Rawi Hage - Carnival

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 showing 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.