Rawi Hage - Carnival

I took the necklace and put it in the glove compartment of my taxi, and then I drove to Mary’s husband’s place. It took me about half an hour to get there. I drove through the suburbs, where all the houses looked identical, one variation or another of the same thing. I said to myself, I’d rather fire myself from a cannon, pick up the shit of elephants and eat it, suffocate inside Houdini’s water tank, lie beneath the running horses, or sodomize a big cat in a cage and pay the consequences than get trapped in these suburbs of cardboard, gossip, and conformity.

I parked at a gas station and called Otto. This time he was home. Otto, my man, I said. Could a harmless, farcical clown be ready in about forty-five minutes?

Who is the guest reader this time? he asked.

A hater of books, I said.

I’ll make him excel in his recitals, he answered.

Gently, I said. Very gently.

Can do. What do you suggest for reading material?

How about The Clown , by Böll? I said. That would be an appropriate joke of a title. .

Yes, but Fly, man, I don’t have that book. Where am I supposed to get it?

Just go to my place, I said. You still have the keys. By the way, the extra key to the taxi is on the same ring. Don’t lose it. People are more interested in stealing cars than books. Choose a passage from any novel you find.

Fiction is overrated, Fly. We’ve discussed this. In the time it takes those novelist fuckers to contemplate a few poetic passages, a thousand kids die from malnutrition. Immediacy, man, that’s what counts. What do you say, Fly?

Fiction would still be my first choice. Let’s not underestimate the power of imagination.

Suit yourself. I’ll see what I can find.

Meet me at the bar, in the back alley. Be there in an hour, I said.

I arrived at the house and knocked on the husband’s door. The man answered and he looked me up and down, frowning, and before I could say that I was there to pick up things for Mary, he pointed at some boxes in the corner.

Could you take off your shoes? he said.

That would make it difficult to go back and forth to the car, I said.

Well, the rule here is that no one enters with shoes on.

Well, the rules have to be broken today, I said.

Do you have the necklace?

Actually, Mary decided she would like to give it to you in person, since it is valuable and all, and asked if I would drive you to where she is.

I thought she trusted you, at least well enough to fuck you.

Listen, man, I am just in transit here. I take what comes. Are you coming?

Fine. But you should have taken off your shoes.

We began to drive back to the city and he lit a cigarette in my car.

There is no smoking inside the car, I said.

He looked at me and said, I thought the rules were to be broken today.

Right, you got me, Mister. . ?

Are you asking for my name?

Nothing is mandatory here.

My name is Chad. You could have simply asked my wife.

Too painful, I said.

I like you, Mister. . and where is your name? I see nothing on the dashboard.

You don’t have to bother with my licence at the moment; I am off-duty. Just call me Fly.

Right.

I drove with the window down. Rain, wind, and the night entered the taxi. I asked him for a cigarette and the white of our smoke crossed, mingled, and disappeared.

We both stayed silent. He would look at me sideways once in a while; I was sure he was picturing me above his wife. A filthy low-life, a loser of a driver. He was probably thinking that she’d grabbed the first thing available just to hurt him. Anything to stick it to him: it was all about him. This arrogant bastard, I thought, this uncultured mechanic capable of reading only manuals and sports sections! Who the fuck does he think he is. At least I’d made sure he sat in the front, next to me. I ain’t his bloody driver, I said to myself. I am his equal. I am the new victorious general that is taking over and entering, triumphant, through the city arches. .

So you are fucking my wife, he finally said, to break the silence.

Among other things we do together.

Let me guess: you cook.

No, not much of a cook. I am afraid my kitchen is very flammable. So I avoid cooking.

Flammable? What, do you have bombs in your cupboards?

Worse: books. My cupboards, my stove, the top of my fridge. . all filled with books.

Right, that would please Mary. Listen, man, taxi driver, or whatever you think you are. You want to take care of this woman, go ahead. But make sure she keeps taking her mental pills. Which reminds me. . here. . and he slammed a bottle of medicine onto the dashboard. Now she is your responsibility. Enjoy.

We arrived and I parked in the back alley behind the bar.

I’ll be right back, I said. I’ll go and buzz her.

I left and I entered the bar.

A clown went straight to the alley. Opened the passenger door and sat next to the hater of books and laid his hand on his own waist.

I have a gun, the clown said. I strongly suggest that you read this passage I am giving you. Do not leave the car and do not resist the book in your hand.

The husband looked surprised. He opened the book and stared at the first page.

Out loud. Read out loud, the clown said with authority.

And the hater of books started to read, but before he’d finished the first sentence, he looked up and said, What is this, some kind of a joke? Did my wife put you up to this?

Just read, asshole.

He resumed reading but again he stopped. There’s not enough light, he said. And I don’t have my glasses. And I don’t have to read anything.

Then you keep the book, Otto said, and again I strongly suggest that you read, and that is for your own welfare. You are to write a summary of it: that will be your assignment. I will find you again and assess your progress. Never underestimate a clown with a book. Now get out.

Mary’s husband walked away shouting, Is this some kind of a joke? Is this some kind of fucking joke?

Otto left the car, making sure his clown hat didn’t fall and that the gun was well secured in his bag, and disappeared.

And when I went back, the husband and Otto were gone.

That night I met Otto and I asked him, How did the book-hunting go?

Fly, man, your library is big but disorganized. Nothing is in alphabetical order, or in any order, for that matter.

Yes, but do tell, what book did you finally assign him to read?

On my way out of your place, I grabbed Finnegan’s Wake from the shelf at the entrance.

Good. Let the fucker suffer, I said.

GIRAFFES

LAST NIGHT I picked up two women in love. They talked and kissed in the back seat of my car. They didn’t mind my seeing them kissing each other, but they didn’t want me to hear a word they said. They kissed and whispered and stroked each other’s hair, and I watched the road in front of me and peeked at Ecstasy and Ecstasy in the mirror. I drove across the bridge and above the water and down to the other side of town. It was a clear and spectacular night that these two butterflies were missing. Had they been paying attention to the world, they would have seen a low moon, bright and big, suspended above the swinging bridge. I went underneath it and drove south. I like going south; I like the idea of going towards the warmth. I was thinking this just as one of the girls’ heads disappeared, and the eyes of the other closed, and her chest heaved. I took Exit 64 and waited at the ramp for the green light to come. I kept my silence; a faint red reflection from the traffic light bounced off the dashboard and shone on the back seat. I watched the upper body of one of the women extend and contract. Little, quiet moans that sounded like the faint squeaks of small animals rushing up the trees. .