Rawi Hage - Carnival

Many years later the absent-minded professor said to me, Fly, I have only three months to live. I shall give all my papers and personal correspondence to the university archives, but I want you to have my books.

And so it was. For weeks I carried his books back to my place. The professor who, incidentally, was named Alberto Manuel, told me that he’d always hoped that one day he would die a glorious and poetic death, in the same manner as a ninth-century Arab philosopher by the name of Al-Jahiz, who, like himself, had amassed a huge library. One day a section of the library fell on his head and killed him.

But the important question remains, my dearest Fly, which is: which section fell on his head? And in what manner was his library arranged?

All libraries must submit to a certain order, I answered.

Indeed, agreed the professor, or all will be lost. The fall of nations and empires begins with the fall of libraries.

At the professor’s funeral I walked with many of his students and colleagues. They all gave speeches about the professor’s life, his accomplishments, and his love for books, learning, and life. Some recited poems and even songs. A blond man stood up and said: I shall read a passage from the professor’s favourite poet, Abū al-ʿAlā ʾal-Maʿ arrī. Forgive me for mispronouncing the poet’s name, the blond man added, before reading a passage that went like this:

We laugh, but inept is our laughter;

We should weep and weep sore,

Who are shattered like glass, and thereafter

Remoulded no more.

I carried one of the books from the professor’s library, The History of Salt , and when my turn came to say a few words, I read a passage on the use of salt in the time of the pharaohs, in the mummification of loved ones. My selection was pedantic, but I knew that the professor’s love of salt justified my choice. Salt was never taxed by the Ottoman Empire, I read, and the word tooz , though it is no longer used in the modern Turkish dialect, survives in the language of a few inhabitants of the Levant now, long after the Empire’s retreat from the region. What vanishes from history and what remains, I concluded, is a mystery.

And since then, my dearest Zainab, I’ve lived with a large collection of books.

Fly, Zainab said, and she looked at me with tears in her eyes. That is wonderful. Then she extended her hands to my face and said, Fly, I can’t take care of you. You were not well last night. You should seek help. You should see someone. .

FOG

THE NEXT DAY, as I lay in bed under a fog of lassitude, the thought of the killing consumed me and I wondered where Otto could have gone.

To distract myself, I debated whether to rearrange the history section of my library based on the letter S, to give priority to the erotic over the monumental. Just then I heard the Romanian and the doctor shaking their bed to the tune of “The Blue Danube” so I quickly got up and waltzed my way across the hall. I knocked and knocked until finally the Romanian came and opened the door a crack.

What do you want? she screamed at me.

Well, I know that the doctor is here, I saw his car downstairs, and I was wondering if I could have an off-hours consultation.

Who is it? I heard the doctor yell as he lowered the music.

It is me, Doctor, the neighbour who brings gifts.

Wait outside, he called. I’ll be right there.

I stood in the hallway. He came out fixing his trousers. Doctor, I began, I hope you enjoyed the package that I gave to our friend here the other day.

He nodded, but did not otherwise acknowledge it.

Anyway, I have a small favour to ask. I have been having what might be called fantastical thoughts.

What kinds of thoughts?

Well, harmless thoughts. Theatrical thoughts that involve ropes, clowns, and even animals.

Sexual fantasies?

No. More like memories. Anyway, I thought that I would see a doctor for my head, and I happened to learn the name of a good one. So I was wondering if you could refer me to him. His name is Dr. Wu.

Sure, sure, he said, but you will have to come to my office for that.

Yes, and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought since you were here and all. .

No problem. Come to my office in the morning. Dr. Wu, you said? Remind me tomorrow and it will be done. You won’t even have to wait.

Great.

Oh, by the way, if you have any more of that prescription, by all means bring it along.

I’ll try, I said, and left.

Once I got the referral, I went straight to the psychiatrist’s office. I was taking a big chance, but I had to know whether he remembered my face from the night I had driven him under the bridge to his meeting with Otto. I made sure I was well-dressed, cologne and tie and all.

I entered the clinic and asked the secretary if I could see the doctor. The secretary was gracious; she asked if I had insurance. I smiled and said no, I just needed a quick consultation before I left town. I was willing to pay for it. She asked me to fill out a form and wait. So I sat down and slowly filled out the form under a name that was not my own. I ticked off a few items concerning my physical and mental condition. I arbitrarily decided on chronic bladder infections and double vision.

What can I do for you? the psychiatrist said when I was eventually led in.

Well, Doctor, I said, I’ve been having sleepless nights and a deep feeling of melancholy; indeed, on some days, sadness has confined me to my bed. I am tired all the time and thoughts of suicide have crossed my mind. The only relief I can find is in my chronic acts of masturbation.

He stared at me with a blank face. What do you do, Mister. .

I am between jobs at the moment.

What was your last job?

I worked in transport.

Did that involve physical work?

No, I was sitting all the time.

Right. I’ll send you for a complete physical. We’ll check your blood pressure and so forth. Then I’d recommend some blood tests, a psychological assessment, and perhaps some pills to relax your desires. Do you experience distortions of vision or episodes of delirium?

What kind of episodes?

Like hearing voices.

Whose voices?

God’s, maybe?

No, not me, but it seems that everyone around me does.

The doctor frowned and looked at me from above his glasses.

I am not a believer, Doctor.

I gathered that. Anything else?

It’s hard to say. I’ve been remembering my childhood and it’s making me sad. This existence of perpetual transitions, of fluctuations between liberty and loss, is consuming me.

That’s quite normal; at a certain age we tend to look back at the past. Anyway, as I said, these are things you will be able to discuss at length in our next session. I’ll have my secretary make an appointment for you and tell you where to go for the blood test.

Doctor, have we met before? I asked.

No, I don’t believe so.

You look familiar, I said.

He glanced down at the form I had filled out. I don’t recognize your name. Have you been hospitalized for any mental illness?

No, not yet, I said, and chuckled, but I do have a tendency to accumulate friends and acquaintances who, at one point or another in their lives, have gone through those institutions.

Family members? he asked.

Yes, more or less.

Well then, how about you come and visit me at the hospital next week. And we can see what we can do for you.

Next week? I said. I have to consult my schedule but I will get back to you. Come to think of it, though, I might be flying out of the country.

I see, he said. Well then, we’ll have to wait for your return.

It is rather a long flight, I said. And then I headed out the door and into the street to breathe the fresh air of the city sidewalks.