Rawi Hage - Carnival

We don’t know, they replied in a synchronized chorus.

Is he asleep? I asked.

Yes, he is, they said.

Should I come back later?

If you like, sang the duet.

I’ll go down for a cigarette, I said, and return in an hour. By the way, have you seen Mary?

Sister Mary?

No, that Mary is Caucasian, I said. Mary the reader, the one who reads all the time. She always has a book in her hand.

The nuns looked at each other and said, You’d better speak to the Father.

I went down to the cafeteria, bought a coffee, and looked at the slim rows of books in the gift shop. There was nothing I could read there, inferiorities to numb the mind from the pains of the world.

I went outside and joined the company of the shivering expelled smokers. Hospitals are a carnival of death. A masquerade of haggard eyes gazing at the white, purgatorial walls, a faint chaos of hunchbacked mothers chasing orderlies, of doctors disguised in aprons, pointing magic wands at nurses in angelic uniforms and muffled tap shoes, waving bandages mistaken for egg rolls. Hospitals are asylums with flying ambulances, bed bells to summon the physician’s spirits, sponge baths above white linen, janitors swinging mops over hazy floors, evening moans at the last sunset, and fridges full of ice for arrested hearts.

Sir, I said, are you up yet?

Ah, you’ve come, the priest said with difficulty.

Yes, I am here. Now what?

I wanted to ask you, son. Do you think of God, life, and death?

Yes indeed, all the time. I think that your god doesn’t exist, but death does; so does life.

Then the priest started to cry. Son, something very meaningful has happened to me.

I nodded.

I died and I came back.

Like Jesus, I said.

Well, yes and no. I wouldn’t put myself in the same category. I am not worthy. Something miraculous happened to me the other night. I had a severe heart attack and my heart stopped. I went through a tunnel and I saw a lake, and my father, and my uncle. It was peaceful and serene. But then something pulled me back. I went through the tunnel in reverse, I could feel someone dragging me and I turned my head and I saw you, and it was you who was bringing me back here, to this life. It was you whom I saw, son.

Well, I don’t know what to say, I told him. Sorry I interrupted your dream.

It was not a dream, it was very real.

Well then, I have many people who could testify that I was here on this planet. I stopped and ate at Café Bolero, but otherwise I was working, driving my cab to keep my life in order. I picked up many clients who are here for the Carnival. All kinds of lost souls, Father.

Yes, yes. . but, son, do you believe in the other side?

I believe in others, and in humans, and in a world of wandering and of constant change. And I believe that I am here now, and that one day I’ll leave just like the butterfly leaves, never demanding anything more than the air it has touched with its own wings.

I believe that you are more than that, the priest said, breathing noisily through his tubes. I believe you are a force. I believe you rule this world but not the next. And you brought me back. I believe you are some kind of demiurge, and, I suspect, a lost one. Maybe even an evil one.

Well, Father, I think the only evil is you and your lot of delusional believers who make women suffer, who tell Africans to abstain from sex and not to protect themselves. I believe you are a hater of misfits, a suppressor of clowns’ laughs, scissors to the ropes of mountain climbers, chains to the wanderer, and a blindfold to the knower: a hater of men. But you are also a lover yourself, a lover of power and buffoon dictators, a protector of arms dealers and thieves, pardoner of hypocrites with pious tongues and dirty hands. .

May God forgive you, my son.

May your god, if there truly is one, forgive himself for these inferior creations. I am leaving, but I need to know where Mary is.

Mary is gone, he said.

Gone where?

We arranged to send her to a convent overseas.

Where overseas?

I won’t tell you. Your company is not good for her. She is in good hands, with people of faith. Good people. Her people now.

I want to know where she is. I want to send her a few books.

There is only one book that matters in her life now: the one that saves us.

There is no one single book that could possibly save us.

You can leave now. I need to call the nurse. Maybe we’ll meet again.

And this time I’ll make sure not to pull you back, I said, and left him there and walked back through the long hallway and down the stairs, outside the building and to my car.

I took the wheel and my car flew towards the marketplace and the Carnival, and I fancied myself a bird, then a tightrope walker in a clown’s attire, singing and testing the rope with my empirical feet. Now the clown becomes a Joker, then a prophet chanting to the festive masses: I shall chase the clouds and stop the rain and save your lives from this endless charade of puppets and strings! Ladies and gentlemen, the Temple of Wonder is yours to enter, watch your head as you enter the tent, and kindly take off your shoes, a new life is waiting for you just inside. Here is your chance, ladies, to come back as a tiger, a lion, or a mockingbird, here is your chance, gentlemen, to see the eternal light and be saved from the burden of daily life. Just sit tight in your seat, clap when you are told to, and leave when you hear the buzz of the Joker, or when the light above the door goes long and horizontal. Hurry, the show is about to start! Step inside and all your troubles will be forgotten. But do not eat from any of the forbidden foods, the big cat might get excited. And kids, do not sneeze when the man reaches with his bare hands for the lion’s throat. Do as the others do and you will see miracles and the illusion of flying horses, the revival of the old and the greatness of the divine! Come into the temple of bliss and joy and you will be given a new mask, a new life for eternity ever after.

GUNTHER

THE MAN WITH the British accent called.

Are you ready for another adventure, my good man? he said.

Always ready for good clients like yourself, sir.

Half an hour later I was at the door of the building.

Okay, old chap, let’s do this. My dear Fly, we are about to meet an unusual writer, a rather, how would I put it, cultish figure, maybe.

A novelist, I hope, I said with barely contained enthusiasm.

Yes, a novelist.

Brilliant, I said. What would be this novelist’s name?

My dear, names are names and just names.

No need for names, I said, but what kind of literature does he or she write?

It is a she. And to satisfy your inquisitive mind, I would say the writing is rough and dirty. But now even leather-boot literature, as we call it, is a bit passé. No longer shocking — even a bit laughable. Well, in any event, she is expecting me today. I have the privilege of meeting her alone. And at one point in the evening, I would like you to meet her as well.

Sure, I said. It is always a pleasure to meet dirty novelists. I once contemplated becoming one myself. . but instead I stopped typing and picked up another creative habit that has kept my fingers busy ever since.

Yes, yes, I am sure, and what reader or dreamer doesn’t imagine the romantic life of a writer, who lingers between the desk and the fridge in the morning and in the evening attends cocktail parties thrown by the nouveaux riches and society ladies who hardly ever have the time to read? Everyone craves fame, sex, and an eternity of acknowledgement, and so on. But, believe me, your life could have been worse. You could have experienced paradise and then suddenly been expelled for no valid reason. I mean, imagine having fame and accolades and then one day, poufff , as the French would say, losing it all, your name obscure, your books pulped and recycled into toilet paper. Then your only consolation in life would be a few old photos and your daily drinks over the kitchen counter. Which brings me to the person we are meeting today. Here is the address, he said, handing me a scrap of paper, where we will encounter that once-famous writer.