Rawi Hage - Carnival

After a whole afternoon of walking and carrying bags, I drove her to a salon. While she had her hair done, I sat in a café, had a beer, and picked up my book and read for a while. An hour later, I drove back to the salon to pick up Baby Jane, but she was still under the hair dryer, flipping through a fashion magazine.

So I waited outside and smoked. I leaned against an electric pole and watched the city people go by. The sky turned grey and it started to rain. The people of the city took shelter at the sides of the road and under the awnings. My shoes got big and wet and the bottoms of my pants got heavy. So I rolled my pants up, buttoned my collar, walked back to my car and reached for my rainbow umbrella, put a smile on my face, and waited for the lady’s hair to roll and turn crispy and dry.

After our escapade of bags, shoes, and hair, I returned Baby Jane to her door. She retrieved the keys from her purse easily, because her hands where utterly empty and I carried the whole lot of shopping bags. I could tell she liked the service by the way she handed me all the cash that was left in her purse. Good help you are, Fly! Just leave everything at the door. My man will come and take it upstairs.

So I took the money and went straight to the Bolero, where it was fish and chips day. My favourite day of all.

DOG

I CAN ALWAYS tell by the strip of cars and lanterns in front of the Bolero who is inside. Some of the spiders always sit together and eat at the same time; they regulate their lives around the filling of their bellies and the smoking of their cigarettes.

Then there is us, the flies, who come and go at all hours.

Sometimes we have to settle for a seat at the counter and endure the wafts of heat that precipitate from the kitchen. And once in a while we have to eat in close proximity to Number 66. He is a fixture in this place. The only words he ever utters are to the owner’s daughter behind the counter: Thank you, dear. He breathes the food vapours and orders nothing but coffee. He is neither a spider nor a fly, but a ghost somewhere in between the living and the dead. He is hardly even seen driving. It is said that when he asked for his lantern number at the taxi office, he requested three sixes, but the office refused. They said it would spook the clients. So he settled for two sixes and sits there waiting for the third six to come.

I was lucky that night to find a seat at a table and not have to endure the discomfort of the bar stool and the silence of devils. I joined a few of the spiders and listened to their tales. Number 15 got molested by the taxi inspector the other day, Number 101 was saying. Tell the story, tell them, 101 urged 15.

Number 15 shrugged. I let her do her thing, he said, just like you guys advised me to.

The taxi inspector likes to molest taxi drivers and everyone knows this. At the red lights, she stops and takes a look at you. If she is planning to see you later, she will smile and leave. And then, somehow, she will trace you by your lantern or your friends or, if you are a spider, she will come to the Bolero and ask the waitress the hour of your feeding and the table of your choice. She will come to your car, flash her badge, and sit next to you, and then she will calmly put her hand on your thigh and close to your groin while she busies herself checking your papers and the cleanliness of your vehicle. And then she leaves.

If you push her hand away, you will be fucked with a big fine. If you reciprocate, it might lead to a sexual harassment complaint on her part. If you meet her eyes, she will instruct you to keep your eyes on the road, even though your car is parked and not moving. I suspect that she is conducting a survey, trying to find the relationship between machine operators and the length of their parts. She poses her hand somewhere between your crotch and your knee and she waits until your organ gets longer and wider and then she eyeballs it and notes down your name, permit number, and the length of your shift.

But once, after 66 had finished his coffee and was on his way out of the Bolero, the taxi inspector got in his cab. Two minutes later, she slammed out, her face pale, and she rushed back inside the Bolero, asked for water, and immediately left. It is said that as soon as she got in his car, Number 66 told her the names of her three nieces and nephews and the place where her father was buried. And then he described her childhood village and the coat she wore as a kid when she tortured the neighbour’s cat.

When the inspector sat next to me, Number 15 told us, I stayed still. And when she finished, I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and then withdrew a Kleenex and offered it to her. She was furious. She made me get out and she searched my car. She reclined every seat. She had a flashlight, she dived under the seats and she looked everywhere. When I asked her what she was searching for, she said drugs. She made me open the trunk. I had a box of groceries in there that I was taking home to my wife. She gave me a fine. She said that the trunk should be empty and available for clients to stow their luggage during airport rides, for their grocery bags if needed, their dead bodies and their fucking I don’t know what. She was pissed with me and she said that she would find me again to check my trunk and it had better be empty. Sure enough, she stopped me the next day as I was turning onto Horn Street. She opened the trunk and she found two big boxes of Kleenex in there.

She was furious, Number 15 said, and everyone laughed.

She wanted to give me another ticket, but I told her that I was on my way to a big delivery and that I could prove it. That she could come with me to the house and see it with her own eyes, and all the while I kept touching my own thigh, up and down.

Dog, Number 101 said as he laughed, and everyone was laughing.

TURKS

MORNING. I WAITED for Zainab, but she didn’t appear. I went up to my place and lay on the bed, but I couldn’t sleep and I was horny as a Turk.

So I stretched out on my father’s flying carpet and fancied myself a Turkish soldier in the last days before the Battle of Gallipoli. In Istanbul, I went to the café, smoked, and waited for people I knew to arrive. The backgammon dice and the sound of stones slamming against the wooden tables made me wonder if I would ever play the game again. I could see the minarets of the Blue Mosque. My pious mother had asked me to go and pray, but I preferred to spend what might be my last hours walking the neighbourhood and its streets.

I had never met an Australian. I did not even know who they were, what their women were like, but soon I’d go to the battlefield to meet those soldiers who had come from far away to conquer our land. My grandfather had been a Janissary and a mighty warrior. As a child he was kidnapped by the Turks from the lands of the Slavs. He was converted to Islam and turned into an elite fighter in the sultan’s army. He was as white-skinned as a Slav might be. And I turned out as blond as him, blue-eyed. Light-skinned, like the Christians are. I regretted that I had not married. Dying young without feeling the body of a woman is a pity. Dying in those awful trenches without experiencing the warmth of a woman even for one night would be my last regret.

So I, the Turkish soldier, walked to the Blue Mosque to see the Sheikh and ask his advice on the matter. Maybe I could hastily get married to someone he might recommend. He said to me: At the rate our soldiers are dying on the battlefield, it would be irresponsible to leave a young girl behind. But calm down, my friend, I know of a widow who might be willing to marry without delay. The kouttab could be made in a few minutes. I’ll go see her tonight; if she agrees and you can provide a meher for her and her children, all should be well. Come tomorrow.