The Shameful State (9 page)

He smiled his big smile because we'd arrived, and Vauban, get to your post! Standing outside his little French woman's house, the woman God spent years crafting, he cleared a chunky appetizing glob from his throat and yelled out “Hurray for the fatherland!” then rang the doorbell, the door opened, he shouted “Long live you and long live me!” hide me in your body, National, you that throb in my heart and soul, it's total mayhem out there hide me in your belly, are you ready? Yes, I'm ready, “Long live you, and yes, long live me!” he squirts especially for her this warm version of my juices, and right as he does this he exclaims, “Hurray
for the fatherland!” all Vauban can hear are his national male yelps, his kaki father's wheezing and be good, oh be good, all night long he hears the limpid croaking of a national toad clothed to carry out my duties as mammal of the nation, oh be good, be good, you can hear the hiccups and snorting between the sounds of straining bodies, then a meow, a moo, singing during the act, he asks her how she can be so wild and yet still be his at the same time, with all this chaos, double-locked, your belly as your belly punishes sabotages annihilates; call me “zipper-breaker,” yes Colonel, call me the “night-breaker,” yes Colonel; my dear girl the wind is in my sails, yes Colonel, handle me like you handle your lips, Ok Colonel, make me afraid scatter me all over like confetti, yes Sir, no no and no, over my dead hernia will I ever be like that Zalo who gave orders from his ass, I beg you take those words back, I'm taking them back, Colonel, oh yes be good so that I don't have to come across that awful world of theirs anywhere on your body, that I don't come across their shit in your entrails, ah the sun is about to rise, the night is for my hernia but the sun belongs to the nation, and he gets dressed in a hurry, where are you, Vauban, we're leaving. They make their way back down the hill, he takes his hand in his, ah Vauban, that girl is
terrific
, she's intoxicating, she adds a touch of flesh to the flesh, she really brings you into the world, into the world for good, what an art, what technique, she sets your heart and soul on fire, she dissolves your heart in the blink of an eye, that's what having balls is like my friend, balls that turn into another heart, ah Vauban, not like that bullshit of yours preferring men, she irons her odor into your flesh, for eternity, let's find a place to hide, I don't want the people seeing the other side of my hernia. They hide long enough to let Reverend Father Jean Garbani pass on his way to say Mass to the patients at my National sister's same father same mother Martillimi-Tezo Hospital, they reached my official village, him with his fly unbuttoned, the fatherland is waiting and he speeds up, he steps on a banana peel and falls on his belly filled with pleasure, gets up and quickens the pace until he gets
to his office; the fatherland is waiting for me, he welcomes my colleague's envoy with his fly unbuttoned, he welcomes Cardinal Ourvanso with his fly unbuttoned, he holds audiences for visitors up until eleven o'clock, then National Carvanso comes to inform him that Mr. President you've left it unbuttoned ah Mom and he zips it, stained by my shame, with leopard patches from the people's mud, with my hernia reeking of acetylene and eggplant, a personal gift from my colleague. My brother, same hernia, Tino Garage Martillimi comes to tell him: Mr. President, you forgot to comb your hair, and shows him the armband I'm wearing in remembrance of the one who hanged himself and that my hernia can't seem able to get rid of the shame that comes from dying like a woman, may God take your soul he was less of a coward than the rest of us, and he started telling the story that you have to write down without leaving out the smallest detail he started with the kaki era the national era when the Minister of Testicles transferred twenty one billion coustrani to the State because brothels make huge profits, and get a patent on prostitution throughout the sovereign territory of my hernia, that's my supreme decision! We'll impose a tax on polygamy impose a tax on homosexuality you hear me Vauban we'll impose a tax on spending the night away from home and so on, because no no and no again sex is not an object of courtesy: it is the State apparatus.

Old man, we're no different than other men on this earth, and so why should we specialize in the shameful consumption of women, and he parades his hernia around just like all those who will try their best to contravene the measures I've implemented; he parades his hernia around to let women know that it is for you that I'm doing this because you are women in the same way that National Mom is, and consequently I cannot accept that men keep you in this state; yes, it is for you that I'm fighting, I need your support in this war that even God approves of; he brought them all together in the hut reserved for women, and what happens with your legs is a top priority, he gathered them
ah for God's sake help me and he read aloud some poems by my official poet:

Be beautiful be beautiful

but it's strong we want you

the very strongest of you

with a strong heart and strong eyes

beautiful but strong with all your blood.

He asks them to sing the hymn of praise especially for the women that until today had been little else than a stupid soul in a stupid body, but let us sing the hymn to women in its real version, not the one instituted by the enemies of our people.

To bring the world

into the world

now be a shapely woman . . .

Shit, people have got to stop speaking like that colonel of our shame who betrayed us by saying that the social place of women the political place of women is the zipper and the mattress. All the women applauded, sang his praises, they made him forget those kaki days when he used to say: “Only two people on this earth are friendly, my hernia and my mommy, the rest despise me, the rest betray me.” They spread their loincloths out in front of him, National Colonel, son of National Mom, they refer to him as Mom's only son in spite of the rumors that go around and around again in that poor woman's thighs, in spite of all those wicked tongues wagging and calling her the national whore, mother of twenty-seven illegitimate children all with herniated balls; they set off with him to tear down the brothels because down with shame, hurray for White hot women! And so it was the season when National Mom's child went, with the Minister of Testicles Colonel Estanso trailing him, from district to district, from one township to another, smashing down buildings! But Colonel, don't you know that sex is the poor man's Bible—who said that? Shoot him, we're here to destroy, so destroy! He was covered from head to toe in ash, snot, and drool. Destroy, destroy! All these shacks
of my shame in which women sell themselves on the black market, going from door to door, he painted the legal notice himself:
Tear down
! And the infantrymen came along with him and helped him tear down the structures. He preached the Gospel according to his hernia:
Thou shalt not sell your legs
, and he gave them the following demonstration: the world shall become nothing but chaos, but screwing shall be the next heart.

Poor Colonel Martillimi Lopez: he invites them all in to show them the big turd I found in my special mug, and he has them all take a sniff; that's the smell of the fatherland, inhale, inhale!

“Colonel, said National Torezo, Minister of Raw Materials, I also found a turd in one of my mugs.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Shut up!”

National Loyejo said: “Mr. President, I found a turd in my bed.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

Lajao found a turd in his caviar.

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Can't you just shut up. You're deafening me with your nonsense. Find those responsible; find them.”

National Vouna found a turd in his noodles—how revolting. Find those responsible; find them. Vangadio found a turd in his jacket pocket—find them; Mahoungou spotted a turd right in the middle of the dish his cook was about to serve his guests—find them instead of busting my eardrums. He asked Vauban to play his flute to calm me down. And National Vauban, excellent charmer of hernias that he was, played some tunes from the foggy country. One by one the members of the government withdrew, in silence. Only
little Glemabar stayed behind, young and timid as he was he didn't want to offend Mr. President, Glemabar the Minister of Rocks; my poor child you can go ahead and follow the others. But Vauban jumped on him to satiate his twisted balls that preferred men.

“Help, Mr. President, help!”

“What's gotten into you, Vauban? Get out of here and go and court him in your quarters.”

But Vauban is deaf to the president's call; he's already off rutting. What are you doing? He grabs him by his pony-tail: and our brother Glemabar's complaining in some kind of technical jargon: stop, Vauban, stop.

“Every country has its own monuments.”

“That may be so, but not this one.”

Glemabar comes out covered with bite marks from your dog who's not ashamed to bite and I swear to you, Mr. President, sir, that one day I, Glemabar, son of my mother, I'll make sure he curses his mother. Lopez laughed his big fatherly laugh. What, my old friend, can we do to Vauban? He's not like us who have no other monument but our shit. Vauban is Vauban. The science of guns runs in his veins. Don't waste your time, Glemabar: he'll kill you. But Mr. President, I'll have him curse his father's juices. Ok: but if you kill him, I know my colleague won't come asking me to settle things all because of some sexual misunderstanding.

“Now you choose to show up, National Zabouni?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He grabbed hold of his ears in the ancient manner. I think it's your racism that pushes you to do these kinds of things, but I'm telling you that 20 percent Portuguese blood hardly makes you a full-fledged Whitey. And come to think of it, what stops me from being racist too: I've got 11 percent “Flemantation” running in my veins.

There's a termite mound of fecal matter on his bed. All over his bathtub and in every room in the palace. Find those responsible, for God's sake, find them. For six months the town is invaded with your mothers' shit but don't worry I
will take revenge. And still every indication is that Laure and her mother were behind this, but don't worry, I will take revenge. Cardinal Zino.

“Present.”

“Please, come here before my hernia, and look at what your church has been up to. And in a country in which 80 percent of the population are Catholic? People turning our temple to shit. How can this be?”

And so, for nine months, every morning and every evening, he found his share of shit in every room in the palace. Find those responsible, find them. One morning, Jescani showed up with some scrawny kid, fifteen years old, in his birthday suit.”

“What does he want?”

“Mr. President, it's him!”

“What do you mean it's him?”

“Laure and the Panther: the crapper.”

“No way!”

He claps his hands and bangs his feet to try and scare the kid. The boy's shaking like a leaf. He's afraid, really afraid. The president smiles at him to reassure him. He hands him some candy, some cookies. Lets him stroke his big greasy herniated balls. Maman, this child is beautiful. He gives him some jam. He's really enjoying all this food.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“So you do know I'm the President?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Now tell me: where do you get all this raw material from?”

“What raw material?”

“Where do you get all the shit from?”

“But what shit, Mr. President?”

“All the shit you've been sending us.”

“I really don't understand what you're saying, Mr. President. This is the first time I've ever been to this town.”

“At least tell me your name is Laure?”

“Laure and the Panther. I chose that nickname because it had a good ring to it.”

“What do you want me to do,” brother Jescani asks.

“Kill the child: but you'll see, Laure will still be there.”

They hanged the kid, but the following day there was more shit than ever before all over town.

“That's what I was saying: stop killing people for no reason.”

“Mr. President, we'll bend over backward to . . .”

“Yes, but while all this has been going on, where exactly have you been bending over? Forget it, it's too damn late now.”

He summons Cardinal Nola so that he can see things firsthand and tell his God that now, it's too late. And you my colleague from the country across the way rolling in medals won ferreting around up young girls' skirts, he summons Mr. La Huenta, Global Special Representative for Peace, and Cardinal Rabougla. And let's hope this is the last time we have to discuss this. First you told me that it was my ex-brother, same hernia, so I had him shot on the spot, right in front of you, then that it was ex-Major Mourtani Diaz, and I had him hanged right in front of you. I slit National Darsano's throat because apparently he was Laure and the Panther, and now you're telling me you'll bend over backwards: well it's too late you've let the shit take over and so here's my response. He pulls back the curtain to reveal one thousand two hundred and sixteen place settings with napkins in the fatherland's colors. He shows them the spoons, the bread, and the forks, roaring, “Hurray for the fatherland.”