen him smoke. Never. And in principle this wasn't allowed. I let him have one anyway. He inhaled without looking up. I reminded him a priest was available in case he needed one.

“God is more serious than you are: he wouldn't disrespect a comrade in this way.”

He asks for another cigarette, but this time smokes it with his head raised. He's clearly enjoying it.

“So what are we waiting for?”

Does he expect a response or was this just a way of breaking the silence?

“By the way, that hole's not deep enough.”

“Ah, Ok.”

He seems to handle his words differently than he used to. I don't remember him being like this. He holds his hand out for another cigarette: we're out of them.

“You know, it's not that easy being the one sentenced to death. It's much harder than you could ever imagine. And you can't even tell me what I did to you. And of all people, you're the one volunteering for this bullshit: what exactly did I do to you?”

The guys digging the hole signal that it's now deep enough. It breaks my heart. I can't do this.

“You gotta be brave. We're all the same. If it were me I would have gotten it over with quickly. Most likely would have botched things up. Make sure you do a good job. Be brave!”

He climbed up onto the mound. I thought he was going to turn his back on us as his uncle had done, shouting out, “Shoot me in the back now, you bunch of cowards!” He stared down the firing squad. Do you want a blindfold?

“No, gentlemen.”

“How about a blessing?”

“Why do you insist on disrespecting God in this way?”

The guys are ready. All they're waiting for now are my orders. I can't get the words out.

“Attention! Ready: aim!”

Everything's ready, my God everything's ready. Goodbye Esperancio. I want things to be over with quickly. But I just can't do it. I've lost my voice. Esperancio can see I'm choked up and smiles. He was the one to shout “fire” and the guys fired. He fell down. Blood everywhere. We've all seen blood before. But not this blood. All the bullets hit him in the heart. What an exercise! They left a big opening in his back. I closed his eyes. So shameful. So vile. I've killed in Algeria with Leclerc, I've killed in Lorraine, I've killed in Vietnam: that's our god-damn job: to kill over and over again. Look at the blood disappearing. And now which war will you wage, old buddy? You'll be old one day. They'll send you packing with anachronistic medals. Your body riddled with gout. Unless they kill you like this: aim, fire! And you drop to the ground face down in the dirt. He feels like he's about to puke.

“It's almost cowardly to come into the world when the die is cast. Most of you were still breastfeeding when the real business went down. Those of us who are older asked for and obtained Independence, and you have no idea what sacrifices we made, and as thanks all you want to do is execute
us. Take a good look at history. I'm the last of a dying breed. There should be a ban on people under fifty holding public office.”

Ah, on this September morning. He was having his morning dose of Bénédicta mustard, straddling his little French woman Evelyne Ollayat with his big kaki privates, as furry as ever, and those shiny white teeth we were all so fond of poking out. They announce the arrival of Colonel Juano Jeriano Ombra.

“Tell him to wait a few minutes.”

“Mr. President, he says it's urgent.”

“He's not the president, I am.”

Without warning he enters the room. And there he is: drenched in his hateful and angry sweat, no longer wearing his eternal uniform, his eyes bloodshot just like his father's were when he was alive, disheveled hair, buttons undone, Colonel Ombra, a disgrace, standing in front of me with lint from his bedding and smears from last night in his beard, I don't understand, and, Mom, his fly wide open but what on earth has gotten into you? You've even managed to put your slippers on the wrong feet.

“Mr. President, here's my resignation letter.”

“But what's going on Jeriano Ombra; why are your eyes bloodshot, but Mr. President, here's my resignation letter.”

“But what resignation? I trust you, hold you in esteem and you have everything you could possibly hope for at your disposal: money, cars, villas.”

“There's no going back, Mr. President, I'm here to hand you my resignation because one day, we will have to leave the country to the children of the children of our children.”

He sets the letter down and leaves. Fine: I'll find someone willing to. . . . Then they announce the arrival of Colonel Fonsio, National Minister of Infantrymen, and I'm handing you my resignation because we will have to leave the country to the children of the children of our children. Then they announce the arrival of Colonel Tounga, and I'm handing you my resignation, and he sets down his letter and
takes off without even turning around to check whether my hernia is about to leap on him, at which point Lieutenant-Colonel Vansio Fernandez enters to hand in his resignation because we will have to leave the country to the children of the children of our children but not in this shameful state, and even you my son Giovanno Lanza, followed by my son Fentas Manuello Couba, and you my son that I appointed general only the day before yesterday, and you, and you and you? One by one the whole government appeared before my hernia to leave the country to the children of the children of our children of my shame, what a woeful lot! And all the military leaders who want to leave the country to the children of the children of our children, same for my fourteen fortune-tellers, my twelve cooks, Aunt Outézo Jelia, both uncles, and my sixty-seven illegitimate children. His office now looks like a garbage can, every kind of paper, every color, crumpled, crossed out, chewed up, anxiously torn up, grubby, but we want to leave the country to the children of the children of our children. His throat swells with anger. I don't understand the people around here. National Mom came to comfort him. But he sees Jescani enter: they close their eyes.