The Shameful State (8 page)

“No, anyone but you, Jescani.”

“That's right, Mr. President. Anyone but me. You and I gave birth to the nation. I am with you.”

National Letanso appears holding onto a piece of wrapping paper dripping in sauce, stinking of butter and onion, covered in scribble done with an eyeliner pencil, and Mr. President I'm handing you a collective statement of resignation from the guards who've decided to leave the country to the children of their children. He pulls up his zipper so that his twelve mistresses can pass before him with their kids tightly wrapped on their backs, Glézani leading the way, her face flushed with anger, drooling, haggard, as if she hadn't brushed her hair in years, hands shaking with contempt, a resolute look in the eye, she couldn't stop the tears from running:

“Why are you crying, Glézani, my love?”

“Mr. President, here is our resignation. Here it is.” Soaked with snot, all chewed up by the rats that have infested the palace, she hands it over to him with the same hand she washes her genitals with. “Can't you use the other hand?” No question of changing hands. This says what it says. And just like that, he was handed one resignation after the other all day long, and National Jérica came and threw a letter right in my face, but don't worry, I will take revenge. Do as you please, I'm the one in a position of strength. If fifteen thousand guys have to be shot so that another fifteen thousand can live, so be it! “And you of all people, Jérica, that I picked up on a street corner. Alas, on this earth, no one owns anyone. You would have died of hunger and scabies out there in the bush.” Toutansio hands him the resignation from the mayor's office. And Savouansi Luigi Portes comes in with the resignation that's preventing us from getting electric power tonight. And yet, that's also right when Carvanso came in with a handful of infantrymen who'd joined forces with Vauban's men.

“Colonel, we've remained loyal to you and together we will subdue the traitors.”

“Ok.”

We've retaken control over the radio station Ok we've retaken the prison Ok we've retaken the armament store Ok we've retaken the June 11th camp.

“God is with us.”

We've retaken Gatansi Bridge we've retaken the train station and the capitol building.

He places his hand over his heart. Slowly moves it toward his herniated balls that are arousing his fleshy pole. But it's time to go and see my people, and we saw him head over to District 45, guided by the sound of drums. He goes to bang their daughters to celebrate the triumph of his hernia over the forces of evil. He brands the fiancée of our poor old brother Yohassi Loma with his sour juices. And as he passes, the people ask:

“Mr. President, I haven't eaten for three days.”

“Ah, Vauban, give him three hundred coustrani.”

“Mr. President, I want to purchase a plot of land.”

“Vauban, give the guy seven thousand coustrani.”

“Colonel, my wife left me.”

“Vauban, find him another wife.”

“Colonel, when it rains I have water running into my home.”

“Ok, I'll send someone over to lay asphalt.”

“Colonel, the infantrymen raped my daughter.”

“Alas, there's nothing I can do about that: infantrymen the world over are there to fuck. Tell her to wash herself and forget about it. That's the only solution.”

“But Mr. President, she wants to commit suicide.”

“What? Just because of that?! Tell her to wash herself old man, and to use warm water if she prefers.”

“But she only got married yesterday and then they raped her. A poor guy like me. Where am I going to find the money to pay back her dowry?”

“Vauban, settle this issue.”

No no and no: I'm not like that ex-your bastard Sarnio Lampourta who drank
muelocco
all day long, and had to smoke cannabis before he had the courage to speak to the people. I'm not like Houtanansa who built stadiums as if the people could eat his mother's balls, I'm not like Dartanio Maniania who left behind a country with neither head nor balls and that you went and made a hero of the people, who managed to rack up a foreign debt of some ninety-nine billion, but you still made him a god-damn hero of the nation just for hurling his shitty juices in your wives' entrails, how shameful; I'm not like Caranto Muhete who gave all the members of his clan positions in the army so that he could hold on to the power to kill, I'm Lopez of the people and there aren't a lot of ways of being president, there's one way for God's sake one way and he pointed to his zipper. We cheered loudly. And I swear on my hernia that I would never kill someone just for being reasonable and you can take my word for that, reason is sacred; and I'm talking about the reason of reason not that of folly, go figure my brothers and
dear fellow countrymen, go figure how someone like Hugo de Lafundia that we appointed child of the nation, mourned for a whole month, even buried him three times over to prove to his mother's dumbasses who asked for the return of his remains that we had buried him, yes, in this country of mayhem upon mayhem in which you can't even be sure whether you'll be buried; we buried him with all his military stripes and all his medals, we sang the national anthem and it was as enchanting as a real camp fire; now go figure why anyone would come and bother my hernia in the name of his death: well let me tell you, he hanged himself right when my hernia was about to find out that he was the one who killed the woman of my heart. And he shed real tears over this girl I had loved but that the “Flemish” pecked at. Brother Carvanso wiped away the drool and snot running from his face.

“Mr. President, be especially careful with the Amerindian press.”

All this is as sad as crab stock. As sad as a dick infected with bilharzia. He replaces the customary minute of silence with a minute of his hernia, because one must cry in remembrance of lost loved ones, instead of having a good laugh in private, instead of keeping quiet like some dunce. Ah, that national moment for crying, when cheeks glisten in the midday sun, let us give the juices from our eyes the same respect that we give the national juices with which we impregnate our sisters. And the eyes redden, the snot starts to run. The nation has to tighten its heart and soul. We cheered loudly. Long live National Mom's Lopez. He shows us once again how he forgives those who massacred my aunt. He steps down from the podium and walks off rubbing his eyes. He clears his large nostrils noisily, flicks his snot on Colonel Carvanso, I'm sorry my brother, he passes his hands over his eyes then strokes his hernia and wagging tongues would have it that his heart had dropped into his pants. He walked back to the palace. Kissed Mom. Look at this bunch of grovelers but I'm not going to fall for it: if my hernia dropped dead you'd have a good laugh over me just
like you did over National Salamanso, and I know it was you lot who just yesterday were licking his hernia. It's written in your eyes, it's written on your foreheads, it's written in your blood: around here, no one likes leaders. He spent the rest of the day in bed crying over his dead aunt. Vauban and Mom bent over backwards to try and cheer him up.

“I loved her you know.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“So don't waste your breath trying to comfort me.”

And so he cried over his dead aunt in the way that people here cry over their dead aunts. Unless you're Satan, you can't even hurl your own piss without it coming back to splash you in the face. But I love them. But it's not always funny: sometimes they kill my people to thank me. Too bad for them: the fire next time.

“Lafonsia came to tell me that he had a dream that I would die on Monday.”

“Set his grave on fire, Colonel.”

“What kind of a world is this in which the dead return and bother the living? I buried him in the way I may one day be buried. I even handed some dough to his seventy-one mistresses . . .”

“Mr. President, those are state secrets.”

“I don't agree—the best way to hide things is to show them. I'm going to tell you, my people: all those guys except for myself and Mom have stashed away a pile of dough in Switzerland, billions of coustrani they've sent over there to keep Europe moving. That's why I'm going to reshuffle my hernia, right here, for all of us to see: who wants to be Minister of Trade Negotiations? Ok. And what about Minister of Infantrymen . . . now
that's
democracy, and let's be honest: Who wants to be Minister of Youth and Sports? . . . How about Minister of Diplomas?”

By the evening he was slumped down in his favorite official chair and the visitors kept coming: Mr. President, Vauban informs him, the French want to drill for uranium in Valanta.

“How much are they offering?”

“11 percent.”

“Ask for 29 percent.”

“The Italians want to fish off the coast from Watangotta.”

“What percentage?”

“21 percent . . .”

“That won't do. Tell them we want one out of every three fish they catch.”

“The Russians are prospecting for oil in Moudan.”

“Out of the question: they're far too dumb in any case.”

“But Mr. President . . .”

“Out of the question, I said.”

He shows his zipper to Jouvanso who's busy gawking at power and stirring up the tribes in the south and I'm here to tell you in person so that you know that my hernia is angry. Our brother Jouvanso scratches his head. But he says it again: my hernia is angry because you still haven't stopped confusing the fatherland with your way of pissing.

“Where's my younger brother Ravou del Cosso?”

While he strides across the palace, Mom watches him, smiling: my son is so very beautiful. He'd be even more beautiful if it weren't for that hernia swelling up his pants, without that smell of eggplant, and without all that mud from the people. He runs into National Yoha who tells the future using cowrie shells: everything looks good, Mr. President. Ok. Everything looks good, but from what I can predict, death will come on a Monday morning, on the leaves from a Kapok tree, and it will be a woman. An extremely beautiful woman.

“Are those predictions correct?”

“I've never been wrong. A very young woman will slit your stomach open while you sleep, all the way from the solar plexus to the groin, somewhere between nine and ten o'clock. She'll cut out a piece of your large intestine.”

“If I was Dananso Lopez, I'd get rid of all the women.”

And National Yoha cries along with him, out of male solidarity, with their kaki hearts, those equally kaki juices leaking out, if that reading is correct, but I'm the guardian
angel of women, and he tells him all that I've done for them, but who'll take over my hernia, who will be in power after me? National Colonel, the reading says it will be a woman, and he starts barking like a real dog, ah how shameful, how shameful Mom, ever since the earth has been the earth, ah Maman, my hernia is confused, but I won't respond like Tistano Rama who handed over power to a cow, I won't do things in the way that shameful Larabinto did, who gave up power without so much as a tip, without even a sham election, he went and stuck authority in the mouth of a mute, a bonehead, a total loser like Zibanto of my hernia, he stuck it right in his mouth, here's my body and here's my hernia, go ahead, feast on them, he was speaking of the time when testicles were the national dish throughout the sovereign territory of my hernia, but I, Lopez, National son of Mom, came along and said enough with all this bullshit, over my hernia will I ever be like that ex-
you-all-know-who
, never will I be like that ex-National Levando who sold women by nationalizing all the brothels, and he told the story of that shameful ex-Levando, from beginning to end, but the people sing my praises in the streets, in stadiums, in their homes, and the different neighborhoods and districts, the countryside and the forests are abuzz with my name, for once that God has sent us a good president and the churches are packed, and we make our way over to him, en masse, some of us to catch a glimpse of his national hernia and a quick sniff of their sweet and spicy smell, others to admire his trademark leopard-striped costume soaked in the people's mud, spread loincloths and palm leaves out in front of him, shower him with flowers and song and the poor lay down on the ground in front of him so that he can walk over them, up you get now my people, there's a stampede to lick him, to drink his sweat and the juices seeping from his hernia, and he says all this is as enchanting as a campfire, as beautiful as the day I was born when Mom got all torn up pushing me out of her entrails, men, women, and children carry him on their back, he stops off at this little hut that looks like the one in which he was born, he asks to drink
the people's water, to eat what the people eat, that overly spicy soup with cockroaches swimming in it because it hadn't been properly sealed, he sucks on the cockroaches before discarding them as the people do, he gulps down their beers, whips out his meat stick to piss like the people do, coughs and spits in the way the people do, ah good God that feels good, as enchanting as a campfire, everlasting beauty, he danced their dances, all of Zamba-Town is with him as he parades his hernia around in the ancient manner, he leaps on that girl, ah it's Vauban who said it best: the Black woman knows how to turn her B-side into an A-side, and as always sings him his favorite childhood lullaby: be good, be good . . . be good for my little banger, with his big greasy hernia hollering for blood, that's what happens after fifteen years of leadership under a loser like Almanzo who thought it was enough to have a bunch of infantrymen on the side of his hernia to be able to assert your authority, and “Go to sleep my little banger, go to sleep my sweetheart,” and the masses join in singing the song to my greatness, and they're singing lullabies in the factories, in the garrisons, in the hospitals, as they carry him you can hear, “Go to sleep now my baby, go to sleep now my baby . . .” but that's enough bullshit! He jumps off the person carrying him, my people the party is over, go back to work, we've quite a bit of catching up to do on the other hernias in this world, our breathing should be full gallop, our words full gallop, sleeping, eating, our poets should write and think full gallop, and where's the Minister of Dough, right here National Colonel, now gallop! Enough with this bullshit of allocating half the budget to “firing utensils”; where's the Minister of Infantrymen, right here, National Colonel sir, now listen carefully: the national weapon throughout the sovereign territory of my zipper shall be the machete, that's enough messing around trying to sell Europe's skin without having killed it first; Minister of Roads! Present! Now gallop, Minister of Purchases! Present! Now gallop, Minister of Rocks, Present, now gallop, Minister of Medication! Present! Minister of Society! Absent, ah, now there's one who thinks he can . . . 
tough shit for him: I'm giving his job to Mom; she knows all those plants that heal, she knows what cleanliness is and the cost of prescription drugs, those who are absent will regret it, I'm handing over the Ministry for Primary Schools to National Carvanso, the Ministry of Stamps to National Lanza, my fellow comrade National Narso will be Minister of the Countryside in charge of water and hunting, now gallop my brothers, excavate, dig, rummage, leave no place un-turned my hernia is likely to visit or revisit; Carlos Pedro same father same hernia walks in crying his eyes out, covered in snot, disheveled, drooling; what's wrong Carlos Pedro of Mom? His eyes redden, he furls his brow, speak, my brother, I've never turned down any of your requests, nor has my hernia, I'm on your side, you're my little brother and, Mr. President, it's so shameful: my wife is sleeping with some infantryman called Tannanso Hussoto, please, National Colonel, do something to get me out of this shameful situation! Ah, sex, sex, these matters are the toughest to deal with, but what do you expect me to do Carlos Pedro, this is what the country has become, our dreadful snobbery: everyone desires what their neighbor desires. And he reeled off the names of all the shameful couples who got together deep in my herniated balls, those bitter couples: National Captain Garcia Lorenso who's sleeping with the wife of my National cousin Gabrielo Folo, my cousin National Darmansi who's sleeping with the wife of my other cousin Isidro Martillimi Zola, ex-Lieutenant-Colonel Sarvanso Tiya who's sleeping with the wife of the Minister of Shots, and as you can see for yourself, Carlos Pedro, the list goes on and on, seventy pages with the names of someone's wife who's sleeping with someone else and that's only for Zamba-Town, and Colobra's list, and all that you can see written here, but, National Colonel, I'm going to commit suicide if you don't do something to get me out of this shameful situation, I'm going to kill myself just to get myself out from under this shame. The tone of his voice is tugging at my hernia, I feel sorry for him, really sorry, but I can't go around ordering women to take their legs seriously, you can't order someone
to love you, ah what a terrible waste a dick can be! And he gets a call that evening: National Colonel, your brother Carlos Pedro has hanged himself, ah that's too much. He goes to visit the corpse. The corpse continues to beg him: please do something to get me out of this shameful situation, his eyes bulging, fresh bloody tears, his tongue hanging out, blood leaking out of him, his balls exposed because he went and hanged himself naked, and his shit all over the place staring me down like no one has ever done before. All right then, I'll have his rival executed, it's ugly, real ugly, but if you want to live here, then you have to be tough in the art of looking the other way, and he adds: National Damanso, I'm appointing you minister, he looks at him, yes, you, Minister of Testicles, it's ugly but we can't do without such a position any longer, shut your eyes and nominate your advisory team, and make sure you impose stiff fines for adultery and that the proceeds go directly to the State, and he gives the personal example of his hernia that has never secreted anything but rotten juices but that always ends up being blamed for each and every pregnancy, and those women are birthing kids with no hair and no hernia, now that's enough, things have gone too far this time! He tells him about the latest pregnancy Laura of my shame has gone and pinned on my hernia and when the child was born it turned out that it was a little “Flemish” lad, and no, he wasn't kaki like me, and they'd had me go out and buy baby's bottles and all that other crap for nothing.