by Rawi Hage
In my youth, when it rained, the ringmaster would shout to summon us and we would all take off our clothes and run outside to the elephants with our brushes and buckets. We let the horses and the dogs loose in the circles of mud, and then we sheltered the lions, the monkey, and the birds from the cloudbursts and the pouring sky. We monkeyed around, oinked like pigs in the dirt, and clapped for the seals to come and join us under the grey sky. When the rain stopped, we would all go inside the biggest tent and make a fire, and we would play music and dance among the empty benches. But once, after the rain, I walked along beside the soaking tents and below the wet flags of the circus and I went to our trailer and took off my clothes. I was alone, and my thin, boyish body was shivering from cold and happiness. A few minutes later, my mother came in. Her eyes were vacant, her hair was soaked, and her face was painted with makeup that was dripping down her face. She called me some other name. And she laughed when she saw me naked and stared at me. Flying man, she kept on saying, flying man, let me please you. And she drew me close to her bosom and kissed my neck and her hand swept across my skin and touched me and held my erection and stroked me until I came. There you go, she said, now you can leave and march towards your desert and your stone.
TAMMER
AT TIMES, WHEN the traffic lights turn red and all the engines stop, wait, and release the poisonous fumes from behind the drivers’ asses, little unexpected sprinkles of water fall on your windshield from the squirts of plastic bottles, squeezed by the dirty fingers of street kids who make you want to call out to the world and scream, Injustice! It is the waste of this clean water that the poor depend on that I object to most. I scream in the face of these squeegee kids and say, I’ll give you change but do not obstruct my horizon with your soaked, stained histories of needle-armed mothers and guess-who-done-it fathers.
The next evening, I took the the bus to Café Bolero but I didn’t go in. I claimed my car and drove it through the streets of the city. At a light, I saw a harlequin coming my way with a bottle, ready to spray water on my windshield. But before I could wave my hand and tell him not to carry on with his squirting act, the harlequin started to shout my name, saying, Fly, hey, Fly! It’s me, Tammer. And he rushed to the driver’s side and called to his friend, who was wearing what must have been the worst insect costume I had ever seen.
Tammer, I said, what are you doing on the street?
Hustling like my forefathers, he said, and he and his friend laughed.
Come into the car, I said.
They did and slammed the doors, and by the weight of things, by the imperceptible curve of the seats under their bodies and the look of their cheekbones, I was reminded that famine is no laughing matter. No city masquerade, no costume, smile, or acrobatic act can appease the vacuity of hunger.
Let’s eat, I said.
And they both started to giggle and give each other high-fives.
I took them to a fast food joint. I paid for all the hamburgers they could eat, for the buckets of soda they filled all the way to the rim, and for the extra-large French fries they both insisted upon.
I was still trying to figure out what kind of insect Tammer’s friend was supposed to be. When I asked him, he just said: A bug. And when I asked what his name was, Tammer said, This is Skippy the Bug! and they both found it funny. They ate like hungry puppies.
How is your mother? I asked Tammer.
He nodded, and then shook his head because his mouth was full. And then he managed to say, Not okay.
Working? I asked.
No, not working.
Fredao?
Gone, Tammer said. The boys looked at each other and laughed. Got rid of him.
How did you get rid of him?
We bit him, Skippy the Bug said. And they both laughed again.
So where is your mother?
Recovering in the hospital, he said. Fredao beat her. Then Tammer paused and said, He won’t beat her anymore.
Fucking bastard.
We all stayed quiet for a while. The two bent their heads towards the buns in their hands and ate.
You heard about the killing of the French journalist? I asked.
French fries, Skippy the Bug said, and they giggled.
Then they asked me if I could buy them milkshakes and more food, because they were still hungry.
Are you still living in your mother’s place? I asked Tammer, as we went back to the counter.
No, he said.
Where do you sleep?
That place I took you last time, he said. Under the bridge.
We do barbecue, Skippy said. And they laughed and gave each other high-fives all over again.
I asked Tammer if he had seen Otto since that night.
Yeah, he said. He showed up one night but he left.
How long did he stay?
Not long. He needed stuff, Tammer said.
What kind of stuff?
Booze, the kid said, and laughed.
When we left the restaurant, I handed Tammer a few dollars.
He quickly took the money and showed it to his friend. They started to laugh and scream, and Skippy put his arm around Tammer’s shoulders. Without saying goodbye, they staggered down the sidewalk, crossed the street, and started running through the street blocks, the buildings, and the traffic lights.
ZEE
I PICKED UP Zee that night. He was quieter than usual. He had a bag and he kept fixing his collar and tucking his hand inside his jacket and shifting.
Where to, boss? I said, sounding like a low-ranking gangster.
The industrial district, he said.
I drove up Highway 41 and all the way to the periphery of the city. Soon the industrial complexes started to show their long chimneys, and the fumes pouring out of their furnaces filled the sky with circular shapes and evasive patterns. On both sides of the highway were old workers’ houses the same shades of grey as the factories behind them. All the walls were drenched in that pale, toxic colour of cement and dust.
Take this exit, Zee said.
I went down the ramp and drove along a row of houses. On the narrow road we encountered a truck loaded with what looked like a mountain of sand. The truck driver drove straight towards us without any hesitation or plan to accommodate our passage. Giving way, I veered right and up onto the shoulder, and dust rose from both sides and covered my car and my windows. I turned on the wipers, and they drew two arches in the shape of peacock tails, or two Andalusian fans, and I fancied myself in Moorish Spain walking through bow-shaped palaces and fountains and the smell of orange blossoms . . .
We passed a series of warehouses, encountering one grocery store that was open but had a doleful, vacant look, and an old metal sign with the fading letters of a soft-drink brand that no longer existed.
Zee told me to stop. He stepped out and stood at the corner. Then he called to me, saying, Come here, Fly. Get some fresh air.
I got out.
Stand here beside me, Zee said. So I stood next to him and we waited until a kid came around the corner and walked towards us. The kid’s steps looked crooked; there was a one-sided, leaning dance to his marching. His hat looked one or two sizes too big, pragmatically casting a shadow on his eyes. The kid stood in front of Zee and I saw him slip something into the dealer’s hand.
Zee started jawing at the kid, saying, Late again. I am not the one who should be waiting for your coming. Is it all here?
The kid nodded.
At the end of the street, I saw another kid on a bicycle standing in the middle of the road watching us. Zee saw him too.
Who’s that?
My brother.
You come alone. And you be here on time. Zee turned and went back to the car and I followed.
Now what? I said.
Fountain Street, number 45, is all Zee said to me. And for the next half-
hour he kept quiet and was pensive.
Did I pay you yet? he asked, as we were about to arrive at our destination.
No, not yet.
I was expecting him to say something else but he didn’t, and I didn’t pursue the conversation. In my oval mirror he had the look of those melancholic killers, or people about to be killed.
The address turned out to be a record store. From the outside, it looked neglected. The record sleeve hanging in the window had turned yellow under the pounding of the midday sun, the changing seasons behind the glass, and the settlement of dust. In the background, a faded, forgotten red curtain, like a trio of backup singers, was barely noticeable. The artists on the record covers looked permanently young and ever-smiling. Who knows, I thought, eternity could well be found in the permanent display of eternity.
I am staying, Zee said. You go in and hand over the bag.
I hesitated. I looked at the bag but I didn’t touch it.
What, are you scared? Zee said.
What’s in it?
What’s in it. Who the fuck do you think you are, mule, to ask me that? You just open the door and go inside and do what I tell you.
My job is to drive you around, I said, not to deliver bags.
What did you say?
I repeated what I had said, but this time I looked him straight in the mirror.
Why do you think I pay you, motherfucker?
Well, I said, I assumed either you can’t drive, or that maybe, deep inside your heart, you are an environmentalist who supports the use of public transport.
One funny, big-mouth motherfucker you are.
And in my mirror I saw his upper body extending on one side and his hand reaching to his waist. Then I heard the cranking of metal.
Don’t make me waste you, Fly. Think of it as a promotion, he said. New responsibilities for you. Advancement in the company: the company of me. Now don’t let me go in that store and drive back home sorry I killed a fly. My girlfriend wouldn’t like it. So what will it be, Fly man. This or that?
I grabbed the bag, got out, and walked towards the store.
The store was closed but I could see people inside. I banged on the window and a man approached. With my imaginary whip, I made the sign of the letter Z in the manner of Zorro, and the man unlocked the door and let me in.
There was bombastic music coming from speakers on the wall. Up by a mezzanine window, two guys were watching the ground floor. When one of them spotted me, he came down the spiral stairs, with difficulty, because he was large and limping under the weight of his humongous thighs. We made eye contact, he had sharp eyes, and I nodded without saying a word. He approached me and frisked my waist.
Who’s this from? he finally said.
Zee.
It better be good. He took the bag and looked me up and down. It better all be here, or you’re going to be listening to your last song.
I stood there while the big man went upstairs. I looked behind me and saw an employee at the door, blocking the exit and frowning at me. Up above, the forms of men walked back and forth and leaned over a table. After a while the big man returned with the same bag in his hand. He handed it to me and said, You tell Zee to bring it himself next time. He gave a signal to the employee and the man moved out of the way and let me pass.
I went back to the car. Zee had put his dark shades on.
I handed him the bag. He opened it quickly and then told me to drive. Any trouble? he asked, once we were on the road.
No, just that the big guy said you should bring it yourself.
Zee paused, looked up, and said, Who told you that?
The big guy, I said.
Mammoth said that?
The big guy, I repeated.
The motherfucker, motherfucker! Zee shouted. I will teach that motherfucker respect. After I’m done here. Now. Get me to the Island fast. You know how to get to the Island? Zee asked.
I told him that I had a previous engagement and wasn’t sure if I could get there and back in time.
Engagement? he repeated. You are engaged to me now. And if you walk out, I will fuck you on and before our wedding day. Drive me to the Island, Zee said calmly, don’t make me pull my shit again, because this time if I pull it, I am going to use it, Fly.
And so I drove towards the Island, though it was not an island in any way. Maybe it was called the Island because of its seclusion from wealth, its apocalyptic-looking emptiness, its rundown buildings and abandoned stores. We arrived and the streets were deserted. We passed the emptiness and headed towards the train tracks. The headlights of my car slashed through the darkened road until we arrived at a meadow, or what looked like a meadow, with a small shack at the far edge and a big car waiting beside it.
Now what, I said.
You turn off your lights and we wait. The backup is on its way.
Backup, I repeated.
Yeah. Watch the mirror for a Jeep with tinted glass and shut the fuck up.
We waited for a while and then Zee started cursing, saying, Where the fuck are they? And after a few more minutes he said, Fuck it.
Drive forward, he said. Put your lights back on.
So I rolled slowly towards the shack.
Stop here and flick your high beams three times.
I did, and then he said, Give me the car keys.
I hesitated.
I swear I will waste you here and now. Don’t make me do it.
So I handed over the keys.
You aren’t going anywhere until I get back, you hear? I will walk over there. Don’t go forward, just keep your beams on. They will see me and the shit will be cool.
They won’t recognize you, I said. Lit from the back, you’ll look like a silhouette on a stage. They won’t see your face.
But he didn’t listen to me.
He slammed the door and walked in front of my car with the bag in his hand. His shadow swayed in the dark.
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Zee, in his splendid role as the drug dealer. What a marvellous performance, and now here it comes, the back flip after the last delivery . . . and what a delivery!
A pair of headlights shone on Zee from the audience’s side, and I saw the car advancing. It stopped and Zee got in. And a few minutes later he got out and started walking back without the bag. A man stretched out his gun through the passenger window and I heard shots and could see Zee no more. He must have fallen to the ground. I saw the car moving towards me. I immediately switched on my lantern. I imagined that everything that started with the letter T could provide safety and emanate neutrality. Terrified, I searched for words that started with T. I recalled tenderness and tears, then I switched to less emotional, more action-oriented phrases such as take a breath, take a dive, take a hop, take a shit, take flight!
But then I realized that Zee had the keys to my car. So I simply ducked under the dashboard and waited for the killer car to pass. Well, I hoped it would, and to my surprise it did, in so great a rush that I knew no man could leap from such a cosmological velocity and land intact with a gun in his hand. It would be impossible, incomprehensible: even killers are not capable of surviving such infinite speed.
I waited until I didn’t hear a sound. Like a seal in the ocean, I stuck my head up and peeked, then I opened the car door and walked the muddy road towards the place I’d last seen Zee.
He was lying on the ground with his face buried in the mud. I rolled him over and I saw the whiteness of his eyes inside a face that was covered with soil. I poked him and whispered his name, but he was gone, dead.
I searched his pockets and found my car keys, and then I opened the inside of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. I counted out what was due to me, which I assessed should include insurance, modelling, risk management, entertainment, subordination fees, gas, windshield washer liquid, insults, waiting time, a shoe
shine, penalties for damage to the welfare of society, and, naturally, the taxi fare. In short, after a quick mental addition, the total came out to the exact and full amount of money contained in the wallet. I ran to my car and drove in reverse to the next street, then I wove through the town’s alleys, aiming for the highway. I sailed out of the Island and into the city.
WREATH
UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I cut my night short and decided to go home. As I drove up in front of my building, I saw the janitor coming out, wearing a black suit. He had shaved and his windy hair had settled. I almost didn’t recognize him without his leather jacket. I stopped and watched him walking towards a long black car that was blocking the garage entrance. Under the illumination of my headlights, he walked to the passenger side of the black car and opened the door. An elderly woman slowly got out, holding his hand. Her thick black stockings and church-lady shoes extended towards the sidewalk, out from under her bell-like skirt. She stood up and reached for the janitor’s neck, he bowed his head clumsily, and she kissed his cheek. The old woman was crying. My Kleenex box was about to fly ahead of me, its layers ready to scoop up the tears, but the lady pulled a handkerchief out of nowhere and dabbed her cheeks. The janitor glanced at my car but did not seem to recognize me. Later on, on my way up from the garage, on the first floor I encountered several large wreaths propped up in the hallway.
I went straight to my apartment to lie down on the carpet. I unbuckled my belt, but the presence of death was too near, too vivid to allow me to imagine gladiators, sailors, or women in need of rescue. I stood up and walked to the cupboard, looking for alcohol. Nothing was there. Fuck it, I said. When short of drink, seek the Arab. I will knock at Zainab’s door.
As I was buckling my belt, I remembered a Saudi prince I once drove around for a while. I had met him in the pool joint of a fancy hotel. I was sharking at the time, while also driving my cab. I had picked up the game in no time. When I was a kid, the contortionist had taught me how to twist and how to hustle.
