That morning, the Monitor woke up with an unpleasant feeling. The first thing he saw was his valet, Lieutenant W-U 30 Iseka. The valet regarded him respectfully. Although he understood that something was wrong, he said nothing for reasons of discipline.
Monitor watched the snow fall through the window. Never had so much snow fallen in Monitoria. He liked snow as an object. However, he would have preferred it to be less like ice. If possible, just as one imagines it before seeing it for the first time: with a different texture, like in cartoons. He thought of a country made entirely of snow, including its inhabitants. Instead of foundries and blast furnaces, there would be enormous refrigerators and cold storage chambers where tanks were built with ice blocks.
The head of state said:
---How many fingers must he have?
Since there were only the two of them in the room, w-u 30 Iseka understood that they were addressing him. He asked, puzzled.
----Who, Your Excellency?
----The sky. They're like fingerprints. Did you know that each crystal of a snowflake is absolutely different from any other?
----No, Your Excellency. There was a long silence.
Monitor, who usually jumped up, lazed that morning. With his hand, he smoothed down the edges of the sheets—embroidered with technocrats to protect him in his sleep—and then lit a cigarette. He was about to blow out a ring of smoke, but halfway through, he changed his mind, and then he took out a shape of a cone, which gradually diluted as it moved away from his mouth; a geometer would have observed a solid with a progressively invisible base. He looked at it, but in reality he saw something else.
----Last night, while I was sleeping, something terrible happened to me. A terrible nightmare. I dreamed I didn't have armies. Fortunately, I woke up and saw the lie, but this wasn't instantaneous. In my delirium, I wondered if I wasn't living through a coup d'état or something. And I was asleep, unaware.
If it weren't for his respect, the lieutenant would have shrugged:
----And what are your soldiers for, sir?
----Yes. But... defenseless in the dream, do you realize? I, I was saying to myself in the nightmare: "But how, how is it possible I don't have armies? That my soldiers have dissolved into nothingness. Or is it that I've never had them?" I, I who never cry, and never did in my dreams either, in the midst of my despair and utter helplessness, fought back tears. Because when Caesar has no armies, he must at least prove to absurd history that it is unjust. I think this, however: just as I dreamed of my lack of troops, but as consolation I see upon waking that I do have them . . . I think, I say, of all those who, reacting from a terrible nightmare, find that reality is as horrible as during sleep. Or worse, for they are even older than when they went to bed.
The Monitor chimed like a symphonic mandarin. He recited a Chinese poem—as Ch'in Shih Hwang Ti, that other infinitely terrible man, must have undoubtedly done when ordering the construction of the Spectral Wall—brief and austere:
A dreadful tragedy, that which deprives,
the transcendent man,
of the possibility of carrying out his celestial tasks.
---Do not forget that today you have a public audience, Your Excellency.
---What? ---- asked the Monitor, without understanding a thing, abruptly torn from his poetic state by the firm military machine before him. ----. How? Ah, the audience. The weapons represent the best part of the people, because they are the last to be corrupted. But will they be strong? Will they be, in the full sense of the verb "to be?"
The attendant, genuinely military, without obsequiousness:
----With your doubt you insult us, Your Excellency.
----Not my soldiers, fool. I know they'll get killed. But will the technocrats, inhabitants of the Technocracy, be up to what's coming? Very hard times are coming.
----If you doubt, they'll back down and lose strength.
Monitor looked at the assistant as if seeing him for the first time. He remained silent for a minute, contemplating him. Then he said with renewed respect:
----You truly have all the knowledge. At least everyone forges their own destiny. So why worry, then? Be it and it will be as it was or was. People have the wars and peace they deserve, and this goes for technocrats too. While my people live in doubt and as if thinking, Sorias, Chanchinitas, and Russians reproduce by the millions. Fortunately, they have me as their moderating agent. Otherwise, they would end up devouring each other: the Great Demographic Wall. Then, finally, two or three pairs of evil theologies would wipe them out in one fell swoop in the Final War of the Weapons of Time. To the great joy of the Anti-being, of course. We'll see to it.
Then, since the head of state was very fickle and mutable and incapable of maintaining any of the many facets of his character for long, he asked in an unexpected variation imprinted by hidden gyroscopes:
----Was my rhetoric correct?
The audience, cultured through years of hearing him, had acquired a certain response potential:
----Magnificent. Your solo, a Greek chorus. Magnificent. But, sir, the audience.
----What if instead of going to the audience, I went to the depths of the sea to fish for the sea serpent? Or to pet the moray eels, at worst.
----Sir, the audience.
----But listen, let me finish. What if instead of going to the audience, I went to the Indian Ocean or tame the spiky monster that slumbers among seaweed and coral? Their eyes: war televisions covered by steel curtains.
----Sir, the audience.
----Couldn't I then, if nothing else, climb to where the thin air almost becomes the stratosphere, and capture the fabulous roc bird, seducing it, using a plateful of elephants as bait? Its giant battleship beak. Its feathers, a single one of which, if it fell to earth, would crush my hanging gardens. Its asteroid-like eggs. Do you know that when that bird falls asleep up there, after entering orbit, without realizing it, it lays eggs that automatically turn into moons? Has your memory record told you that every so often it rises and incubates them, and once the chicks grow and can fly, they dart off to feed on the flesh of the poor black people, who are said to live in remote villages, on the other side of the Earth?
----Sir, the audience.
----But then, since you allow me nothing, at least grant me the right to sink into an erupting volcano, protected by my machines if that's what worries you, to go to the center of the magma and extract colored lava, and, once Monitoria is established, to keep the molten rocks continuously glowing red so they don't lose their beauty. If you agree, I promise you this in return: to place that burning cubic meter at the center of a heat-maintaining mechanism that will function for thousands of years, buried beneath a mountain so it can continue functioning even if the Technocracy, with all our dreams, were to disappear.
Imlacible:
----Lord, the audience.
The Monitor heaved a horrendous sigh and commented:
----I have sheltered a Philistine serpent in my bosom. But no matter, all is well. Come on.
Our Tang poet and cultured dictator, always accompanied by his field figure, Lieutenant W-U 30 Iseka, crossed the monitorial chamber, its walls covered by red curtains, then entered a long corridor lined with Japanese armor and bronze eagles on banners with flags. After entering the transportation tube, he abruptly appeared in the rocky grotto, made of metal stones and solder, which we could call karmic waste (and debris). To everyone's astonishment, because, despite expecting it, they never ceased to receive icy shocks. Thus, Monitor spread Chinese deaths with just a movement of his yellow lips.
TTTTTTTTTT
At this point, the head of state, with his typical sadism, hummed a poem of his own:
The magistrate barely moves his cap and a metallic reflection spreads through the courtroom.
The courtiers—livid ghosts—transformed into ideograms. Terrified and trembling like a pavement littered with dry leaves. Conventional smiles seemed to float on ratty rags. Yellow particles were noticeable in suspension. Very soon, the atmosphere took on the color of what was to come. The chromaticity of a room has its horoscope, for those who know how to look. The different vibratory planes of light are filled with records and compress data banks, like computers. Thus, suddenly, the rigid, frightened smiles of those who feared death were pale sky-blue silver on black grass with reddish light; a very powerful black. I intensify the black to galactic black. I intensify to the black of a hole. Black. The smiles (something wants to swallow them) are an Egyptian forest red (small jungles that will be harvested). I maintain the previous red but make it vibrate for a while with a warm yellow. It's a foreign yellow, of invasion; it comes from the Monitor, who is going to kill them. I maintain the previous red and the warm yellow, but add a more intense light orange. I maintain the three colors but make them resonate with a clear orange. The four tones fade, and a monitorial pegasus, its mane splendid white, trots across the room in slow motion, overwhelming tiny islands of deep sanguine with taupe. The hammering of hooves produces instantaneous, convulsive reds on the astral plane. From these emanates a cloudy gray, olive-yellow. The silver-maned steed is splashed with violet tinges, which is inevitable since the color of the victims is translated upon reaching the victimizer. Sepia red of old photographs; grass-green yellow; burnt sienna, red lava, volcanic coral, between the hooves; chalky emerald of rough bronzes, with bottle green and military leaf. Oh, paradox! The earth rarely assumes these chromatic hues, except in the imagination: it was earthy brown; Low-end, penetrating pinkish violet; aggressive phosphorescent magenta. Coppery oranges turn brown; an indefinable blue interspersed with shimmering violet with metallic sparkles. Pale oranges, nascent blacks. All cherry reds taper into lines, and from there they continue to vibrate. These lines bear no relation to the large planes of the general color, which are occupied by blackish golds and small escapes of very cold blue nitrogen gas; lines and planes work independently. The aforementioned tragedies transmit and infect each other, but at the same time they are watertight compartments. This makes tragedy as a whole indestructible (only it is), but at the same time offers hope for salvation, since this, if it existed, would also spread in the same way. The Anti-being took a long task to rot the cosmos. He advances slowly and infects one viscera at a time. Later, he will move faster. It is difficult for him because of the very stable structure of the universe, underpinned by sex and aesthetics. Therefore, before anything else (before anything else), he must convince human beings to renounce these two magical supports. Only then will they begin to work for Anti-El.
----Night and winter suffering --- the Monitor chirped, terrible and with music by Weber. --My little poem about the "metallic reflection" of the imprint. I suppose you know what I mean. Damned is the people who abandon their leader. There are things that human beings should not know, for their own spiritual security. Things, I say, that only a profound martial thinker . . . can understand.
The Monitor, to himself: "I was about to say: 'a thinker like me.' What made me doubt? Let's see if these guys are right after all. But no. I just woke up and my guard is down: that's it."
He continued:
----I feel like Shih Wang Ti, that Chinese emperor who built the Great Wall and mounted it on wheels and wheels and tracks so that it would be mobile, and thus overwhelm the enemy and expand the empire. Two hundred armored divisions built like a single tank. Ch'in Shih Wang's mistake was not understanding that an armored vehicle of this type is bound to be very vulnerable. A single shot from an English bazooka at any point on the rectified circle and the entire transmission is cut off. I taught the Chinese metaphysics by the skin of my teeth, because I wanted a strong people. I wish I had a Cambyses, King of Persia, as a close advisor. But a Cambyses wouldn't be an advisor but a ruler. A terror-ilagorus. Fortunately, I have other powers of force; because if I let myself be guided by your impulses, we'll all be destroyed.
Despite his contemptuous phrasing, his secret thoughts contradicted him: "I try to become the priest of my people; I only half succeed, and I become hysterical. But I don't want to be like my old man, who used to ask, 'What is the truth?' like a faggot and a sophist. I haven't sunk that low yet. My descent hasn't reached that extreme."
But the courtiers, perhaps empowered by the shock, somehow read the cryptograms of his hidden discourse, for the first time they sensed (for a few seconds and in erratic bursts, of course) the solitary tragedy of the Monitor. They could see that one corner of the great audience chamber was transformed into a castle inhabited by galateans. They observed watchtowers with artillery of gnathophausians; battlements replete with parthenopes, and watchtowers glazed from every angle with acanthophires and crayfish. Sea lobsters digging their claws into the embrasures; squints on modillions and flanking towers. Ibacos unearth old supplies and, already in the barbicans, are seen ready to fight to the end (the problem is that we don't know how long their entrusiveness will last). The hermit crab confers, deliberates gravely with the sea crab in the courtyard of honor and in the keep. Flanking defensive cylinders, made withred bricks, stairwells covered in hurled fire-claws, and rooms reserved for visitors, now filled with armored whispers, bellicose and metallic tensions; filled with the eyes and stylized stripes of the shearing crustacean. And yet this, what awaits them, is not the worst. Even more fateful is the fate of the castle's lord: a gigantic coconut crab (whom everyone guards), who, isolated in the dungeon tower, directs military operations—Oh, how imprisoned!—awaiting the attack, spinning on a spinning wheel. The damp, cracked walls of the Archimedean solid that contains the dungeons have the exact color of an acetylene torch lit at low power: cartoon blue, white crest or hood, reddish interludes. But a splendid blue base predominates: cold at times, warm at others. A dusty yellowish-ochre hydrocyanic plane divides the coconut crab's neck, giving us two sections: the lower one involves most of its body, wrapped in turquoise mists; the upper area (head and half of the neck) is an incandescent red, like forged iron, but with some brownish tinge; the lower range, that one, if we compare it with its eyes, which, like streams of powerful lanterns, cast nascent cherry rays. The spinning wheel is painted yellow, and the thread is pure gold.
----There is nothing comparable to a didactic shedding of blood. If I go to so much trouble, it is because I know that one day I will find among you the magister who will force me to submit. But, until that happens... ----In a bad mood, to the assistant ---: What do we have for today?
----Several audiences, sire.
----I know, I know. Hurry, I want some time. ----And he added, smiling sinisterly ---: "Charlotte sings tonight enough to bring down the lucerne." The Phantom of the Opera, Leroux. My lucerne weighs 170 divisions.
The Russian ambassador, who was nearby, could hold back no longer, despite the fact that his government had given him express orders to be patient with the Fool, at least for the moment:
----You can't utter a word without threatening someone.
Then the Monitor replied with a phrase that left everyone in a state of confusion, but which the Russian understood perfectly:
I'll tell you, I've had enough of Nevsky Prospect. ----To the others, with an elegant gesture of his left hand--: Let's begin, for the love of the gods.
The first to approach was a chubby Iseka, suspiciously resembling a Soria, with round eyes and a mustache:
----Sublime Despot, arrogant sir: I am a politician, creator of the doctrine of the Tackable Minimum. ----Monitor barely suppressed a yawn with the hand closest to his mouth ---. The marvelous solution I offer you is the following...
Monitor.
---Solution for what?
For everything! For our dispute with the Sorias, with the Russians, etc... ----And he made great gestures with his hands, as if "etc." were also a driver of international conflicts.
The head of state, looking sideways at the Soviet ambassador, said politicly:
----We have no dispute with the Russians.
The other, without listening, continued, overwhelmed:
-----The doctrine of the Threadable Minimum consists of taking the fragments of each and uniting them until they form an entelechy; then the ontological-political vortex is plugged into an electrical outlet and given artificial life. And this must necessarily be done to end that disastrous dichotomy that plagues humanity. Enough with the contradictions between Being, Nothingness, and Anti-Being. Put them all three together in a giant blender, centrifuge them, and serve them with cream and strawberries. Thus, by forcibly incorporating Anti-Being into our personalities, a beneficial synthesis will ensue. And may the best win! eh?
Monitor:
----Technocratic justice is swift. The law is harsh, but it is the law. ----To the victim----: I will, however, give you a second chance to rehabilitate yourself. ---- To Chu Lin Chin ----: Put him in a corner, facing the wall, with a donkey-eared cap on his head. Twenty minutes. If he reasons, meditates, and changes, I'll gladly listen to him again. ---- To the others ----: Next.
The Russian ambassador, trembling with indignation, confronted him. He stammered:
----Son... son of a bitch! Degenerate fascist murderer! I have orders from my Soviet government to treat you with a kid fist, you piece of shit. Go to your fucking mother who gave birth to you, the Soviet government too! And you! And me! I don't care at all. I resign as ambassador. I tell you this in a personal capacity: you are a degenerate lunatic. You always have been...!
----And he was left with his legs trembling and miraculously holding him up, white as a sheet.
Monitor, who had just come up with a magnificent phrase, addressed the victim again, paying no attention to the Russian, at least for the moment:
----But you have one consolation, "Titi." Don't cry because we killed you. In your next life, you will be reincarnated as a rat, for your good deeds.
Now reassured by having expressed his thought, he turned to Russian:
----Watch your words, my son, or something very bad will happen to you.
The former ambassador, shouting:
TTTTTTTTTTTT
Monitor, clamorously:
----Cakeface. You're brave enough to tell me that stupid thing, but I'm sure you're not brave enough to touch this little piece of paper I'm now placing on the table.
And he took a piece of paper with drawings from his pocket. He did so so solemnly that everyone remained silent, staring at the Russian. He was forced to take the impossible action of yielding, at a time like this, to this new madness. The Russian then approached the table, carrying within him the following sentence, ready to be uttered: "And I screwed him up. And now what?" He did indeed touch the paper with drawings, and immediately ----who knows why ---- his anger disappeared. He turned pale. He took a step back as his forehead began to sweat.
The Monitor addressed him gently:
----Have you seen? Beware of attacking the letter, much less the word, or something bad will happen to you. A metaphysical event. The same thing happened to Tofi, the arch-traitor. ----- As a joke:----: Beware of ontic voids. ----Returning to the audience, he added:----: My children, listen to me: I am a man who refuses to kill without joy. --- And everyone saw the Monitor's face grow in their minds; it was impossible for them to miss the slightest glimmer of his countenance. Then he continued: ---: Every affront will be washed away with blood. And don't you know why? Because my feudal lordships extend within you. Don't forget this, "or I'll be as angry again as on the day of the lucerne," said the Phantom of the Opera.
In the Technocracy, and especially in the Tsarist court of the Monitor, there were many artists who had centered all their lusts on obsequiousness; the bowing of the neck, a primrose. One of these—a musician, he was—approached on the day of the audience and, upon being granted the floor, first expressed in brief sentences his state of enchantment at the sad end of the Russian, and the swift and efficient performance that had just taken place:
Peluchon 4 Iseka, musician:
----As a talented composer and artist, I feel enormously disappointed and irritated and/or disconsolate and/or angry at the paucity of titles bestowed upon you, Iseka Monitor. It is not enough to say that you are great; it is also necessary to discover new ways of expressing it. My modest contribution, in this regard, is to call you Tsar Father, Stalin II, the Terrible. ---- Monitor smiled He snuck a symphony from under his large mustache and said nothing. The other knew that the silence, in this case, was acquiescence and continued: "Furthermore, I've composed my seventh symphony in your honor. Called Le Terrible, as you can understand. Part One: La Bastia Castana; Part Two: Furor Despoticus; Part Three: Violoncelloping Sorias and Russians with the cannon of my tank; Part Four: Tremble, chichi. Tremble. What do you think?"
----In principle, fine. We should hear the symphony, though."
The other, who understood nothing, sincere despite his obsequiousness, croaked with delight:
----Yes, yes, yes. I wonder why it isn't written on the walls that if all your armored vehicles were lined up, the distance from the first to the last would be as far as the distance from here to the moon. Why? Eh? Eh?
The Terrible One answered distractedly, for he had another thought in his head:
----I don't know. Just a moment, please. ----To his assistant----: Bring my knitters, this audience is boring me to death. What wrong have I done, oh gods, to deserve to rule a generation of imbeciles? Where are my knitting knitters? If I have to keep sending enemies to the scaffold, at least I want to lead them like this: surrounded by them. The ticking of the needles: excellent funeral music.-----The lieutenant and valet opened a secret door, and through it rushed into the room several hideous, ragged old women, the kind that abound on buses, who immediately began knitting after sitting down.
The knitters:
Tick, tick, tick. Grape Harvest Brumaire Frimario: tear off their bobbins.
Tick, tick, tick. Snowy Rainy Windy: cut off their teats.
Tick, tick, tick. Germinal Floreal Prairial: slices of sausage, and with ears
dried apricot sauce; the snake to the butt and the hand to the kettle.
Tick, tick, tick. Mesidor Thermidor Fructidor; head to the drawer
until they lose their minds. Tick, tick, tick.
But even this didn't stop Stalin 111 the Terrible from getting bored, and he fired the musician. The next person to see him was a relative of someone who, as such, felt entitled to waste his time and talk nonsense.
----Who's your favorite actor, Father?
Stalin Monitor didn't know whether to kill him or what. At the last minute, he decided to give him another chance:
----Jack Palance Iseka. I can relate. You're also Jack the Ripper. Someone's Relative Iseka:
----Oh, but how nice, how nice. Father, a remarkable thing happened to me today. I was coming here when I saw a woman.
----Did you make an appointment?
----It didn't even occur to me. I was so . . .
----Imbecile.
----But my goodness! You don't know what kind of woman it was!
----But I saw how your eyes shone with greed, wanting to squeeze both of her breasts. Continue.
----I think you're right. Whatever it was. She was coming, I mean, and her back was turned. She had just come from the Black Sea, I suppose from her skin. One section of her back, however, a thin horizontal strip, was less tanned. The horizontal untanned (or half-tanned) area I referred to proved that she had been wearing a bra while sunbathing on the beach.
Stalin, growing impatient, dangerously though without showing it, instead of ordering her death right there, said:
----Yes. And?
Someone's Relative Iseka, desperate:
----But don't you understand, Your Excellency! That proves she had other clothes before.
---Undoubtedly. And?
----And that to put on the one she was wearing on the occasion I saw her, she must have taken off her old one.
Stalin, furious, questioned politely, sweetly, and gently:
----And?
----And if she took off the old one to put on the new one (and at that moment I became lucidly aware of the fact as if I had witnessed it), she must have been left breast-deep for a few seconds. I was impressed by that fact.
During these kinds of audiences, most of the visitors usually lost their balls, which accumulated in a corner, forming a small mound. The breasts of women His Excellency disliked ended up in the same place. The fact that the tits and balls were fraternizing in the same place is conclusive proof that there was no discrimination between the sexes in the Technocracy. Congratulations to the feminists. One might wonder how anyone attended the hearings if the petitioner's fate was usually so inhospitable. It was mandatory to go and complain by lottery. There was a giant raffle with upside-down prizes, held every two months. On the bimonthly hearing day, those drawn for such a sad end had to show up punctually. If anyone refused, they were instantly castrated. Thus, they could lose their underwear (and its contents) for not going, for going and not complaining, or for going and complaining. The chances of salvation were frankly slim. The Monitor of Technocracy, like the Soria Soriator of Soria in this respect, had somewhat eccentric ideas about things.
Many
times he would wake up laconic, that infinite magistrate. One day, a
certain terrified victim protested: "But Your Excellency! Are
you really going to order my liquidation?" Monitor, crossing his
fingers over a belly with nonexistent rolls of fat, but in the manner
of a fat man, replied: Simplicissimus. And the brackets ended up in
the corner.
On other occasions, he opted for courtesy. Especially
if the questioner was a woman: "But my dear friend, what you say
seems to me appallingly naive. ---- Boringly ----: Cut off her
breasts."
When the time comes, we will talk about a subtle
but profound transformation that took place in the Despot. So great
was the change, in fact, that he regretted the atrocities he had
committed. To this end, he put his biologists to work to return the
stolen parts to the victims. So, through cloning, the scientists
managed to regrow all the missing eggs, and as for the little ones,
they ended up being even fatter, longer and more powerful than before. Breasts also emerged freely, abundantly, and marvelously. What's more, the scorned were given the option of choosing between different sizes and aesthetics. Cone-shaped nipple areolas eventually became fashionable. But until this arrived, the suffering was great.
The Chestnut Beast, at one point, to give a break to his Chinese executioner, who until then had been tirelessly castrating, lit a cigarette. After about eight breaths, expelled in the most terrifying silence, he signaled for the officer commanding the 3rd Regiment of the 4th Division of the 3rd Army, fighting in Chanchin del Sur against the troops of Chanchin del Norte, to enter. This regiment, tired from months of relentless fighting, refused to carry out a mission in which it would inevitably have had to fight. The officer, after saluting with the dynamic tension of Charles Atlas, attempted to defend his men. But Monitor stopped him in his tracks:
----Wait a moment, officer. To avoid useless and idle discussions, I'm going to tell you my intention. This will save you from a very languid, tedious, and uniformly monotonous speech. I've decided to decimate your regiment. That is to say: shoot one in every ten. This will serve as an example to the entire Army.
----But, Your Excellency! ---- the officer tried to protest.
Monitor, softly:
----Yes?
----It's not possible!
----Why?
----It's not necessary, Your Excellency.
----Oh, no? It's logical that you don't think it's necessary or call it "inhuman madness." Yes: don't protest. I know you didn't say it, but you thought it. It's the same thing. If you don't have a war in time, you'll have another war out of time and a horrible peace. These are reasons of biological survival. There are too many intellectuals here who have blocked their feelings. I would prefer to govern a country of brutish people. You are closer to nature. Rather than govern you, a bunch of animals, I would prefer to lead the Russians, who at least never lost sight of their destiny as a great nation. You're all chickens.
There was a very long silence in the room. Then they continued.
----Your men didn't understand this, and they preferred to go to sleep instead of fighting the Chanchinita devils of the North. Since you refuse to be a biologically responsible people, then you will have a Monitor Shih Hwang Ti, holy and Chinese, who will build walls with your corpses. Man should not accede to any sanctity other than that of slaughter, in the worst case; because when natural defenses disappear, excessiveness suddenly sets in. If there is no logical and normal struggle for life, the sanctity of slavery ensues.
----My men were tired,--- the officer defended himself.
----If we rest, they will rest too.
----I am in charge of good soldiers. They fought too long, that's all.
----The Chanchinita soldiers also fought for too long and didn't tire. I hate them, but I recognize that they are good soldiers and that they don't tire. He lit a cigarette. He exhaled slowly, but with a hiss that could be heard throughout the room. He continued: But not all the blame lies with your men. If they failed, it was because you failed first. The officer stiffened a little: I am willing to face my responsibility. I am willing to face my responsibility. As if you were going to allow yourself not to face it! And Monitor, extremely furious, looked at the small bundle between the officer's legs, wondering whether or not he should give the order. And he was almost there when, glancing sideways at the Chinese man's fatigue, he changed course and, in a different tone, said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his middle finger and thumb and squinting his eyes: I could give you a horrifying punishment, and indeed, you deserve it. But, of all the titles bestowed upon me, I prefer one: Merciful Beast. Fine. Let's see. I'll give you a satrapy in some remote corner of my empire. The desolate, stony satrapy of Catrala, perhaps? Indeed: that one. It seems like a small thing, and indeed it is. But remember, "treasure is good, but much more so will be that which you forge through your honest labor."
TTTTTTTTTT
The other, infinitely terrified, didn't know how to respond to Beast's words. He chose to say nothing, and how right he was.
----In two years you'll have to turn it into a garden, and woe betide you if you fail with this second chance I'm giving you. You can retire.
The officer, overjoyed at having gotten off so cheap, left after the ritual of clicking his heels and saluting.
Monitor seemed annoyed, as if tormented by an inner doubt. He said to himself: "I must be manipulated or in decline. I killed guys a hundred times better. If anyone deserved to die, it was that officer who just retired. Anyway, now it's done. I'd need a Magister Faber to show me when and where." Aloud:
----Next one.
The next to appear was a lunatic. He was wearing a strange, ragged khaki-colored uniform, designed by himself. A rare case among megalomaniacs, who usually cover their entire chest, arms, and legs, he only wore an authentic Purple Heart, which he surely acquired at an auction. The chamberlain of audiences let him pass for reasons of natural selection and survival of the fittest, since he was absolutely sure the Monitor would have him castrated as soon as he saw him.
The madman:
Cheers, my Kaiser!
The Monitor smiled slightly for half a second and then said, seeing him limp:
----What's wrong? Is your leg hurt?
----Huh? ----I looked down. Oh, ah, it was a 1975 shell, French. It almost took out half my bone. Fortunately, things didn't get any worse. Now I wear a beard and mustache on my left leg to hide the scars.
Those present laughed quietly, wondering what color the madman's balls were, while they stared intently at His Excellency's lips, sexually aroused and yearning for the fateful order. But they were in for a shock, as the head of state had no intention of giving such an order. Instantly taking a shine to the man, he gestured to encourage him to continue. The other man did so, very enthusiastically:
----Fortunately, it was on the left, because if it had hit my right leg, "imagine, dear Cayo, what could have happened." ----He tapped his left boot with a kind of marshal's baton he was carrying and added: ----: Good soldiers. They'll hold out this year. Yes. Things were tough the other day. Yes. They subjected us to crossfire from their grenade launchers. But my boys immediately responded to the French cannon fire with our 210th heavy artillery. Von Ludendorff will soon finish liquidating those Russians this year in the battles of Tannenberg and the Masurian Lakes and will be able to come with fresh divisions.
The Big Beast smiled sympathetically:
----We're already in the twenty-second Carlist World War, and you're still in the first or second, which, by the way, never existed. Something outdated, mein herr. Among other things. The madman, extremely indignant:
"How come the Great War doesn't exist?"
Bestiazza opted for conciliation:
"Well, well. Don't get angry. And tell me, my brother, do you really believe in the existence of a country called Germany, or another called... as they say... France? If France really existed, it would only be a kind of Outer Russia."
The madman, bewildered and furious:
"But what did you mean, my Kaiser? Don't you believe in the existence of the French? Go to the trenches, to the front lines, and you'll see whether they exist or not."
The monitor, without a sound, muttered:
"Only the majority will reject me, but not the most enlightened. This man doesn't reject me."
The madman was delirious:
"Yes. We'll survive this year. And next. With the help of... of the gods. And of our Kaiser, ----fantastically ---- Kaiser und Vaterlancfi! ----Pause ----. Yes. We had a tough time with my boys last week, with those damned 75-pounders. Of course, we soon evened things up with our heavies 210s. We silenced those filthy French batteries. Yes. There's no flood that a good German soldier can't make.
TTTTTTTTTT
Suddenly,
a weariness that had lasted for years left Beast. He
whispered:
-----I'm exhausted. My eyelids feel like lead.
The
madman—who, despite his babble, had listened charmingly—jumped
up:
----The eyelids of a French officer must weigh like lead. A
German's weigh like tin.
Monitor, with part of his face covered by
his hand, looked at him with his free eye and said
sarcastically:
----Then I, who am your Kaiser, should feel them as
heavy as iron.
----Iron doesn't weigh! I can carry kilos and
kilos. It's light as air.
Seeing that there was no way to appease
him, the other fell silent. However, shortly after, Monitor addressed
him again:
----And what measures have you determined to defend
your troops, apart from counterattacking the enemy artillery with
your own?
----I planted a large iron pole in no man's
land.
----And what the hell is an iron pole planted in that place
for?
----With such a lightning rod, I hoped to attract the bombs.
Indeed, it worked. Too bad the first bomb blew me to shit, and then
they continued to fall in other places. I didn't expect it. But it
doesn't matter: we'll hold on. Bring in the bulky Bertha and the
heavy Gustavo! Bomb Paris!
The Beast, seeing that the other was
getting out of control, hastened to dismiss him. But not before
ordering that he be given a lifetime pension so he could continue
raving, but without financial hardship.
The madman, before
withdrawing, clicked his heels, saluted and said:
Viktoria, mein
kaiser!
"Viktoria," replied the Monitor, responding to
his bow.
It's worth noting that the former Russian ambassador had
been silently destroyed, standing in a corner, from the very moment
the Big Beast showed him the mysterious slip of paper. Seeing him in
this state, Clemente said:
"Sad? Pity." Waving his hand:
"You are uncomfortable. Pull yourself together, man. I don't
consider you all that bad. I've always recognized
TTTTTTTTTT
That the Russian, as a subordinate species, is a dog's best friend. What I haven't been able to understand, despite all my efforts, is why dogs don't guide you better. This morning, around three, I woke up with a strong delirium of forgiveness. It lasted two hours. I couldn't sleep because of the temporary, though annoying, psychological imbalance, as you realize. If we had met during that time, I would have forgiven you completely. But fortunately, my sanity has been restored, thanks to the exercise of my powerful will. I will limit myself, in your case, to placing you in the hands of your people. I'm going to return you to the Russian commissars, who will undoubtedly congratulate you on having lost control of your nerves in the Technocracy.
The Russian instantly awoke from his stupor:
Oh, no! Please... Lock me up in a concentration camp, but don't send me back there. Monitor, playing dumb:
----A dasn niet? ("Why not?")
----You don't know what they do to those who fail.
----I have a pretty good idea. Gosudarstvennoie Politicheskoe Upravlenie? Narodny Kommiossariat Wnutrennich Diel?
----No. It's called the KGB now.
Monitor, with the four fingers of his left hand open, palm up, and thumb tucked, made an elegant bevel in the air:
----Anyway, anyway: to Russia. As soon as the audience is over. I wish to observe, for comfort, the progressive alteration of your cells due to fear. As von Clausewitz and Count Schlieffen would say, total war up to the complete biological annihilation of the enemy is the continuation of diplomatic, friendly conversations by other means.
To the Chamberlain:
----The next one
Without hesitation, a man with a sun-tanned face and very long hair, as well as a beard and mustache, approached Iseka the Terrible. Although Monitorsaw that he grew his hair short like a brush, but that didn't repel him. He promised himself he'd wait for him to speak.
----My, Monitor.
And he smiled. Simply that. And he waited, still smiling. Neutral observers began to give two hoots about his balls. However, the Repugnant and Horrible Beast, completely surprised, barely managed to repeat:
----You, Monitor... ----Coming out of his stupor----: Aren't you afraid?
----What do you want, Father? I'm almost thirty-five, the same age Danton was when he was guillotined, but I can say I've made the most of life. I've known the love of three women and slept with many. I've traveled through very strange countries. I was a combat soldier for five years in Chanchin del Sur. What do you think?
And he smiled again, that strange smile that so troubled the Vomiting Beast.
However, the Terrible One took charge. He smiled too. He stepped down from his seat and, placing a large hand on the visitor's shoulder, looked at him for a moment. Then he turned his head to the chamberlain of audiences:
---The audiences are over for two months. ---- Enormous shivers of sighing joy spread throughout those waiting their turn. ----. "Hello, Father! Bring some dessert to treat my friend." He then turned to the Russian, calling out, "Come on, Father! Play some music, we'll want to sing and dance. Vodka! Water! Ha ha!"
The servants rushed to bring the vodka and a balalaika, placing the latter in the Russian's hands. He knew how to play the instrument, luckily for him. He began with Bublischki ("Doughnuts"). The Monitor began to sing, powerful and hoarse: like a crow acting as a bass. Although his voice was terrible (like him), there was something attractive about it. Then he combined it with leaps and taps, full of vitality.
The stranger, for his part—the one who always smiled and was the last to be served at the "audience"—was now also smiling and accompanying the music with his hands, sitting on the floor.
While all this was going on, the Monitor's pastry chef had been urgently called to defend the situation with a dessert—the one the Monitor had ordered for his new friend; since logically he couldn't do it in five minutes,
He took out a prepared dessert from his stash, since he had several to cover the mood swings of His Excellency. The aforementioned dessert was capable of bringing a hunchbacked duchess to orgasm. He appeared with it like someone carrying a small, much-loved child in his arms.
That's how the Chamberlain of Audiences—although the other one had nothing to do with that image—envisioned him in his mind's eye as the confectioner entered through the door: a poor servant smiling, satisfied like an idiot over a precious detail. "His end will be very sad, I'm afraid," the Chamberlain thought.
The aforementioned man, with a graceful bow that must have cost him a lot considering the weight of the dessert—25 kilos, which he held on a tray resting on the five fingers of his right hand—offered his gem to the Monitor and his friend. Right in the middle of both of them, because he knew the Monitor hadn't ordered it for himself, and, moreover, an exclusive offer to the visitor would have been discourtesy of the head of state.
Monitor:
------Good, magnificent. It looks good. ----To the new friend----: He's my monitorial pastry chef. In all the Technocracy, there's no finer one. ----To the pastry chef----: You may go.
The other left trembling. Monitor, for his part, urged the visitor to eat:
----How is it? ----asked the statesman.
Sincerely:
Delicious!
----I'm happy for someone I know. Someone who was saved, thanks to you.
The visitor, through a sweet system:
----Nam, num, nim . . . What do you mean?
----Nothing, nothing. Don't worry.
Comments
Post a Comment