Sorry-TMI? Just thought you’d want me to start at the most intimate. And I’d sing: Viva President Fernando Valdes Estregan! “Vita,” he’d whisper, “my life”-touching my face with fingers smelling of Marlboros and Brylcreem, caressing my closed eyes like a blind lover wishing a final farewell. Between two fingers I’d make little FVE march, and dance, and sing the national anthem-falsetto, vibrato-and peck it on the head, declaring: Viva il Duce! When the president laughed he looked like his dashing old self from the Technicolor screen. But it was in my lover’s that I believed truly, coz he believed in me, and let me lead. Did you know that we spend a life’s total of ninety days on the can? He admired men so great we know them by their initials: JFK, LKY, FDR-the kind you’d never imagine on a porcelain throne-though most of all he respected Hitler, the brilliant and tragic, he said, whose one name was enough. On his lap I’d lay my head and talk to it: Hello there, little sir, you look noble, endearing-why do you quiver with such rage? At attention it resembled a speechifying Mussolini, like in the photos in the biographies the president left by the toilet in my CR.
His is bigger than you’d guess, smaller than he thinks-and would prove his downfall, obviously. I know you’re wondering-yes, it’s true: his birdie is thick, as he’s always saying, but like a thumb is to a finger, and hard to find beneath the paunch and hair that make a nest for it to rest on its two eggs-or repose, if metaphor’s more politically correct re: the pitutoys of powerful men.
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