“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?”