Rawi Hage - Carnival

Yes, I know that hotel. Rather expensive, I said, trying to imitate that ever-intimidating language of spies and skinny punk singers.

Tell me about it. I am paying the bill. So, my dear friend, do you have a name?

My name is Fly.

Fly as in flight? Or as in insect?

Not sure.

Right, we never choose our own names, et cetera, et cetera. But, since you recognized my voice on the phone, I do not think it necessary for you to be acquainted with mine.

No names is good, I said.

Excellent: let’s buzz.

To save time, I avoided the middle of the city and its numerous traffic lights and I took an exit that led us straight to the highway. As I accelerated, the man opened the window and leaned his face into the oncoming air.

Go on, my good man, take off and soar, he screamed. In my rearview mirror, I saw his hair quiver and his vibrant silky scarf flutter, flap, and leap against the winds.

Now. We have arrived, I believe. So, Mister Fly. Listen to me. I want you to go up to the room in forty-five minutes exactly. Not one minute later or in advance. Here is the room number. You knock three times and you enter. After you enter, you must make sure that I am released from my obligations. Understood?

Yes.

You must release me immediately, without any delay, I repeat.

Sure.

Good, Fly. I see you have a clock on the dashboard. Let us adjust the time so that we are in sync. I would estimate that you should leave seven minutes before the appointed time, and do take the stairs for the purpose of accuracy.

Sure, I said again.

Understood?

Understood, I said.

Here also is a Swiss knife, a present from me to you. Bring it along and keep it in your pocket. You will know what to do with it when the time comes.

THIRTY-EIGHT MINUTES LATER, I went into the hotel, took the stairs, and found the room. I stood at the door and knocked three times.

The person I assumed was the novelist in question opened the door, dressed all in leather, with a long bullwhip in her hand.

You are early, she said with an authoritative voice and the upright posture of a gypsy dancer.

No, I am on time. Where is he? I said.

I am not done with the program yet.

I pushed her aside and entered the room. My client was tied up on the floor, buck naked, with his own socks sticking out of his mouth. When I tried to release him, the once-famous writer cracked her whip behind me and said, Do not dare to touch him before I finish my drink.

I have my orders, I said.

I have mine too, she said.

We both looked at the man, and he was shaking his head ferociously and drooling from the side of his mouth.

Look at your watch, you little shit, she said, addressing me and reaching for a pair of handcuffs.

I stepped on her whip and, before she had the chance to pull it back, I punched her in the face. She swung at me, but I saw the punch coming, so I did a backward flip and, by accident or not by accident, I kicked her in the chin.

She fell back against the dresser, hit the TV, and then pulled herself up and ran, wailing, to the bathroom and locked herself inside. Sobbing and shouting, He hit me, he hit me! I’m bleeding. .

I searched my pockets for the stupid little red knife with the cross. It took me a while to open it. I hesitated between the big blade or the nail scissors attached to it. The man was turning blue: I thought he might be suffocating. I immediately pulled the sock out of his mouth and he took a big gobble of air and started to cough and spit.

I cut the ropes with my Swiss knife (I’d settled on the largest blade). The man immediately freed himself and rushed, barefooted, and on his knees, to the bathroom and begged the dominatrix to open the door.

I am sorry, Master, I am so sorry, he said, coughing. Next time I’ll take all the punishment. Fly here is just a taxi driver. He is a bit slow. Good help is hard to find! It is entirely my fault.

She opened the door and said, Look what your beast did to me. I’ll never see you again. You are a stupid man, Gunther. And now I have a black eye, she shouted, and I have a book signing coming up! And she slammed the bathroom door.

Let’s go, the man said to me. He put on his trousers, quickly gathered his clothes, grabbed his shoes and slimy socks, and we rushed out of the room and into the hallway, where he started to laugh and put his shoes on. That was magnificent, he said, when we were once more in the car. Good job, indeed, Fly. Magnificent! It was just like a scene from a Godard movie: absurd and philosophical. You, my man, you do not blink. You are physical and visceral. You act without hesitating or thinking about your act. It is funny, we were discussing this the other night. I was in that novelist’s presence, in fact, along with some other friends. We were discussing writers, writing, and the act of writing. I was reminded of a scene from the Godard film Vivre sa vie . Have you seen it?

I do not have a television.

Pompous rubbish, you should have a TV. The visual and the popular are essential. Anyway, in this film, there is a beautiful, young, intelligent woman who is seduced by a pimp and turned into a prostitute. . but the particular scene I am referring to is when she meets a philosopher in a Parisian café. The old philosopher tells her the story of a gangster who put a bomb in a car, then turned to flee. But then he began to think about the act of walking, imagining the act and trying to understand the motion or the force that makes one’s legs move forward. And the mere act of thinking about the mechanics of walking crippled him and he became paralyzed.

And the bomb? I asked.

We don’t care at this point whether he is dead or not. He is a gangster, why should we care? Not to be judgmental. But all this is to say, Fly, that I think you could still be a writer. I might be wrong but I believe that, contrary to the fighting instincts you displayed here today, while you were writing you might have thought too much about the act of writing. And that is precisely what has happened to our novelist. And lately she has been on a crusade to glorify French culture. Ha! I assume it is to compensate for her provincial, parochial background. We recently had a heated argument about the complicity of culture and cultural figures in the project of imperialism. She went on a tangent about the greatness of Henry Miller, but if you ask me Miller is overrated. Ninety percent of his writing is incomprehensible, and incantation of the word cunt does not make you a sexual liberator. She wouldn’t hear it, she banged her fist on the table and almost spilled the wine. You see, she thinks that she and Miller have contributed to the American sexual revolution. Rubbish. I believe the only revolution that matters in that country was, and still is, the black revolution: anything else is a residue of European enlightenment. Anyway, let’s not get too philosophical here. Just to say that I think her reluctance to untie me today might have had something to do with our argument. Of course, it could well have been unconscious, the unconscious is full of murderous impulses, after all. She is back to her excessive drinking and she’s picked up born-again Christianity on the way, as well as bondage, not that there are any contradictions there, watch me roll my eyes. . I am glad you came on time, anyway. Well, now that you are driving, I trust you won’t think about the act of driving or we will never get home, will we, my saviour? You look pensive, my dear Fly.

Well, I am thinking of the leather lady, I said. You know, the writer we left in the bathroom, spitting blood.

She will be fine. Do not worry. I’ll call her tonight and we will laugh about it. Some excitement might be good for her creativity. For the past ten or fifteen years or so she’s been struggling to produce something substantial. Now, do drive me back home. There is only so much excitement a man can take in one day.