Colonel Jescani, where’s Merline? He’s right here, Mr. President. He laid his hands on the epileptic guy who came along with brother Corbanso, a direct nephew of Martillimi Lopez: now you are healed, Quatro Terozo. He laid his hands on Colonel Cabio Fourazo’s son, and on the Urban Commissioner of Zama’s three nieces. Ok, I can see you’re pretty good. He paraded his historic hernia in front of the prophet, shaking off the historic mud from his scales that he shows off as his proudest medal, a gift from the people. It soothes my nickel silver heart. On this Monday evening he’s parading it about delightedly; he decides to take Merline to the edge of Lake Oufa, over by the presidential village, and his hernia is giving off that smell of acetylene. He presents him with Mom’s version of this meat that’s eating me up. He tells him how brother Anafonso Louma died unexpectedly, and how brother Rodimos Sama died unexpectedly and how they’d found his corpse, they’d chopped off his dick and stuck it in his mouth and only then called to let his mother and children know, those nasty men! I don’t understand the people around here. He started telling him that other story that you must have heard before, the one about brother Yuda Wassamba who died unexpectedly. And the one about National Sanamatouff. And Darbanso that we made into a national hero, also died unexpectedly. How shameful it is to die in that way: but I, Merline, I want to know. Ah, Mom’s Merline, you must be happier than the President. You have your others. Your real others: all I have is Mom and my hernia. And he shows him his national marcher’s thighs. You want everyone to love you, but everyone is envious of you. You can go searching for a smidgeon of pity, the smallest touch of pity: but they’re all as hard as rocks around here. He tells him about his badly spread juices, there are no secrets between us, but oh how they treat me! Be gentle, Colonel, my hernia is yelling out “be good be good”! Come on, Colonel, don’t go blowing up my entrails and I’m ashamed, Colonel, you’re crushing me don’t break my ribs now. He tells him about the piece of ass he just had over there in that run-down neighborhood and who says I make her want to laugh. He shows him his fifteen pounds of malformed herniated testicles, but that’s not why I had you come over; what I really want to know now is how it’s all going to end. You revived Captain Lapourta, you healed Colonel Juani of his epilepsy, and Damouta the madman is no longer mad, Oufanso the deaf-mute is no longer deaf-mute, and Kamato the blind man is no longer blind. I’ll give you an official residence, official car, you’ll have an official body, and your mother shall be an official mother. But I want to know how, when and who . . . I don’t want anyone healing my hernia; it’s all I have in this world. I’d feel so alone without it, we love one another, we understand one another: it gives me sound advice. Not like those filii da puta who only love me so as to better blow me. He tells him how Mom could very well kill herself if someone goes and kills her child just like they killed my National Aunt; she loves me more than life itself. And he tells him about the sixty-three illegitimate children he sired and how they’ll probably butcher them just like they butchered our late brother Lola Dosmento’s children, and my son-in-law Gomez who’ll commit suicide if they kill me.
“Prevention is better than cure.”
They went and cut open the hernia that brother Zola got from stamping on Colonel Martinez Lahounto’s balls, and if you had seen how they dissected him you’d never eat meat again.
“National Colonel, hand me a ten-coustrani coin.”
Shit. The proverb will be fulfilled: The rich man can’t find a needle to pass through. He sends Jescani to search up and down the palace for a ten-coustrani coin. But no one has one. He sends him out to check in the stores but no one has one. He sends him to the markets. You’re just a bunch of idiots, get out of my way, and he makes his way all over town searching for one; but no one has such a coin, and the rumor starts: the country’s had it, the President’s looking for a ten-coustrani coin. Everyone starts hiding their coins because his hernia should just have produced several at a time. He heads over to the central bank and has them make one especially for him. Here’s one, Merline.
“Thank you, Mr. President. Now repeat after me five hundred and eleven times the prophet’s words: ‘Coulchi coulcha poumikanata,’ and then you’ll repeat the response from the gods the same number of times: ‘Kalmitana mahanomanchi lusata.’”
He repeats the words but it’s too complicated for him; he tries again but he just can’t do it. Try this, Mr. President, place the coin in my mouth, and now in yours, repeat God’s words, think of National Papa’s face, but I never knew the guy, Merline. Well then think of Mom’s face, Ok, I know Mom, now swallow the coin. Look for it in your next stool and bring it to me so that I can read your future on the coin.
“How shameful, Mom.”
He ripped his throat swallowing the coin. The coin gets stuck in the laryngeal inlet and he collapses and falls into a coma. His hernia gives off a sour smell. The top experts from my colleague’s country are called to his bedside. The people fill up the churches, every morning and every evening; they have but one single prayer: Please our great God, let him die. Colonel Jescani is secretly celebrating. He’s already scribbled down his list of appointees, he’s written a draft of his inauguration speech and of his oath of allegiance, instructed brother Darso Lamondia to prepare a new draft of the constitution. In short, he prepares a draft of his power. . . . He’s been in a coma for three weeks now. Then it’s six weeks, two months. And so Jescani decided to bury him. He had him placed in a marble casket, our French brother Jean de Rochegonde’s ultimate masterpiece. A golden shroud is draped over the body and diamonds sprinkled over him. The coffin is then moved to the cathedral in Mom’s home village, a few infantryman assigned to watch over him, and enjoy your death now, Colonel.
“But he’s not dead,” said Merline.
No one believes him. Because, after all, there aren’t a thousand ways to die. In spite of his second eye that won’t close, in spite of the occasional stirring of his hernia, there aren’t eleven ways to die. And brother Jescani divulges the new constitution, beginning with plans for a new palace, and I won’t be like National Lopez who remained a colonel: I’ll be promoted to Pharaoh. He pardons all thirty-nine thousand six hundred and twelve prisoners and sends all the students they drafted as infantrymen back to school. He gave Lopez Belinda to his cousin Sabrossa who’d always fancied her; he gave Oustano his wife back because Lopez had taken her in a shameful and inhuman manner; he distributed all the concubines because he’s no longer here to love you like a pack of animals. He renames the streets, markets, the university, National Mom Hospital, the traffic circle of my hernia.
“My brothers, we’ve been mucking around long enough: now it’s time to get serious.”
Meanwhile, in a heavy sleep, Mom’s Lopez continued to exhibit the splendor of his hernia. Over in a corner of the cathedral National Mom grieved bitterly over her puzzle son, ruler of his hernia, in charge of zippers, savior of legs. Let him parade it before God the Father, God who should have mercy on a poor old lady like me, from whom they’ve taken away all the chauffeurs and official cars, and cast off in the countryside. Poor National Mom, she has become dirty and bitter. Smelly, flea-ridden, blind. Riddled with gout and moth-eaten. Up until this day when the shroud stirred. Both eyes looked up again at the fatherland and at Mom, why are you crying?
She ran all over the village letting out cries of joy and went crazy.
He made for the airport on foot. People fled before him.
“Don’t run away, I’m your president.”
“Don’t run away, it’s the president.”
He shows them his big herniated testicles. You see, it’s really me. But they continue to flee. He boards a twin-engine plane and flies it himself all the way to Zama, where he holds a two-hour meeting: I’m not dead, I’m alive. Then he takes off for Zamba-Town with brother comrade Lobito who brings him up to date on the situation and explains how that gang of scoundrels seized power.
“Jescani made Mom cry, he hanged your son and killed sixt
y guards.”
“I’ll make him eat seventy versions of my hernia.”
“Outranso went out dancing the day of your funeral.”
“Sixteen versions.”
“Carvanso’s been sleeping in your bed.”
“He’ll eat eleven copies of my dick.”
He told him all about His Excellency the Italian Ambassador who celebrated his engagement the day of your funeral. Yes, Ok, I’ll set aside twenty copies of my prick especially for him. He hands them out right, left, and center. The twin-engine plane landed in Alberto-Sanamatouff Stadium, kicking up a cloud of dust on those brothers and dear fellow countrymen that had come to greet him. He jumps out of the plane, raises his hands, and the crowd goes wild. They start singing and yelling: “Long live Lopez! Long live National Mom!”
“The first thing we’re going to do is exact revenge on those traitors; there will be plenty of time for talk later. We’ll sing later, we’ll dance later, bring them to me. And no death sentences. How many of them are there—pick them up one by one.”
And he heads off to find Jescani who’s supervising the construction project for the new palace: you don’t even watch the news, you dumbass! You didn’t even know I was back. Jescani can’t believe his eyes. He walks over to him, kneels down, places his head against his hernia; he must be dreaming. But then there’s all this historic mud. And that terrible smell and noxious air and that acid burning away on those big kaki herniated balls. It can only be him. What will become of me? Help! Help me my people, help me prisoners! His calls are met with silence and he starts to snivel: please, have mercy on me, Colonel! Spare me, I’ll be more loyal than ever. He licks his hernia and his boots, quakes with fear. He runs his tongue over the tip of his hernia.
“Show me your male utensils.”
He drops his pants. Here they are, Colonel. I don’t want to die.
He licks his medals.
“Please, Colonel, let me live.”
“Fine, but I’m taking your male instruments: it’s for them you seized power.”
He chopped off his bat and balls. Now open your mouth nice and wide: and he ordered him to eat them raw right there and then if you don’t want me to fetch my PA system. Eat ‘em up, old boy. How do they taste?
“They’re sweet, Colonel.”
Thanks to you, Merline, I know who my friends and enemies are. I can’t thank you enough. He gave his shit a good rummage but still couldn’t find the coin. He splashed around, blowing, searching, sniffing: where the hell can it have gone? It’s got to be lost somewhere in my hernia. He squeezes out another turd. Still no sign of it. He calls Merline: “Where has it gone?”
“Don’t worry, Colonel, it’s a good sign: if it’s taking it’s time to come out that means your story is unprecedented.”
He continues searching for it in his historic turds for three years. Ecstatically. With his big old sensible head. All his visitors, minister so and so, His Excellency, the top diplomat, left with the smell of acetylene on them. They suspect it’s the aura of “the one that sleeps in that big old prick.” But you’re mistaken gentlemen: that’s the perfume of his historic dung, but don’t say a word to anyone: it’s a State secret.
“Now, Merline, I want to know how much time my hernia has left.”
“All right, Mr. President. Shall I recall the coin?”
“Well, let’s give it a few more days.”
What you see over there, that glistening layer in the distance, well that’s Lake Oufa. He’s deep in his tropical sleep. God is great! Here comes Vauban: he prefers men. Your women are out of the question. He listens to the badly tuned flute played by the toads on this July evening. You can see the lights from Mom’s village reflected in the thick grass where they haggle at night. Crazy Mom is singing our songs, mimicking the animals. She throws her loincloths at her son: let me show you where you came from. Mom! She calms down. Everyone forgets she’s gone crazy. Except at this moment during dinner when she pokes her hand in her plate. The people witnessing this think that God is great. The television serves up other images of crazy Mom’s face, after Lopez has spat out the yolk of his sludgy saliva, compared with the newspapers from my colleague’s country that make all kinds of wild claims.
“Mom, wait for me, I’m just going to have a quick chat with Liz Traomar, ex-Captain of cruelty Farfaro Mundi’s daughter. He shows her the wound, you can see ah a cat scratched me when I was a kid. That’s why I kill every cat I come across, the same reason why I accidentally killed ex-Captain Vacha Gonzalès who was trying to steal my cat. Chit chat, chit chat, and more chit chat before he finally presented her with his father of the fatherland juices. Then he left, trailed as always by Vauban, down rue Loumaza, rue Ourtani-Gento, across Jescani Place—change that name and get a move on! Ah, Vauban, how hideous ignoble of you to prefer men: men trampled by your penis. Do you think you can create a third sex?”
Merline Amarco, my hernia’s going to jump at your throat if that coin doesn’t come out soon. But Merline’s not listening to him. He’s saying his prayers, but there are no Our fathers nor any In the name of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Only other names. God Améliana, God Bourkanazar, Cabornica Donso, Vatourios Alimatès, Bonilo de la Cuenta, Mourdiba Fananso. . . . My hernia’s going to jump at your throat. But he goes into a trance.
“Merline, quit playing the fool. Stop acting like a child.” He jumps at his throat.
It’s raining this morning. This is the first time it has rained like this during the month of April. And Merline shouts out: “Everything is swaying, everything is swaying.” Lopez gets up and goes out into the rain. No more. No no and no. No more killing people. After thirty-nine years in power. He walks on. The rain drops look like silver pellets on his mustache hairs. No more. That’s what he was saying when he got to us. He pulled up a chair in front of the fire place. He asked for some hot water. He mumbled to himself as he sipped it: no more. He looked up and saw Krachna. Mother of Mom: who does this beautiful thing belong to? He caressed her legs and started singing her this beautiful song:
If what he wants is your body
first we’ll head
over to the palace to pick up my hens
and then roam the crowds.
But if he’s left wanting more
from this bodily fusion
then we’ll go off and sing those profound songs
in a tune that will mine the map of the world
He told him the story of National Voldani who was president-for-life for fourteen weeks. She’s beautiful, Mom, she’s so beautiful. He touches her lips. He feels her breasts: you’re trembling. I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back. He leaves her the money of his hernia that never managed to give me a true love but I’ll be back. He strokes her chin. Stay right here: I’m going to bring you gifts. My God how beautiful she is. She warms my entrails. She ignites my blood. He rearranges his hernia and rushes off.
The next day we saw him come back, bowed down under the weight of a massive pile of flowers, with Moupourtanka close behind pulling a wagon stacked with gifts and Vauban, grinning:
“Where is she?”
“In prison, Mr. President.”
“No!”
“She came here to hide but the infantrymen found her.”
He grabbed hold of his hernia like he always did when he got mad. Maman of my mom, no way! He drops the flowers and tell me, is there a phone in this place?
“No, Mr. President.”
“They’re going to ruin her again, this poor girl that warms me up. They’re going to ruin her. He runs off. Maman of my mother, if they ruin her I’ll blame the nation. He raised the alarm. Get those god-damn TVs over here so that I can address the nation.”
“Mr. President: she was the one who hanged your girl-spouse with the tongue cut off. It was her sending over all that shit. Mr. President, she’s Laure and the Panther we’ve been looking everywhere for.”
“No way. She turns my heart white hot. Where is she?”
He hands him Court order number 425/71/LMZ of November 21, 1971. What’s this bullshit, and he tears up the piece of paper. What a bunch of dumbasses: you really are stupid: the soldiers, civilians, the whole lot of you. My hernia’s the only ones to reason in this country. And Mom’s Carvanso arrives with some good news:
“Mr. President, we put in call to the execution squad. She’s still alive.”
He drops to his knees and starts praying: God is great, God is God. Tears of joy. God is God. Next to his kaki dick his herniated balls have started to swell. And brother Carvanso that had planned everything introduces him to Vermoz Diaz’s other daughter, in the end they are almost identical, and in any case, in front of women, his hernia’s blind. She is covered in gold for the introduction to make her glitter, her breasts laden with diamonds: here she is, Colonel. He takes one look at her and smiles: do you mistake me for the legs of your wives?
“No, Mr. President.”
“Well then where the hell is she? Where is the real girl of my white hot entrails? Are you trying to keep her to yourselves?”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Have you killed her?”
“No, Mr. President. But she has become ‘a stupid soul in a stupid body.’”
“Ah? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“The infantrymen don’t always behave like gentlemen, Mr. President.”
“I want to see her.”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Mother of Mom: man has become a butcher. I can see that it’s her, but what on earth have you done to her? Where there had once been skin he now saw bone, and where’s all the flesh gone? He saw bones where there had once been breasts, where’s all the flesh gone? Instead of a vagina all he could see was a big blue gaping hole. She had no lips, no eyes, they had peeled away the skin from her head and back. He spent the next three days in his room staring at her and crying over those bones that kept breathing thanks only to the will of God. All the while a battalion of doctors and assistants did all they could to patch her back together again, attempted to reconstruct her as woman:
The Shameful State Page 8