Читать книгу The Shameful State - Sony Labou Tansi - Страница 11

“MY HERNIA IS SAD TODAY.”

He grabbed the sides of his baggy kaki shorts and hoisted them up toward his belly-button, rearranging his big greasy herniated balls in their sack that reeked of corn beer and mustard.

“My brothers and dear fellow countrymen, my hernia is sad today.” Not really sure why, but we applauded. That happens when you’re in a crowd: one person does something and everyone joins in. Long live Lopez, Long live National Mom! And he says it again: “My hernia is sad.” All of a sudden, I’m pretty sure, his handsome face looked much older.

“Ah, Mom! My hernia is sad. All because Cataeno Pablo, that shameful national, that sellout, but how could an insect like that Cataeno Pablo betray us in this way, how could he, how could he? Barely for the price of a tin of sardines, how shameful for us . . .”

Vauban, the head of personal security, stood at his side as he delivered his speech to the nation. His hernia was sagging, giving off a nauseating stench of eggplant and spices, scales were breaking out all over his body in protest at the sweltering heat, and there was also a hint of sugar and the aroma of wormwood, and a smattering of sour urine along with the musty vapors of his nocturnal juices, that kaki odor, a terrible noxious smell. He spoke loudly, our tricolor colonel did, barricaded off from his nights as national lover, conqueror of virgins! Let my people sing and dance: I adore them with the love of a mammal, Lopez one Tuesday night came directly into the world making mystical sounds, right in front of the Pope, and was then raised in poverty and total destitution, National Mom wiped his backside with a hemp rag, just regional Lopez at the time of Sanamatouff, then later Lopez of my ethnic group under Faramento, and today Lopez that my people sing and dance to, Lopez of my people who don’t want me to step down because of the prestige I embody, Lopez for peace, after all I gave the people back to the people, the world back to the world, Lopez aimed at swine like Cataeno Pablo, that miserable national who who who went into hiding with Laure and her mother, Cataeno Pablo whose meat we were going to distribute here today to those of you at this meeting, to you the national, and not to the you of expatriates who shamefully support the rebel command by handing them seventeen Mauser-52 rifles and eleven Sten guns. Come to think of it, is mister the diplomat in charge of the Belgian embassy and all its “flemishings” here today? Close down their diplomacy, close it down right now and take the first plane in the first direction, and if you don’t want to, in the name of Lopez, I’ll ship you to His Majesty of the shame of the “Flemish” who have always pecked at us, go ahead and close it down, and I’ll also ask the whole Flemish colony settled throughout my hernia to leave the sovereign territory and return to their native Flemishything, in the name of the Revolution, in the name of National Mom and in my own name too, and the same decision of my hernia goes for Italy, yes, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, Italy has also been mixed up in Cataeno Pablo’s harebrained nationalist ideas, Italy, and Cuba as well: same crisis, same sanctions, and in two days time, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, if you lay hands on a “Fleming,” Italian, or Cuban, you have my full p . . . , you have my full permission to waste him. To conclude, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, I’m going to bring out five “Pablosard” rebels captured by the nation’s infantrymen, I’m going to have them come up to the mic, so that it’s not only my hernia making decisions. I’ll ask some questions, and you can decide as to the severity of their actions and the punishment they deserve. (A pause). My brothers and dear fellow countrymen, I’m being told there are in fact six and not five, bring them up. And my God National Mom, what do we have here? This young girl too? No no no: such a delicious creature, but why on earth mother? No no no this can’t be so! We’ve all witnessed his hernia swell when he gets angry, but the swelling quickly dissipated, now come closer my girl, but how on earth does a girl like that, barely twenty years old, with that kind of body, as juicy as they come, and those thighs my God, National Mom, oh my goodness, and those fleshy breasts, a girl who should be able to cage every man in her dreams, imprison every man in her vertiginous bodice and the magic of her thrusts, go figure my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, unless one has been badly fucked, as is often the case for most of the girls in the area near the lake. Just how is it that Flora and the Mona Lisa, brought together in this way, just how is it that such a beauty can come into the world . . . “Like this!” someone shouted out from the crowd. And just like that they were silenced for centuries upon centuries, and that’ll teach you to have big mouths and to use them as instruments of hate: get rid of the corpses and go ahead and tell your god-damn TVs that the President’s speech claimed several lives.

Under a sun that had become unhinged, in this very same Alberto-Sanamatouff Stadium, National Alberto Sanamatouff that the “Flemish” had incessantly pecked at, God rest his soul! Pecked to death through their local “Flemishings,” poor old Alberto, the former conqueror of regimes, Martillimi’s former father-in-law, former police chief of his hernia, proud member of the national bureau of hernia sufferers, former Special Representative of his very own hernia to the United Nations, the late-lamented Alberto Sanamatouff, national hero with no other heroism than his “herotic” capacities which, if truth be told, were closer to gushings, and the rumor goes around and around: what a horny devil! With his hellish aptitude for squirting, national tomcat known to all the country’s bitches and as you know, as we all well know: shameful lover of National Mom . . .

And he repeats the refrain: just how is it, that such a simple body, such a complete body, with the proportions of an angel, so physically blessed, a body that in the end is frightening because, my brothers and dear fellow countrymen, one can’t really tell where it begins and where it ends. He cradles his privates that are beginning to stir: easy now, we’re talking politics: you can’t chase after two sets of big balls at the same time. Check out that fine-looking ass won’t you, it’s as enchanting as a campfire. My brothers, such beauty is making me restless. He stuck his enormous hand into his pants and stroked his kaki sack: easy now, we’re talking politics. But “they” ignore their master’s instruction, and begin to undulate, trickle, to emit a smell because of this ready-made nudity before my eyes. And this is how far Cataeno Pablo has driven the nation: he wanted to turn our girls into weapons, “Over my dead hernia!” Ours is a land of peace and love, we’re a people made of love: don’t let them sell the skin from our hernias without having killed them first, and he cradles his hernia the same way he had on the day he asked Europe’s Cubans that are the British to go back to their small island of misfortune because you have become humanity’s biggest mark of shame, more so even than the Jews and the Armenians: you add fuel to the fire of my people. He stuck his hand back in his pants and unconsciously sniffed his fingers openly and for the whole crowd to see, come closer my girl: my dear sweet girl, in the name of the Revolution, in the name of the fatherland, in the name of all our mothers, you’re going to ask for the nation’s forgiveness. For the forgiveness of the earth that has given you everything, the forgiveness of martyrs and their families, of the Constitution and don’t let me forget a special forgiveness for France who helped us capture you, forgiveness also for Amerindia and for Poland, come closer to the mic because you’re going to ask for forgiveness as our ancestors did, your hands folded across your chest, your forehead touching the ground, I’m listening, and speak up so that Mom’s international news agencies who always misrepresent the events of my hernia can hear you loud and clear . . .

“But Colonel, she can’t speak.”

“What? Why not?”

“We cut off her tongue because that’s what the rebels do to us.”

“You’re teasing my hernia . . .”

“They cut off Colonel Touvanso Dieu’s, they cut off ex-Captain Honse’s, they cut off ex-Colonel Fouga’s mother’s tongue, they cut off the tongue of every soldier in Colonel Letanso’s battalion. And one day they’ll cut off National Mom’s.”

“My hernia’s blazing . . .”

“They cut off . . .”

“Shut the fuck up, Outranso . . .”

He flew into such a rage, just like he had last year when France celebrated July 14th right here and Mom’s my witness it’s the French who drove me to taking ex-comrade Armando Mundi! The same rage on November 11th when to my great shame the Germans slept with National Mom.

“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.