by Rawi Hage
You know what our problem is, Fly? Otto said. No matter how much we try, the rituals and the symbolism beat us. You’ve brought me bread and wine. He started to laugh. It must be my last supper. He laughed again and then he said, They’re coming to get me.
Who is coming to get you? I asked.
I killed a man last night, Fly.
You killed a man.
Yes. I killed that journalist.
He moved away from the dark and into an open space. The cars above us rattled and shook the metal beams of the bridge. I stood there not knowing why I was paying attention to the sounds that shook and rattled above us. And suddenly I repeated, You killed a man.
It just happened, Fly. I don’t know how. It felt feverish, I felt as if I was under a blasting sun. We were talking about Camus and I thought of Algeria and its million dead. I can’t remember pulling the trigger. I remember telling the journalist that Camus was an asshole. The journalist answered, Yes, but he was a great thinker nevertheless. I insisted: An asshole, you hear me? Anyone who supports the colonial power to deprive the indigenous of their rights and their land is an asshole. And people like you supported the Pieds-Noirs, you and your republic are assholes. And then the Frenchman turned his back on me and left to sit at another table . . .
I left, Fly, and I was going to go home, but I kept on thinking of Algeria . . . I waited in the alley until he came out and then I followed him to his hotel. I think I put the clown nose on my face. It was in my pocket. And I had my gun. After that I don’t remember. It was dark. We were in an alley. I made him repeat the names of places, Napoleon’s Spain, Haiti, Vietnam, Algeria. The man started to cry. My gun was up against his head, Fly. I remember him telling me, You don’t need to wear a mask. You don’t need a gun. I know who you are. We can talk like two civilized people. But then I made him repeat: My country is not civilized, my country is not civilized, I am not civilized, I am not civilized, Camus was not civilized . . . and I felt something rush to my head, almost like a heat wave, and the gun went off and the man was on the ground. I don’t remember what happened next. I must have been drunk. The gun just went off, Fly. I don’t remember. Fly, I can’t remember.
And Otto ran his hand through his hair, which looked clumped and greasy. I offered him another cigarette and I pulled out my lighter, and he sheltered my hands with his hands to protect the fire.
I told him I would help him and I asked him what he wanted to do.
I will be moving around for a while, he said. I won’t let them catch me, Fly. I am not going back to that asylum.
The gun? I asked.
I am keeping it as a last resort.
Throw it in the river, I said.
I told you, Fly, I am keeping it as a last resort. Capture and submission are no longer options. But I can’t stay here. This play is almost over. And we should know when to bow and when to leave.
Wait, I said.
And Otto held my head and kissed my forehead goodbye.
THE NEXT DAY, two officers knocked at my door. I let them in. Ironically, they stood between the crime section and the culinary section, both situated next to the window as a precautionary measure against arson, grease fires, and food poisoning, among other methods of murder.
Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Otto Blake? they asked.
Yes, he is a friend.
How long have you known Mr. Blake?
Twenty years, maybe more.
Did Mr. Blake ever reside here?
He has crashed here occasionally.
But some of his mail is sent to this address?
Yes, he moves around. He must have given this as a permanent address.
Did he ever mention a Mr. Bouchard to you?
No. I don’t know who that is.
He is the French journalist who was killed two nights ago. Shot in the face. With a nine-millimetre gun.
I shook my head.
Mr. Blake was seen having an argument with him at the Irish Pub on Curtis Street. Do you know anything about that?
No, I don’t, I said.
Were you at that pub on the night of the seventh? That was Friday.
Yes, briefly.
Was Mr. Bouchard present?
I wouldn’t know. There were too many people.
Here is a photo of Mr. Bouchard. That is before the damage.
I can’t recall, with the Carnival and all. It was chaotic. I only talked to Otto.
Was Mr. Blake talking to Mr. Bouchard?
Like I said, it was crowded.
Do you know if Mr. Blake had a gun in his possession?
No, I have no idea.
Where did you go after you left?
I went back to my job. I drive a taxi. I put gas in my car.
Do you have a receipt?
Yes. I can locate it if you give me a minute. I grabbed my wallet from the kitchen table. I went through a bunch of receipts until I located the one from that day and I handed it to the detective, who was already snooping through my books.
Do you mind if we hold on to it?
No.
Anything else you did?
I drove all night and picked up customers.
Any customers who might remember being driven by you? Is there a record from a dispatcher we could use to verify your whereabouts?
No, I am an independent driver. I don’t rely on dispatchers in my job.
So you drive around . . .
Yes, I wander and pick up customers off the street. I find it tedious waiting for a call to come to me.
Could you give us the name of any person who could confirm that you were driving that night?
I did drive an old man and his daughter to a seniors’ home in Eastmount. I helped the man inside.
Do you remember his name?
No, but I remember that he was crying. And afterwards I drove his daughter back to her place. I could give you that address if you want to check it. We had a conversation and she gave me a good tip and asked me my name. I am known as Fly; she should remember me.
What did you talk about?
Death.
Death as in murder? the inspector asked.
No, death as in old age.
Are you staying here for the next while?
Do you mean here at home?
No, I mean in this town. Would you be taking a plane somewhere soon?
I have no need for airplanes.
Thank you for your help. Oh, one more thing: do you belong to any political party?
No.
If I may ask, do you subscribe to the views of any particular political party?
Like I said, Officer, I am an independent driver.
I see the metaphor, the policeman said. Do you mind if we take a quick look around?
Not at all, but please watch your head.
THE KILLING OF the French journalist was all over the news. The police were looking for a person of interest, they said, and they mentioned Otto’s name. And it didn’t look like a robbery, they added, because the wallet of the journalist was found, untouched, in the victim’s pocket.
Later that evening, while I was driving and following the news, I heard a reporter conducting an interview with Otto’s roommate. The old lady was under the influence and her husky voice had the sound of smoke and relentless cigarettes. She called Otto an angry man and a loner. She also said they’d had an argument about God. Which god? the lady reporter asked. None, she replied: he hated them all and he never respected me because I am a believer. Every time one of those good people on TV began preaching the gospel or asking for donations, he cursed and called them quacks, slammed the door, and went to his room. He was an angry man, like I said.
RAIN
I LEFT MY lantern in the trunk and drove through the town of celebration. I looked for a clown, hoping
to recognize Otto among the dancing crowds. There is no better place for an exile to hide, I reasoned, than among a horde of humans in masks re-enacting the periodic cycles of life and death.
And it rained and the city’s garments danced under the rain. I left my window open as I drove. I smoked in defiance of the signs in my own car, and the water ran down the side of my face. I parked my boat a small distance from my home and walked under the deluge. I stopped and laughed at the memory of Bunzy the clown, who in every performance was showered with water from the elephant’s trunk. I wanted to peek again, from inside the tent and behind the curtain of the dressing room, at the laughter of other kids, the covering of faces with hands, the uproar of the crowd. It rained and I stood like a sad-faced clown waiting for the applause. I waited for the elephant to come and lift me up onto her back so I could stand there and tell every soul that the clown who lit the cannons was innocent, lost, distracted by the circle shape of the world, by the gestures of ancient monkeys and the dangerous swinging of women and men and their animal-like acts; that his intention was never to step on the elephant’s feet, never to sing in such a horrible voice, never to wobble in clothing that was not his own, shoes that could never be tied, flowers that spat in the crowd’s face. His real intention, ladies and gentlemen, was to bring the audience to their senses, let them realize that soon all would be coming to an end, and that all shall disappear to no return.
The rain fell and seeped into my clothing and passed through me, and I stood watching the currents of water convulsing on the peripheries of sidewalks and fleeing to nowhere. I saw an umbrella floating, and I saw a woman rushing towards me, balancing a stick of impermeable colours in the fist of her hand, to shelter me from the elephant’s waterfalls. I laughed. She covered me with her umbrella and put her arms around me and said, What are you doing, Fly? Come, let’s go inside. All seemed like a silent rehearsal without applause.
We walked back. Her arm around my shoulder felt warm, and her scent under the water brought water to my eyes. I stood in the entrance of the building and I said to her, We are capable of harm.
Why don’t you come upstairs? Zainab said. Come, Fly, come with me.
I walked, and the wetness in my shoes made me want to leap, jump, and splash the puddles like a skipping child.
Where are your keys, Fly? The keys, she repeated, practically having to shout in my face.
Somehow I found my keys and I opened the door to my apartment. Zainab followed me in. She started to undo my clothes. She ran to the bathroom, found a towel, dried my hair, wrapped my head in it, and led me to bed. I felt exhausted and weak, and the ceiling and my walls of books spun at an unimaginable speed and I must have passed out.
SALT
THE NEXT MORNING, Zainab knocked at my door. She wanted to know how I was feeling. Now that she had seen me living inside my library, she was intrigued to come again.
I made her tea and she seemed overwhelmed by the volume of volumes and books. All I hoped was that none of the mice would stroll between her feet and scare her into leaving again.
Fly, Zainab said, you should see a doctor. I mean, someone you can talk to. You were not all there last night, if you know what I mean. You thought that I was someone else. Well, many someones. You had, I think, what could be described as an episode . . .
And then, suddenly, Zainab switched topics and asked me about the books. I proceeded to explain that my system of classification was very different from the one used in the place where she worked. My system, I informed her, was more personal and slid along an impressionistic scale.
She smiled and said, I am intrigued, Fly. Go on.
Well, well, I rejoiced, finally I have got your interest. Who knew?
You always had my interest, Fly, but I was never interested . . .
Nuances . . . indeed, nuance is the mark of a great mind . . . so, fiction books, let’s say, I began. These are arranged based on a subjective impression of the book and its main characters’ lives. Dead protagonists take priority over triumphant, happy-ending characters but are surpassed by books with open endings, books that don’t have grand moral conclusions. Novels with open endings I consider to be of a higher rank; hence they are located before novels with happy endings, which I often call religious, or “resurrection,” endings. That is why they tend to be conveniently located on the bottom shelves or facing my bathroom door over here . . . As for historical novels, they are organized based on the name of the winner of the first battle that appears in the book. For instance, War and Peace will be found in the N section, N in reference to Napoleon, of course. Much of the other war literature, unfortunately, tends to be filed under H, for the likes of the Carthaginian commander Hannibal and other delusional elephant herders and failed artists.
Seeing that I still had Zainab’s attention, I began to explain the most mysterious layer of my classification system, that is, how to arrange the crime novels. These clueless victims are arranged according to my first attempt at guessing the killer. Since I always suspect Winston the butler, the W section might be better placed at the beginning of the shelves . . .
But let us move on to more serious things. Dearest Zainab, let me confess to you that the most the privileged position of them all is saved for the misanthropic writers . . . for instance, the writer and dramatist Bernhard, l’enfant terrible of Austria, is found on a golden shelf with his fellow literary radicals, writers of conscience, revolutionaries, debauchers, and liberators . . . these kinds of writers deserve the utmost respect, though in their lifetimes they are often subjected to neglect or contempt. For instance, and to give you an example that might interest you or might not, most of the Arab writers in my collection, such as Munif, who wrote the magnificent Cities of Salt, can be found here under a subsection called “Parisian cafés.” This section comprises the works of exiled writers who had to leave their motherlands for France and lingered in Parisian cafés for the rest of their lives, smoking and complaining about both cultures, the French and their own. They are the true writers, because they took a stand against their own governments until their American cigarettes stained their teeth yellow and led them to shun laughter and smiles, out of embarrassment or maybe depression, and so they spent the rest of their days in a chronic state of solitary poetic existence. Please follow me, right this way, and watch your head. Here, if you look up above the toilet, you will find the feel-good apolitical literature. The main function of these complacent pages is to act as a sponge to absorb all the sticky humidity that results from my occasional showers and my daily . . . well, not to get too graphic . . . Then there is this lot. As you might well notice, they are positioned next to the window. These, if I may introduce them, are the escapist self-help books that I occasionally rescue from the back seat of my car. Naturally, their position here is in accordance with every comedy and slapstick movie that involves the escape of a naked lover through a bathroom window.
Fly, Zainab said, when and how did you amass these books?
Well, dearest Zainab, I thought you’d never ask. Allow me to explain. You see, when the bearded lady of the circus, who raised me after my mother’s death, collapsed one day on the floor of our small apartment, I lifted her up and went all over town looking for a doctor. None of those pious souls would come to our house; none wanted to touch the freak woman with a long beard, a penis, and sinful breasts, and we couldn’t afford the fees that might have changed their minds. The lady refused to go to the state hospital because, she said, we should all end in dignity. I was sixteen by then, and I was known all over town as the son of the freak. I carried the bearded lady to the poorest neighbourhood and there, finally, I found a doctor who would help us. He was extremely well-read, and one day, when we were talking about books, he gave me a Baldwin novel to read (I still have it: on the first golden shelf from the left, above all the others . . . Giovanni’s Room, there it is).
That good doctor took care of the bearded lady fo
r free. She had been sick for years, and I’d left school and worked up in the hills and down in the streets until one day I landed a job as a delivery boy. I delivered food all over town. I peeked into houses with crosses hanging above televisions and on the kitchen walls alongside pots and pans. I watched workingmen rejoice over the hamburger in the box, the fries in the bag, and the soda in the bundle of ice. Until, one day, I met the professor, who ordered everything without meat but with a lot of salt. I would knock at his door and I would wait for him to open up. He was always distracted by things other than consumption, and confused by the counting of coins. And each time he would say the exact same thing: Oh, you’re already here, let me put my book down and bring you the change, I think I left it . . . And the door would close and I would wait again, and sometimes I would have to ring the bell to remind him that I was still standing there.
But once he opened the door and, without looking at me, he invited me in, ushering me to the basement, saying, The fuse box is this way. And I stood in the middle of his house, surrounded by a galaxy of books. I told him that I would not be able to fix his fuse box and reminded him that one could also eat in the dark.
Indeed, he said, smiling, there is light to be found in the darkest places. Have you eaten? he asked me.
No.
Well then, join me.
And I did. And we became friends. I would bring him food and we would talk about life, the stars, minerals, and books. His real interest was in history and literature, but he was well versed in astrology and cosmology as well. His two favourite pastimes were to read and to search for wandering planets. Such planets are known as planemos, he informed me once while we ate and talked. They are exiled bundles of matter that wander the universe aimlessly. These objects, he said, have no orbits and no host stars to orbit around. Aimless, he said, wanderers, lost. But they get to know more and reach farther places.
But then, after we became friends and because of his poor vision, whoever knocked at his door was invited in for food and called by the name of Fly. First it was an electrician who accepted the offer of some leftovers, then a taxi driver came and ate all the professor’s green jelly beans, and then a series of hobo intellectuals started to come and help themselves to things in the fridge and, if provided, a few glasses of wine. The only objection raised by all these beneficiaries was to being called Fly. You invited us, a hobo was heard saying to the professor, no need for insults and name-calling.
