The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife
carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails,
his son went
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a
pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord
over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in
English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house
to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to
lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores.
We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the
table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a
type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a
brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There
was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The
parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up,
and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes:
say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring
groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were
like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He
took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into
a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he
said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck
them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held
the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he
said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice.
Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
May
1978
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