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.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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