The Shameful State (6 page)

“Dorzibanso, don't go remaking the Lord in your image. No no and no again: there's no trifling with the bites of a hernia.”

He kneels down as he would before the Lord, and begs him: “Dorzibanso, my cheek held out for you, for the love of thy neighbor, if you don't want to chow down on my herniated balls in seven sessions,” and then he switches his tone: “You can't do this to me; remember how you became a cardinal with the support of dick, ah, my hernia is sad! We've always been good friends, friends and brothers, try and understand.”

But there was nothing to be done, this leech won't go along with him, he mimics the voice, he says things in National Mom's mother tongue and amen! The people answer, amen. Folks didn't seem aware this was a hoax. He paraded his hernia around, his chest tinkling with the medals he had won fighting Russia who came to sell my hernia ideas rather than feeding my people. Ha, my people: we have here the proverbial truth of that
The voice don't make the man
.

Dorzibanso was locked away after the church ceremony to make sure no one would find out the secret of the Mass said in Mom's mother tongue. Then came the big night and the gala where he danced with Princess Honglanni leaving behind his trail of strong sweat and smearing her with
mud. He also danced with Colonel Domingo Pinto's ex-wife and smeared the people's mud on her too, as he did with the mayor of Zamba-Town's ex-wife, and Her Majesty the Queen of the Flemish; he danced with all those invited by my hernia and smeared them all with the people's mud.

“This earth will accompany me to the grave.”

He also offered General de Laborderie, my first wife's father, the people's mud. As he danced the dance of my people, he distributed mud to all the men. By three in the morning, his hernia really started to reek. Truly nauseating vapors. Enough to make you puke. Stomach-churning. The scales on his sweltering herniated balls secreted a revolting stench. Stale juices. As he danced the dance of my people, a loincloth fastened around the waist, his hernia began to stink in that historic way, giving off a rotten nitrous odor. His brochette of medals chimed away. He sang in honor of my colleague whose country came later than ours. After the big feast and binge drinking where he got loaded the way the people do, he collapsed in an armchair right there in the middle of the party, both hands gripping his hernia.

“Don't disturb him.”

In shirtsleeves, buttons in the wrong hole, holding his socks, National Carvanso comes to let him know that Mr. President sir your new spouse has hanged herself.

“What do you mean
hanged
?”

“Yes, Mr. President, she has hanged herself.”

“I . . . I don't understand. What language are you speaking, Carvanso?”

“She killed herself.”

“My herniated balls have dropped.”

He thinks aloud just how magical last night was. As enchanting as a campfire. We danced together. I listened to her heart beating against my chest. Ha, that tempestuous shape of a body. Tender and made in the likeness of a goddess. With lips that incite fear and lunacy. There she stood, well-calculated, designed in the very image of my hernia. With her milk-filled breath, child of my own knotted breath. What do you mean
hanged
? Is what you're saying
there true? He sheds real tears the way we do, and it was clear he loved her. He's been bawling for the past six days, drowning in tears and snot, hasn't touched his food, his eyes are covered because I can still feel but I would never dare look at her corpse. Three times now he's tried to kill himself over your body that's punishing me. Each time our brother Carvanso got there just in time. Colonel that I like to call Vauban consoles him. National Mom consoles him.

“I let her have the very best copy I had of my soul.”

While the infantrymen were busy handing out black armbands to the people at three hundred coustrani each for the period of mourning, ah National Mom I'm inconsolable: he sets off to Italy, France, and Gainesville on a journey of mourning, ah good God I'm inconsolable! He accompanies her glass hearse all the way to the foot of Mount Fuji. . . . Ah! Then he heads to Tahiti.

“What do you mean, but what do you mean
hanged
? I gave her everything: my hernia, the nation, my heart, my strength . . . I gave her everything, and I mean
everything
. I even threw myself at her feet like a big mistake.”

When he returned home, brother Carvanso brought Camizo Diaz before him, who along with thirty-six mutinous infantrymen revolted, such incredible cowardice. To attempt to take power when I'm away, you see how the mice play here? And who's at the head of this mousetrap, no other than that Camizo Diaz whom I personally went and found at the other end of the fatherland, who didn't have the slightest idea in those days as to how to eat a sausage. I promoted him to Sergeant, then raised him to Captain then to Colonel just like everyone else, and this is the thanks I get. And just look at him standing there all naked my brothers and dear fellow countrymen. What more does he have than my hernia?

That section of the crowd that always makes things harder than they need to be shouted out: “The hernia,” and Mom's Lopez burst out laughing: “That's it, I'm better now.” And he orders Carvanso to cut off Colonel Camino Diaz's speech instrument, go ahead and preserve him in formaldehyde,
and have him put up on the wall in my bedroom next to the portrait of Mom, just below the portrait of my late wife Atélu-Léa, who died for the fatherland, hanged by those fucking idiots who wanted me to believe that she hanged herself but what do you mean
hanged
? Now please, let's get the investigation underway.

W
HAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE
if I'd been like Yao Tananso, who would call the Nation's Council to an urgent meeting for just about any bullshit reason like when my cousin Zozo Portes Luna “slept” my other cousin Argento Comma's wife? I'm not like Dimitri Lamonso who moved the capital to his mother's village. I'm Lopez, National Mom's son, nothing like Lazo Lorenzo who stuffed three cases of pre-filled ballots down the villagers of Yam-Yako to teach them how to vote. What I offer you is the only country in the world where democracy still means something. You get to ask all the questions, and I get to give you the answers; after all, you've had your Lan Domingo who hid the public treasury under Mom's bed, and that faggot Cornez Caracho who gave all the ministers syphilis. Barça Baldi was the one who started all the financial crimes around here, and didn't you go and make him a national hero? And I'm not like that Valso Paraison who took fifteen years in power to take hold of power. The soccer match opposing Juven National and Anzcox will take place right after the speech, or none of you shitheads would have come to the meeting. You love sport and that's how I got you, and that's enough bullshit for Christ's sake! Then he makes his way back to the palace, on foot, to show everyone that the people have never been against him. Trailed by Vauban, a personal gift from my colleague, in charge of the investigation into the murder of my
wife and head of security. He laughs at the thought of poor old Vauban who prefers men even though the whole country is swarming with women who want nothing more than my juices, Vauban with his worn-out backside, he laughs, never, I'll never be like him. And he explains that if the Amerindians became what they are, it's first and foremost because they knew how to handle women.

“What's the latest with the investigation?”

“We arrested a certain Laure and the Panther.”

“Good.”

“But it would seem, Mr. President, that your life is in danger.”

“I want to see the prisoners.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He takes a closer look at the prisoner: “I don't recognize him.”

“But National Colonel, it's him.”

Handcuffs rubbing against the bone. No skin, no eyes, no lips, no ears, and no more hernia. “I don't recognize him.”

“How could you do this to him?”

“He would have done the same thing to you, Colonel, if he had taken power and things had been the other way around.”

“Ah, all right then! How are you doing, Campalousca?”

“I'm doing well, Mr. President sir.”

“Ah, all right then! But you've lost your skin. You should have known better than to mess with power.”

“Mr. President, you know as well as I do that everything on this earth ends up hurting you.”

“Why don't you shut the fuck up, Campalousca: you're hardly in a position to be giving lessons. And I never asked you to go off and fornicate with those Amerindians. You wanted to die, well now you're going to.”

This is when Colonel National Jescani entered with some very bad news Mr. President. “Speak, Jescani.”

“Speak now, will you.”

“I need to speak with you in private, Mr. President.”

“Don't worry about Campalousca; he's a dead man.”

“Even the dead should not hear what I'm about to say.”

“Ok.”

And so he chased the Colonel he likes to call Vauban out of the room, and he chased National Mom and Carvanso out of the room too. He chased my griot National Thanassi out of the room; now speak Jescani, we're alone.

“Mr. President, the good lord is preparing a coup d'état: because Cardinal Dorzibanso went underground with all those wretched demons from the Sixty-Five prison. Alas, Mr. President: they've gathered in front of the old Sáo Juano Cathedral, singing, and threatening to go on a hunger strike.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Maybe as many as sixty thousand.”

“They are anti-people: kill the whole bloody lot of them!”

“Yes, Mr. President. But keep a close eye on Carvanso: we came across a rough draft of a handwritten letter at his place. Here it is.”

Jescani hands him the piece of paper. He says my hernia is sad. Everyone wants to seize power. And he collapses into an armchair. Why are people like this in this country? Aha! That's Carvanso's handwriting for sure. But I'll let him come to me. He lacks imagination: he wants to be a hero of the fatherland, but trust me, his imagination's not worth ten coustrani. It's always the same with these dickless idiots; they think they can solve every problem with a drop of saliva.

He gets up and walks over to the mirror, takes a long hard look at himself before taking another look at the letter that my hernia got hold of at brother Carvanso's place. No no and no again: you should know better than to mess with words. He looked away quickly, almost as if the sight of his own face made him feel sick.

“I don't get it: even Carvanso wants to overthrow me. He goes to stand in front of a portrait of himself, strokes his big shameful hernia that nature stuck there between my thighs. Fitted frock coat, top hat, medals, gold tassels. Cane
in hand. The other hand resting on a child's head. In his mind, this child symbolizes the nation.”

“What a damn fool.”

Even when I'm right there wearing the outfit of the people. With this body of the people. They can still take me out. Ah, what a load of bullshit. Guzzled by the nation and guzzled by these stupid big herniated balls that get in the way of my old hose. But I, Mom's Lopez. . . . Any other time he would have instructed Vauban or Carvanso to bring him to me and have him explain what's written here. . . . Have him come and explain it with his own drool. So that I could hear him first-hand with my own ears and see him with my own eyes. Ungrateful bandit I even trusted with managing my hernia, managing my conscience. And still, still he wants to overthrow me.

“What a damn fool.”

And if only I didn't care for him. If I didn't consider him the obverse of my hernia. But no, I'm not his colleague from the country across the way who sends his opponents off on a helicopter ride with strict instructions for the pilot. I'm not like that other colleague in the country across the way who fornicates with the ministers' wives. I'm human. I respect you all. And that's the thanks I get? You killed my National aunt and what did I do to you? I could have hanged the lot of you. You even killed my National wife.

“What do you think, Jescani?”

Brother Jescani shakes his head and says that Mr. President sir, you're a good president.

“Fine, but what good is that, you still take advantage of me and go waving your male utensils in my face. Now things will be different and I'm going to fire into this mayhem and tough luck for those who perish.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

He adjusts his hernia and heads out in the direction of Yambi-City where I had a villa built for my little French lady, a nice White woman who's turning out to be as good as two real Black ones in the business of my hernia. He sets out without any god-damn escort and go ahead and kill me
if you so please, I've had enough enough enough! We're not going to run the fatherland as you'd operate a dick. What's wrong with this country in which people refuse to understand that they're not the president? From now on I'll treat you as you deserve to be treated. He spent three days and three nights over at Evelyne Ollayat's place, French woman of my entrails, as spicy as they come; ah Jescani, if only you'd have gotten a chance to taste her. Ah, Mom's Vauban, if you'd been able to taste her, old rusted Vauban who prefers men, what a load of bullshit that is! He tells them the story everyone's heard before, long before my hernia, when a loser like Berthanio became a Pharaoh, and when he made up his mind in the full light of day that the national flag would be kaki. Ah dear Mom, this country has come a long way.