Croak in Translation

They didn’t speak the same language, but the leader of the General Council knew that his young conquest was infected; nonetheless, nothing could stop his advances. A sensible man, he sensed that she enjoyed his attention. They smiled at each other often. If the smiles could rise off their faces and link, their detachable, upturned lips could form perfect circles, like smoke rings, in the air all around them. Her ease with him answered his longings. Besides, he was skillful at responding to earnest desire; he was a good leader who listened to the people, and the people always voiced their deepest desires; he always answered them; now he answered hers. They’d sat this close in his Lovannesburg garden years ago. Back then they’d silently agreed to feel relaxed in this sexual tension. But this time the pull was too hard to prevent their collision. Even the weather permitted it because now was the frog-mating season, for crying out loud! Who can ignore the appeal of the male frog’s croon? The collective croaks turned both of them on. They petted, kissed, fucked, and promised. Later, he was left wondering why she exposed him? Well, he had no regrets. If their mischievous translator ever came to visit this refurbished gulag, he would ask the translator to teach him to say “Do you want to play leap frog?” in his Lover’s muddy, wart-covered tongue. Maybe, when his Lover noticed that he was serious about abandoning his life and his voice to be close to her again, he’d win a visit from her. But after spending years practicing and making himself fluent in her tongue, he received news that she was killed in a hit and run at The Hour of The Star in Rio de Janeiro.