Rawi Hage - Carnival

Most of these workers, Sally told me, are away from home. They have no one, and they can’t even afford to leave the meat-packing town with the little money they earn. Some of them are highly educated, some are just poor villagers. All kinds. I even met a doctor once, she said. He was an eastern European. He spoke English with a very strong accent but with eloquence nonetheless. He came to my room; he was very nice, I’d say graceful, in his manners. He came cleaned up, shaved; they all mostly do, they treat it like a date. They take us very seriously, they groom themselves and some even wear cologne; you would never know that they take apart animals and bathe in blood all day. The first time, this doctor brought a bottle of wine and some flowers, and he tuned the radio to a classical music station. He brought out his own condoms, then he washed his palms, his thumbs, and his wrists and he let the water rinse over him while he sang opera, and he walked out of the bathroom with his hands up in the air like a surgeon. He opened the wine and served me. He even brought two glasses. He was gallant.

When he went to the bathroom, I checked his bag. I often check their clothes after they strip and, if they carry a bag, I open it and quickly peek inside it. We take no chances. He had a book in there, and I took it out and saw that he was reading Hašek, The Good Soldier Švejk . I laughed, thinking, What is this doctor in the middle of nowhere doing reading Hašek? I keep on meeting these well-read men in all these odd places. Anyway, I didn’t want him to know that I had opened his bag. But I did ask him if he was Czech. At first, he said no. But I was sure that he was. He asked me why I asked. I told him that he reminded me of my uncle. Is your uncle Czech? he asked. Yes, I said, his name was Jaroslav. The doctor was all confused. What was his last name? he asked. Hašek, I said. He laughed and poured me wine, saying, You are one careful woman, and he lifted his glass and we drank. He sang some more opera in German and drank so much that he fell asleep, but I had to take him out of my bed because there were other workers waiting. So I called these two Albanian brothers who come at the end of every month and try to get us girls to have them both at the same time. But we girls have rules and everyone knows them very well. No anal penetration, no more than one man at a time, and of course a compulsory shower. . I called these two Turks, well, Albanians or whatever. Every time they come, they bring us blocks of olive-oil soap and figs and other sorts of food that their mother sends them; they are funny and harmless, villagers with big, rough hands, loyal and grateful. Anyway, they carried the doctor down the stairs and shoved him into their car and took him away.

I tell you, though, we had to train these workers. Like I said, some of them are nice, but some are angry and disappointed with life. They come to this land thinking that they have made it, escaped the misery of their homes, but then they get stuck in awful jobs. I mean, my job is hard too, but I try to keep it clean and interesting, as much as I can. But these men, they are immersed in blood all day and it is cold in those factories, with hard conditions and long hours. After they finish their shifts, they go back to their complexes and shower and sleep; that is all they do, that is all there is. Some have been doing it for years. Once they threw a party at the dormitory and they invited us. The food was amazing. Some of them were very good cooks. They all dressed up and, when we entered, they came one by one and kneeled and kissed our hands and offered us flowers and wine in plastic cups and they treated us like queens. When we first started the project, some of them were aggressive. Their lives had gone from one humiliation to the next. But later, they learned to respect us and love us. The smart ones among them try to save a bit of money or send it back home, and they do better because they have some sense of accomplishment, the small reward of knowing that their relatives or family are better off. But others, at the end of the month they get drunk and blow it all on poker machines, booze, or drugs. At first we refused many of them. Drunk, rowdy, we would just say no. Maggie, my partner in this, whom I adore, knows the working class. She grew up in a destitute small town. She watched her father and uncles lose their jobs. She taught me a great deal about how to handle these guys. She is so impressive. She shouts at them and they become like little boys.

Once, a Moroccan guy entered Maggie’s room. All macho, sure of himself, well-built, and dismissive. He acted boastful and condescending. He barely said a word to her, and then he took off his clothes and pointed to the bed.

Maggie said, We are going to talk first.

Okay, he said.

Good, I see you understand English. So here it is: I am not going to sleep with you because you have no respect for women.

He was very surprised, maybe because no woman had ever talked to him that way.

In Morocco, you guys treat your women like dogs, Maggie said to him. Here, even a prostitute like me has to be respected.

Une putain de raciste , he called her.

Well, okay, I am a fucking racist and that is how it is, she said. Now you pick up your clothes and leave or I’ll let someone come and kick you out. We are charging you close to nothing out of the goodness of our hearts. If I was a racist, I wouldn’t come all the way here to make your miserable life a bit more bearable. We girls could be somewhere else, in fancy hotels with champagne, charging five times more for this. It is out of the goodness of our hearts that we come here every month. And all your friends know it and they are appreciative. Now pick up your clothes and get out.

Now this tall Arab stood up and looked at the ground, and tears started to run from his eyes. He tried to apologize. But Maggie grabbed his arm and said, That still won’t save you. Come next month with a better attitude and we’ll see. I tell you, the Arab left like a little baby who misses his mother.

We do it as an offering to the poor, Sally said. There is something grand about degrading one’s body for a higher purpose. I’ve grown to love these workers. They come, happy to see us. Their smiles are wide open. It is the highlight of their month. I have one Mexican, he kneels on the bed every time and prays before he takes off his clothes, and again after we are done. And then he kisses my hand and crosses himself and leaves. He doesn’t speak a word of English. But I understand what he does. He and I are the same. I do it out of humanity and he sleeps with me so he’s able to carry on with his life, so he can support his family back home. But when I do my escort shifts, things are different. The moment my phone rings, I become a different person. I am not me, I become, how can I put it. . temporary, oblivious, separate. . my body has no importance, it’s only a passageway, I say to myself. The car from the agency comes, I go to the meeting place and face those customers. I have more problems with those bureaucrats and rich men than I’ve ever had with the factory workers. But if I have any trouble, I press a single button on the phone and the giant driver from the agency is at the door, breaking it down in a second.

As time went by, I got to see what a lovable, intelligent, and ordinary person Sally was. I slowly started to get attached to her and she knew it. And then one night, while working as an escort, she met a handsome young lawyer. After they were done, he paid her and she went back to the limousine trembling and crying. She assured the giant driver that she was fine. She arrived home and she called me. She was scared. I don’t know what got into me, Fly. I did a stupid thing. Here is this intelligent, rich, young, beautiful lawyer. We talked and I slept with him without any protection. I don’t know what got into me, she said again. I’ve never been so reckless. I called the driver to tell him that I was extending the hours, I even covered them myself. I didn’t want to leave. I think I am in love with this man. He refused to give me his number. I guess he is married, like so many of them, or maybe just judgmental. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, Fly, she said.