Rawi Hage - Carnival

May I ask you something? I said.

Do.

The lady called you by a name. Is that your real name: Gunther?

Here we are. I leave you. Ta ta!

DUEL

I TOO DECIDED to call it a night. I wanted to go home, put on the light, have a drink, and watch the battles of life unfold. On the way there, I encountered many young men and women in costume: cross-dressers, Einsteins, masked animals and half-naked beasts, and other undefined creatures. Many waved to me, some even banged on my car. I turned off my lantern and waved from inside the glass, informing them, in mime, that I was off to partake in the glorious intoxication of man’s history. My mind was made up; I was heading back to my rug to invoke the sun, the blood of martyrs and insects, the fermenting of liquids, and the flying carpets of old palaces. I would lie on the floor and think of President Lincoln and his almost fatal duel with a foe. It was stopped just in time, and who knows what would have happened if. .

As I drove back, I remembered a true story I had heard at Café Bolero. The story involved Number 72, otherwise known as Mani (or, in my lexicon, the Sex Spider), and Number 89, whom I recently dubbed the Tight-ass Spider. Gathering at the taxi stand one day were many numbers, a whole collection of bored spiders. Business was slow; the taxi commission had just hiked the fares. People, in protest or frugality, preferred other means of transportation that particular week, though they would eventually accept, forget, and go back to taking taxis. Anyway, a well-dressed woman passed by Numbers 72 and 89, and she did a back-and-forth, at times stopping, at times smiling, looking indecisive and even a bit confused. Number 89 said that she was a hesitant customer, perhaps one of those boycotting the taxis. Number 72, the Sex Spider, replied that she wanted it.

Number 89 mocked the Sex Spider, who then made a bet in front of everyone who was present that day: If I manage to pick her up and take her to a room today, he said to Number 89, I’ll get to fuck you. If I don’t, you are free to fuck me.

I am not into fucking men, the Tight-ass Spider replied.

Well then, the Sex Spider proclaimed, if I win, I fuck you, and if you win, I will pay you one thousand dollars. The bet was on, and the Sex Spider went on the trail of the woman. He smiled, dropped his chin, and lifted his eyes. He spoke, and smiled some more, and then pointed to his car and ushered the lady to the front seat. He waved to the bystanders, whose eyes were all wide with disbelief. The Tight-ass Spider said, That does not mean he has won. The bet is for him to actually get her into bed.

Two hours later, the Sex Spider managed to convince the dispatcher to state the following on air: Witnesses needed for an historical event involving the initiation of Number 89 into a new world of adventure and happiness. All those involved please be at Motel 9, on Vignard Street, in fifteen minutes.

Twenty cars showed up in the lot of the motel as the Sex Spider walked out, hand in hand with the woman. It was said that Number 89 had been in denial, and a burst of sweat broke out all over him. All the taxis honked and proclaimed Mani, Number 72, the winner and the groom.

Two weeks later it was discovered that the woman in question was a prostitute.

There is no one to match the Sex Spider in his appetite for love and adventure. The Sex Spider is a talker and a lover of bouncing thighs, long and short thighs, shiny thighs, shaved thighs, and hairy thighs. The Sex Spider is an equal-opportunity lover. He loves all the world and its inhabitants, as he often proclaims, people in all their colours, shapes, and forms.

Once, in Café Bolero, we were sitting side by side, and we got into a conversation about the state of affairs in the world.

I said to him, This world is an inferior place.

Not at all, he said. God created each one of us with a light inside. I’ve had sex with all kinds of people; every single person has a kind of beam inside that shines once they are touched properly.

You’ve seen that beam? I asked.

Of course. I see it all the time. Why do you think people prefer to have sex at night? The beam is there.

You don’t say, I said.

Listen, the Sex Spider said. Do you know why I ask everyone to call me Mani now?

Do tell, I said, as I ate my salad and fish.

Well, once I picked up a customer, a beautiful older woman. She was a professor of history or religion or maybe both. We had a bit of polite chit-chat and then we talked about philosophy and life and she asked me where I came from. The moment she knew that I was Persian, she started talking about Mani, the prophet Mani. I said, Of course I know of him. Well, she said, then you know the myth of the two worlds. Well, of course, I said, I know it, but tell me again.

So she said that in the beginning there were two worlds: the world of the dark and the world of the light. And they both existed without knowing of one another. But when one day the dark world saw the light world shining in all its beauty, the dark world decided to attack the light world and make it his own. But the light world knew that if the dark world touched him he would cease to be pure. So the god of the light world sent his son to fight the dark world in the dark world’s territory, in order to save the pure world from being touched. . The son was shining with light and he flew away with his arms and swords. But once he reached the dark world, his ass was kicked. The dark took the son inside his world and broke him into a million tiny pieces of light, and those pieces of light were spread all over the dark world.

And then what, I said.

And then, said the Sex Spider, I looked at the professor lady in the mirror and I said to her, Every time I see a beautiful lady like you, I see light and I know that there is a wonderful other world out there. I drove her home and she asked me inside for a coffee. A beautiful lady, long thighs, loud screams, and a big light that shone from inside. .

ONCE, AS I was driving along the highway back into town, I saw a taxi with a flat tire at the side of the road. I recognized the Sex Spider’s car and I stopped to give him a hand. But before I got out of my car, he rushed to my window and gave me an address and asked me to go and pick up “Larry” from a restaurant downtown. It is urgent, he said.

I drove fast, because it seemed so important to the Sex Spider. I arrived at the restaurant and parked in front. The valet came and asked me if I was waiting for someone in particular. Larry, I said. The valet smirked and went inside.

From outside, the restaurant looked fancy. Two big guys in shades and dark suits were standing in the manner of bodyguards at the front door. I waited and then I saw a large woman with extraordinarily long legs swinging her hips towards my car. She was stunning.

She arrived and waited for the valet to open the door and she got in the back seat.

I said, Excuse me, but this taxi is reserved for Larry. Are you Larry?

She looked me straight in the mirror and said, in a thick, manly voice: At the base, yes.

I smiled and told her that Mani couldn’t make it. He had a flat tire.

Perfect, she replied, it sure is my day. He is always late, but now today, just when I need him most. . I’ve had a horrible evening. Are you a friend of Mani’s?

Yes, I said.

Well, I hope you are having a good day. But before I could reply, she said again, I had a horrible evening. I thought I was going to die. Those men in there are total pigs. They have no culture. It is hard to be taken seriously in this world of vultures and pests. I am about to cry, excuse me.

So I immediately pulled down my box and offered it to Larry.

Thank you, she said. Finally, someone who has some manners and respect. What is your name, driver?