Rawi Hage - Carnival

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 and 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.

HAIR

THE NEXT DAY around noon, I received a phone call from the dealer.

In an hour, same place. You’re taking my woman shopping. Honk and she will come down.

I picked up a couple of clients and then, at quarter to one, I headed over to the apartment of the dealer. I honked my horn and waited. His woman came rushing towards the car. She had a big leather bag with a substantial amount of fake gold dangling from its sides, very colourful attire, and very high heels. She got in and instructed me to drive straight to the main street. Let’s shop! she said.

Then, suddenly, I heard her scream and she asked me to stop.

I asked her if she had forgotten anything.

Well, yes. The money.

I circled the block and reached the front of the building again.

Honk, driver. Honk and he’ll come down.

So I did until the dealer came out with a mischievous smile on his face. He leaned inside the window and said to his woman, Forgot something?

Come on, baby, show how generous you are.

In my side mirror, I saw the man digging into his pocket and pulling out a large stack of cash.

The whole thing, sweetheart, she said.

But he gave her about half the bundle.

The whole thing, Zee! Come on, I’ll do your favourite thing tonight.

I thought there was a sale on, he said. What happened to the sale?

Come on, baby, the taxi man is looking at you.

He gave her two more bills and turned and went back inside the building.

Cheap motherfucker, she said. Driver, make sure he always pays you. Don’t be fooled and don’t be shy. Always ask for more. What’s your name?

Fly, I said. And yourself.

Sheila, but you can call me Baby Jane.

Jane? I asked.

No, Baby Jane.

Right.

Once we arrived, she asked me to come in with her. Which I did. She held my hand and said, My man hates shopping. You like trying on clothes?

I am used to it, I said.

Were you a model?

No, I said, I worked as a performer.

Performer, I like that. I was a dancer, until my baby rescued me.

Ballet dancer?

No, lap dancer, she said.

We walked from one store to another. She tried on dresses, shoes, and makeup, and I tried on baggy pants, leather jackets, flashy shirts, shades, and a variety of hats, all on behalf of the dealer.