“I don’t understand the people around here: they all think they’re the President! Let me remind you: the President, that’s me. No no and no again: everyone behaves as if everyone were me, but why, why is that? Can’t you take the trouble to consult with me first?”
And he goes over to her: “Don’t worry, my dear girl, this earth is cannibalistic,” and he drapes his kaki jacket over her to conceal the nudity they’ve ruined but don’t worry I will take revenge. He tears up the supposed depositions made by your mothers; fear not, I will take revenge. He tears up your mothers’ official reports and the emblem of your mothers’ nation, and to hell with the support they’ve thrown out the window, I will take revenge. He rips up your mothers’ beret; I’m going to be a civilian again; he tears off his military stripes, plumes, and tassels, and Colonel Outranso where the fuck are you: present.
“You gave the order to cut off her tongue, I’m going to cut yours off too.”
“It wasn’t me, it was Darcanio.”
“Ah! Well, where’s Darcanio?”
“It wasn’t me, it was Lafondia.”
“Well, where the fuck’s Lafondia?”
“It wasn’t me it wasn’t me it wasn’t me ah ah ah!”
He began to strangle him. His eyes bulged bulged bulged. Then silence. Ever since everyone at the High Command thinks he became President… and now, what are you going to say to the foreign press, what are you going to say to the Pope and all those diplomats? What will you say to them? You’re going to, ah what a load of bullshit! He leaps at him again with that rage that pushes me to turn over power to civilians, he stamps on his testicles because you can’t be president after all and make those kind of decisions without my input and isn’t it those filthy beasts filling your head with these ideas, with your shameful business schemes but I’ll show you, you need people on this earth who know that a president, well, that a president can get angry too…. For God’s sake you should at least know what your male utensils are good for, at the very least, hold on I’m going to cut them off. But Colonel Carvanso steps in now, take it easy Mr. President sir.
“Ok, fine, I’m going to calm down but not before I’ve shown him how…”
He gently caresses his hernia. Soothes him. Hands him sugared almonds and he gobbles them down. Spoon feeds him a couple of scoops of mustard; easy now Mr. President.
“Ok Carvanso, I’m going to calm down.”
His chinchilla is brought in, he places it on his right shoulder and its tail sweeps the ground on the same spot where Lafondia drooled. They fetch his parrot Narka who is able to convert the rest of the speech into birdsong: “I oyo o io yo!” keeping the reference to his hernia in Mom’s mother tongue. In this same Alberto-Sanamatouff national stadium that the “Flemish” had pecked away at, still full to capacity, under the same broiling sun, the crowd still restless in that one section and the police should be doing their job rather than counting my big herniated balls before they hatch, with all those god-damn TVs aimed at his bitter writings, the sun warming his hernia my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, offering up for the mercy of my people this body the infantrymen ruined. Tears running down his cheeks. And we cry along with him because we know those tears.
“This flesh they have blinded.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“This body made of prime cuts of meat.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“It must be said that the world is a very nasty place.”
“Indeed, Mr. President.”
“But I’ll recast you as a monument… my dear tender girl, birthed into this world of the world, intoxicating girl who arouses my kaki juices. I’ll recast you woman, a place of worship, radiant flesh: that’s the decision of my hernia, you’ll be my wife. The bachelor life is over! The crowd at the stadium erupted in applause, but she started crying.
“Did you hear me, I’m going to marry her?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
An eleven-gun salute was fired across the capital and the city rose as one and shouted: “Yes, Mr. President.” And then silence. “Quiet, National Daddy is loving his wife.” No music. No traffic. The streets were empty. This lasted two days.
~ ~ ~
“WHY ARE YOU CRYING MY SWEET ANGEL? Here, have some mango, drink a little. You are in the palace. Wear this dress. Would you like to dance?”… He lavished her with jewelry and glee, showed her every nook and cranny of my hernia: he danced in front of her, sang her the songs of his people, and “I promise you I’ll love you just as I would have if you still had your tongue, here, have some of this fruit, drink some of this drink.” But she kept on crying.
He describes her: full mouth, savage mouth, aching, I’ll recast you as a monument, mother of the fatherland. He throws himself at her feet, go ahead and walk all over me if you like. I may be the President but my blood rushes to you: you see? And he tells her how they’ll never have a better president in this wretched world; I’m not like that Trimitti Lopez who used to hang them like poultry, or that Luigui Lafundia who used to skin them, and I’m not like Manuelio Samba who used to feed them to the leopards. He told her of the shameful day when Adamonso Liguas became a Pharaoh, but that, never, over my dead hernia. He started showing off my body that you can see before you with all the scars from my war against Russia, made sure the door was double-locked so that Colonel Vauban wouldn’t interrupt our afternoon nap. The metal bars. The columns. Impregnable stone walls. Cannons, tanks, big ball launchers. All these “utensils” you can see…. He gets out his fallacious hernia divorced from the salt and drool of his bachelor nights but there’s no longer any question of this. He bathes in eggplant, spices, roots, and leaves; they say it helps soothe hernias. He unloaded his father-of-the-nation juices on her, rotten juices that won’t give him a son: I don’t understand. He tells her all about Jacqueline Daras that the French sent to chop off his hernia but I forgave them. He explained how, and with whose support, my ex-right-hand man National Yallama attempted a coup d’état, but serves him right: he came up against the people. While he gives her the juices from my mother he explains how the Amerindians tried to throw power into the hands of the late Colonel Vanzio Pablo and my dear girl be good be goooooood. But she kept on crying. For three days and three nights he’s tried to console her with his cries and his juices.
“Hold on a second, I need to see National Mom or she’ll be worried.”
And Mom, here’s your child. He gives her a kiss and she starts crying. Don’t cry Mom, I’m safe. They aren’t going to harm me.
“Well they’re not plotting for nothing.”
“You know, Mom, I’m a good president. I was elected by the dead and the living, with 99.9 percent of the vote. Please Mom, no more tears. I’m in a hurry Carvanso, come and console her.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
He rushes back to her, tells her all about the national historic Colonel Fetranso, child of the nation, hero of the people, but the Germans really did a job on him, and ex-Colonel Fetranso almost became my wife, but you must be familiar with Vauban’s proverb: Live by herniated balls, die by herniated balls. I beg you, show me your teeth. As enchanting as a campfire. Show me your legs. Show me your heart. My God, you’re so beautiful. He tells her all about my first wife who cheated on me with everyone and I sent her on her way yes I did: I forgive everything except for indiscretions of the hernia. One evening I came home from the office and found her with Barbara Janco. “What are you doing here, Barbara Janco?” He turned around and I put six bullets in his hernia. He coughed up his traitor of the fatherland’s blood. But what about her, what am I to do with her? I’m out of bullets. I grabbed her neck and squeezed it, kept on squeezing, it was revolting and she puked up her dog’s life. Her corpse even crapped a big hot turd. But you, you’re a real hot one: let’s talk about your body, let’s talk about your teeth, let’s talk about that passionate throat of yours that unravels the world. He rushes over to the national radio station and announces his decision — I’m going to marry her—, he takes care of the invitations himself: France, the British Isles, the Russian president, those Flemishythings, the Pope. His guest list includes thirty-seven heads of state while my people start building the village of my hernia, I can’t get married in this great big shameful palace in which Tatarasho betrayed the nation by slaughtering all those people from my Ghozis ethnic group. He transfers seventy million to the newspapers and let’s talk about this event in historic terms. He signs an order proclaiming July 7th my official wedding day so that it is recorded that way in the archives, and then he comes back toward you my paradise, my heaven and my earth.