Carnival

by Rawi Hage

  Don’t go, the older one said, as he held the young man’s hand.

  The young man started to cry. You know I left everything for you, he said. You made me come here. And live with you. You promised to support me until I got on a roll. You know how important it is for me to sing onstage. And I have the sense that you’ve lost patience. You want me to leave.

  All I want is to make you fly, my love.

  Don’t call me that. Not now.

  My love.

  You’re making me cry.

  My love, my love, my love.

  See, now my whole face is full of tears. I hate tears. But you like tears and you never shed any.

  The older man started to look for his handkerchief. I turned and offered them my box of Kleenex.

  Thank you, driver, the young man said, and they both giggled and then laughed and held each other in the back seat of my car.

  The older man paid. And then he took some more money, a large tip, and handed it to me.

  This is for your trouble, he said, and I watched them both leave under a full moon and over the wet streets.

  TARGET

  THE TIP BROUGHT my night’s total to about fifty dollars. I had given myself a target: once I reached a hundred, I would call it a night and go back home, check in with the spider on the wall, call Mary, and then read a book and masturbate.

  I possess an arsenal of books, a stack of which can be found on the lowest shelf, next to my carpet, within reach to incite my tendencies to sin and to awake my fist into motion. That particular shelf contains a respectable and varied literature that once belonged to the bearded lady. Books such as L’immoraliste, L’histoire de l’oeil, and La chatte, all of them serving me well in times of escape and need. There are also some that I inherited from a professor who left me his vast library. Thus I am able to reach for such studies as An Unhurried View of Erotica, by Ralph Ginzburg, The Housewife’s Handbook on Selective Promiscuity, by Rey Anthony, and Restif de La Bretonne’s Pleasures and Follies of a Good-natured Libertine. And for a less highbrow selection of work, which I assure you is as effective and as pleasing at times, I help myself to any of the following: The Adventures of a Nurse Called Lily, The Maid with the Golden Whip, or A Stroll on Red Boulevard. Or, to move to a selection of religious and ascetic pleasures, The Private Diary of a Crusader’s Wife and The Holy Howl. But my favourite, as yet, in this area of studies is exemplified by The Flogging Trilogy, which can also be found on this most accessible shelf. The trilogy exists in three impeccable first editions: The Art of Flagellation for the Perverse, The Art of Flagellation for the Perverse and Pious, and, finally, The Art of Transcendental Flagellation, which in my opinion would be a masterpiece were it not for the long and unnecessary treatise on how to acquire an oxtail and shape it into a whip.

  But before I had the chance to ignite my engine and drive home towards my flamboyant collection and lie down on my father’s carpet and “read,” a man entered my car. He smelled of expensive cologne and he wore a high white collar, a silk suit, and an eccentric-looking hat that blocked my view of the rear window. What is this, it must be a theatre night, I thought to myself as I drove my car through high and low streets, as I crossed under sporadic city lights and the open, inviting curtains of bedroom windows.

  Driver, the man said, in what sounded like a fake British accent, or was it a South African accent, or maybe an Australian accent, who knows and who cares about these subtleties anyway, they are all the product of the same boats and empire — have you ever been in an accident?

  Yes indeed, I said. Many, as a matter of fact.

  Do tell, driver.

  Well, I said, once I was waiting at a red light right next to another taxi. Across the intersection, halfway down the block, there was this lady in a long fur coat and a fur hat. She was in high heels and was waving at us. And when she waved, all her jewels shone and sent us ultraviolet signals. You see, she didn’t specify which taxi she wanted. Obviously she didn’t care. She would get into the first cab that reached her. She was like evolution: she had no preference besides speed, performance, and availability. I glanced at the taxi driver beside me, and he gave me the finger. Now, the other driver had an advantage: he was on the sidewalk side of the street. But I told myself that I’d rather die than let this fucker, excuse my language, get the fare.

  Foul language is fine with me. Just go ahead and fuck all you want, the man said.

  Indeed, I replied. So when the light turned green, I stepped on the gas. I was ahead but, like I said, he had the advantage, so I swung my car to the side to block my adversary’s way. He braked, but he still hit me on the back door, on the side where you are sitting now, in fact. We stopped and got out of our cars. He took a swing at me. It was unexpected. I went back to my car and got a certain feathered stick I carry with me in case of emergencies, but he had already pulled a knife and was coming at me. I swung the stick and hit his shoulder but he was close enough to slice me right here, on my hand; you can’t see the scar because of my horse tattoo. I swung my stick and I bashed the shit out of him, sir. You should have seen him drop his knife and start begging. I looked for the lady, but she was hurrying into another car. So I drove straight to the house of a friend of mine who is a nurse. He cleaned the wound and stitched me without anesthesia.

  Did that hurt? the man asked.

  Yes, it did.

  So let me ask you, driver, how do you feel about pain?

  You mean, in general?

  Let’s say in the philosophical sense.

  I say the winner gets to see the loser suffer.

  Is the suffering of others enjoyable to watch?

  It could be, I said.

  What do you think of people who get entertained, even excited, by watching others’ pain? Do you know what I am getting at?

  Like chains, kissing boots, bondage, and so on?

  Yes indeed. A very perceptive driver you are.

  It is a fact that many cultures turn pain into a legitimate spectacle, I said.

  How about voluntary subjugation, he asked. Is that legitimate?

  I guess, when you think about it, this is where the so-called sexual liberation movement and the religious self-floggers intersect. The ancient Christians walked happily towards the lions’ smiles, and some flogged themselves. And so do some Muslim sects to this day. I am not sure what benefits might come to the man who willingly consents to pain, sir. But there must be some convictions and pleasures involved.

  So we shall respect those convictions, driver, are you saying? Let me ask you this. If you were a Roman, would you have attended any of those spectacles?

  I would think so, sir. They would have seemed perfectly legitimate to me. We are all the products and the victims of our own upbringing, until we reflect, refuse, and rebel.

  Would you attend any similar event in the present, as we speak?

  I pulled over and turned to face the man. I smiled and said: If I can leave the meter on and charge for it, yes indeed. And who knows, I might also be rewarded with a large, generous tip.

  Why not? Why not, indeed. Smarter than I ever thought, my dear chap. Seek and you shall find.

  We drove down to the port. Below the quay there was what looked like a wooden castle, or maybe a mill, or a monster. It was getting late in the morning and I was tired, and when I get tired, I imagine the most spectacular things.

  I kept my meter running, shut off the engine, and followed the man.

  There was a small window beside the door. The man whispered what must have been a password and, seconds later, a giant in leather opened the door and ushered us in.

  It was dark inside, but at the entrance there was a large cage with a few men, half-naked, with collars around their necks. They were all behaving like dogs. One of them was on his knees, sniffing the others and whimpering, one was in the corner howling, another was barking and sho
wing his teeth. They each had long leashes and leather straps crossing their chests.

  Gladiators! I declared.

  Hardly, the man said. These, my dear, are slaves brought here by their masters. In complete submission. They are here to obey, to be exchanged and swapped. But let’s proceed to the darkrooms, and I urge you to listen and not talk.

  It was so dark that all I could detect was forms and shades of hands and body parts clinging to each other. If it hadn’t been for the little moans of pleasure and the sounds of friction, they all would have seemed like sluggish mermaids, swimming through smells of sweat and cum, swirling around in duality and happiness.

  After we left the darkrooms, we arrived at some faintly lit booths occupied by she-males and cat ladies. We watched as a chained middle-aged man with a hairy back was stomped on by a topless lady in tight pants and a face mask. Another man was on his knees and looked like he was simultaneously in pain and ecstasy. He was breathing heavily inside a leather mask. And then we passed a man in a G-string who tried to grab my ankle, but I kicked myself free and walked away. He shouted after me, Fag, fag, come over here, fag, I know you want it. I gave him the finger and puffed myself up like an ant ready to fight.

  We began climbing a flight of stairs, and halfway up I saw a giant swing, decorated with flowers that climbed along its ropes. Yes, my dear driver, said the man, when I asked him about it. This is a swing, but use your playfulness and extend your imagination. You call it a swing, but I call it the Beautiful Tide. This world is all about, how should I put it, Va et vient, as the French would say . . . And that is when I saw a pinball machine in the corner. A pinball machine! I shouted, in excitement and surprise. Yes, the man said, that is for the bored, the rejected, those who have become immune to life’s joys. As we proceeded up the stairs, we passed a few men chained to the railing. One of them was in his underwear, asleep against the metal; another counted, out loud, every step we took. As soon as we reached the top of the stairs, the chained man shouted, Let it roll, Sisyphus!

  We entered an open space with many people, drunk, dancing, smoking in each other’s laps. In a corner was a large screen with Marlene Dietrich singing in The Blue Angel; on a monitor opposite was a loop of two dogs stuck to each other, fucking.

  In between, a crowd was gathered around a man getting fist-fucked by a masked woman with long feathers on her head. There was a large bucket of lubrication next to the woman’s feet that she frequently dipped her hand into. The man was howling. The man was loud!

  My client turned to me and said, How about those Christians, at least they thought that the circus would soon end and they would go straight to heaven, but here, the pain must seem eternal.

  It does remind me of passages from the Inferno, I said.

  Dante never cared about pain, he wanted revenge. Here, there is nothing personal. But let me assure you, many of the ruling elites of our time can be found here. There is nothing like seeing a judge asking for forgiveness, an evangelist screaming OH MERCY, or a doctor opening wide. Everyone loves a comedy, my dear. It is divine.

  Dear driver, he said, feel free to indulge yourself in any of the facilities, or, if you choose not to, have no fear, there is no judgment or obligation, you may wait in the guest lounge and order whatever you like. The drinks are on me.

  So I went to the lounge and I sat at the bar. There was another man, smoking and keeping to himself. He gave me a quick look and then he leaned towards me. T’as une tête d’arabe comme moi, he said, and smiled. Taxi? he asked.

  Yes, how did you know?

  I saw a taxi outside. And you are sitting in the visitors’ quarters and not inside with the animals. Like dogs, they are all on their knees like dogs. Ils sont pourris, mon ami. Une société de chiens ici. Comme des chiens.

  My name is Cide Hamete Benengeli, he said. You can call me Hamete. No, not Hamlet, it is Hamete. I am a taxi driver too; my car is parked beside yours. I drive a rich person here once or twice a week. Sometimes, when it is cold, I come inside to save on gas, but in the summer I always wait outside. I prefer to be in my car than here in this dirt, but with four kids and a wife it is hard to refuse the money . . . I never say a word to my wife about what I see here. I sit, smoke, and think of my kids. I am going to take my daughters back to the old country. This is no place for my children . . . The lady pays me very well and that is why I tolerate these scenes of debauchery, why I sit here and wait and let the meter run in my car. Ça va pas rester comme ça, mon ami. Ça va éclater. L’occident est pourri, he said.

  I offered Hamete a drink. He told me he never touched the stuff here, not because he abstains, but because he was afraid to get a disease from the glasses. After this, he said, I go straight home and clean myself and I throw all my clothes in the laundry and I wash them myself. I don’t let my kids touch me before I shower and change my clothes. You might think that the occidentals would have learned how to cleanse themselves after all these centuries of plague and decadence, but if you ask me, they are still dirty.

  After a few hours my client came back and said, Let’s go. I was never too fond of dogs.

  On the way out, my client stopped to recover his coat, and then he chatted with a young man who had a belt of beads on his waist and a diminutive see-through piece of cloth around his genitals. As I waited, I noticed a guest book on a small table. It was opened to a page full of inscriptions; beside it lay a pen shaped like a feather.

  I picked up the pen and it was light as a . . . well . . . I proceeded to write a long letter in which I thanked the establishment for the moving experience, for the opportunity to witness it through this communal tunnel of the senses, and I mentioned the necessity of the symbolic and, if one so chooses, the experiential as well in the enactment of this lesser existence, the degeneration of all that is tangible, the howl of dogs, the chains of entrapment, the need to personify the fate of men in this inferior world . . . and as I was about to compose some verses on the subject of the obscurity of entanglement in relation to the scarcity of light, my client tapped me on the shoulder and said, My dear fellow, I am flattered that these dungeons of love have given you some inspiration, but I believe your meter is still running and I do need to get home and release myself from the tight feeling in my chest, literally, that is.

  I drove the “British” man back to town. He smoked in my car and I didn’t object. There was more than two hundred dollars on the meter, and I was sure the tip would be phenomenal, I mean spectacular, fabulous, darrrling (said with a snap of the fingers), and fantastic. I dropped him downtown. He asked for my number.

  I’ll call you, he said. You are a smart, hard-working man, perceptive indeed. You have the gift of knowing, and to know is to earn! I shall call you, he said, and he gave me a jolly good tip that doubled the fare.

  Ta ta, he said, and calmly walked in front of my car and entered a fancy building with a sentinel in a green suit and top hat who rushed to open the door.

  CARPET

  I DROVE BACK home. The money was enough to let me retire for two nights. In celebration of my wealth, I parked my car and ran upstairs and lay on my carpet. After I’d battled a few barbaric armies, I declared to the people, Veni, vidi, vici. The reception in Rome after our successful military campaign was magnificent. The horses, the slaves, the looting, and my proud soldiers shouting my name brought wind to my chest. The daughter of the king of the Visigoths was among the captured. I made sure that she walked freely. I didn’t want her round ankles to be bruised or ringed with marks of blood. I didn’t want her hands to get tired from the weight of metal and chains.

  After I rested and visited the public baths, I returned to my quarters and asked for her. She came in, defiant, all washed and covered in a long purple gown, her golden hair combed and long, covering her shoulders. Her beauty made me weep. To tempt her, I left a dagger on the steps. And I saw her eyeing it. Proudly she stood there, oblivious to the marble surroundings an
d all the gold around us. I ordered my guards and my slaves to leave us alone. I walked around her. She was fearless, just like all of her kind. How many of these Germanic tribes had I slaughtered, how many had I enslaved, yet I had never seen such a beauty. I didn’t touch her. I walked farther away from the dagger and a sexual thrill came over me. I wanted her to grab the dagger and stab me. I wanted to see her screaming as she plunged it into my chest calling her father’s name. Nothing could move me anymore. After all those campaigns, triumphs, and riches, beauty and violence were the only things that could give me a sense of existence. I wanted to ejaculate while the dagger burned my skin and entered me. I wanted to see her face in the ecstasy of ten consecutive, vengeful orgasms as I covered her with my own blood. A multiple coming in the name of her father, whom I had slain in front of her eyes, in memory of the huts that I had burned, the looting, the rapes, the occupations, the forced transfers. I jerked myself off and I came (veni) above my father’s carpet as I watched the king’s daughter rush towards me with the dagger in her hand.

  I took a shower that evening. I rested. After my assassination, a civil war had erupted in my room. Killers surfaced from my library, from the kitchen side, to be precise, where all the history books are kept above the sink and beside the cups of coffee. Men howled and women screamed and the sorrow of wars made me reach for my jacket, grab my hat and spin my keys in my fingers, and go down to my taxi to drive through the streets and look for clients.

  I picked up a young woman in a short skirt and high heels. When she asked to be dropped at the corner of John Street and Fleece Market Street, I knew exactly where she wanted to go. So I took the liberty of going a little farther and straight to the alley, stopping at the back door of the strip joint. I stopped my meter and waited for the fare.

  She pulled out a handful of change, threw it in my face, and said: You think you’re smart, you think you know everything. She left before I could apologize and tell her that, after many years of assessing the weight of people and their lives, I had become a knower. One look in my rearview mirror and I recognized wandering animals and the path of their swinging lives. One look at her gestures on the street, the way she held her bag and rushed into the car, and the way she looked fed up with drunk clients and the herd of bureaucrats who come for Friday happy hours, and I knew.