Rawi Hage - Carnival

I could give you a book to read on the subject, I continued. It might well help in your dissertation. There is no harm linking all these religious beliefs to the same delusional source: the original fear and disappointment of men. . but I know that a pure, enlightened person like you will resist stepping into my obscure world.

I have to go, Fly.

Wait, let me walk with you and tell you about another branch of these heretic extinct Christians. This might interest you. These were called the Cathars, and in some circles they were referred to as buggers. . it was said that they refused to have vaginal intercourse. They only had anal sex and that was an alternative means of contraception, their way of undermining the holiness of the body and assuring that no other souls were brought back to this false, degrading world. Their orgies must have been loud and magnificent. You see how all religions undermine our anatomy?

Not all religions. Islam has no problem with the body. As a matter of fact, the body is cherished, cleaned, loved.

Hidden, I added.

I know what you are referring to, Fly. Maybe we should draw a veil over this conversation, to make use of your own insinuation. But then. .

Enough, stop it, Fly, Zainab interrupted. I really have to go now. I don’t want to miss another train. Please go up and sleep. You must be tired from driving all night. Go get some rest. Your mind is wandering and, if I might say so, you seem a bit delusional.

And so Zainab left and I stood still, watching her rushing in the direction of the train station. Her hair was wet and she held a bag over her shoulder.

MIRROR

MARY CALLED AS I was about to climb into bed. She said that she was moving out of her husband’s place and she asked if I could meet her. I put my clothes back on, went down to the garage, and drove the car out.

When I got there, she was waiting outside with only one small bag in her hand. She was crying. She got into the front seat and we looked in the mirrors at her husband, who was standing at the front door smoking and watching his wife leaving him.

I should have sat in the back, she said.

I don’t think he would remember me. My place? I asked.

I prefer to get a hotel room, she said. But could you stop by your place first and pick me up a few books for the night?

We drove to my apartment and she waited in the car. I came down with a bag of books and then I drove her to a small hotel downtown. When I asked her why she wouldn’t stay the night with me, she said that she had to learn to be alone. We arrived and I took her up to her room. I pulled out a bottle of whisky that I’d brought from home and I left it for her on the table next to the bag of books. Food? I asked her. She shook her head no. Should I call you later? I asked.

If you like, she said, and started to cry.

ON THE WAY back I picked up a passenger in front of a different hotel. The porter waved at me and I was surprised that he did, because all those fancy hotels are rigged. The spider drivers have it all secured in a web of bribes and corruption. The porters and the receptionists are at the heart of it. When a client asks for a taxi to the airport, which is a substantial fare, the receptionist informs the porter, who in turn calls the dispatcher, who is also in on it, and the dispatcher calls one of a few chosen spiders to take the client to the airport. The driver gets the big fare and everyone gets a little something. These few spiders have their rigs set up in most if not all of the big hotels in town, and they all make good money. But once in a while, if the spiders are too busy or too late, the porter is obliged to pick up a taxi on the fly. And this time it was my luck.

I parked and let the porter in his Sherlock Holmes attire open the door for the client. As I was loading the suitcases into the trunk, Sherlock came to my side, blocking the view from the hotel, and stretched out his hand. It remained there, extended, until I took his open palm in my hand and said to him, Elementary, my dear, elementary.

I closed the trunk, got in my seat, and drove the client away.

The passenger was a bit quiet. So I talked about the rain.

Rain doesn’t bother me, he said. It is sweat that I fear.

Indeed, I said, I think I know what you mean. Not to be too philosophical, but I agree with you: it is what surfaces from the inside that counts.

You say philosophical, but I would attribute your comments to religion.

How interesting, I said.

Well, Jesus.

Jesus? I replied.

Matthew 15: It is not what enters into the mouth that defiles the man, but what proceeds out of the mouth, this defiles the man , the man in the back seat of my car declared so eloquently.

Well, well, revolutionary, I said. There goes all that meticulously prepared celestial food down the drain. What an anarchist of an anorexic commie that Christ was!

Are you a believer, my friend? Do you believe in the lord Jesus, king and saviour?

To tell you the truth, I am not too keen on kings and royalties. . but to come back to your question, I ask, does Jesus believe in himself?

Jesus believes in the Father and the Holy Ghost.

And the Father believes in his own father and so forth, I mumbled, imagining an endless family tree of Godfathers and forefathers and a legion of prophets and holy ghosts moving up and down the branches and clapping their hands between their acrobatic performances that somehow always ended with a fistful of peanuts or a banana peel.

Are you married, brother? the man asked me.

No.

Girlfriend?

Never, I said.

You are not one of those, are you?

Gay, you mean. Not yet, but a fortune teller assured me that I might have a life-changing encounter one of these days.

The fortune teller meant it in the religious sense, I hope. Have you ever considered having a family and kids?

No.

Do you ever think about your old age?

Yes, I said. It is all planned.

I hope not alone?

No, I know exactly how it is going to be, if I am lucky. I’ll grow old, I’ll sell my books, and give my bed to the Salvation Army. By then, I imagine, I’ll already have grown a beer belly and yellow toenails. I shall get a ticket to an old island in the south, live among the locals with the little money that I have saved. Sunbathe and drink rum until the banana regime comes and chases me out, or until the regime chases itself out for lack of any other thing left to chase, whichever comes first.

You should get married and have kids, the man said to me, then you’ll know the meaning of life. Who do you think will take care of you and visit you when you are sick and old?

The chambermaid and her mother, I said. The young local girl that I’ll marry in the south. Like I said, it is all in the plan. I’ll be supporting her and her whole family, her gambler of a brother, and her father, who, incidentally, will also become my future domino game partner and who will make fun of my age every time he wins a game, calling me Papa Turko. I’ll be best friends with her mother, with whom I’ll see eye to eye on issues of marriage, cooking, and old age. I’ll make sure that the fridge is always full, that the white sheets of the bed are run now and again through the washing machine that I’ll have bought my young wife for her birthday. My wife, who lost her first husband in an illegal caravan crossing to the north, was in danger of starving with her two kids until I came along from the snowy pole with a dog by the name of Rudolph and offered her a secure life in return for company, good meals, and a tolerant attitude to my sagging old man’s breasts, my belly button’s disappearance under the flesh of my falling beer belly, and, as I’ve previously mentioned, my yellow toenails. . and that, my friend, would be the sweetest company any chariot driver ever dreamed of in his old age. What a glorious ending, sir! What a reward for a hard life of solitude and wandering. Imagine that I could sit every day on the beach, with the sea in front of my eyes and the white laundered sheets flapping behind my back. I will lie down and watch the passing tourist boats with a drink in my hand, I’ll appear before them in my ridiculous swimsuit that covers the tumbling parts of my decaying body. And, if I am lucky, I’ll die watching the ocean against the backdrop of a white movie screen with memory fragments and episodic replays of my life bouncing on the washed bedsheets as they dance through the turbulent blows of life.