Rawi Hage - Carnival

Motherfucker, faggot! He stood up and shouted, I will show you, motherfucker!

I stood up calmly and went outside. I grabbed the car keys from my pocket, lit a cigarette, and waited.

As soon as Number 67 came out of the café, I surprised him and grabbed him by the collar and started to hit him in the face with my car keys. I landed a good punch on his nose and it burst red. Two other drivers ran out and held me back. One of them got a good grip on my throat. I grabbed his index finger and forced it up until I heard it crack, and then I heard the man letting out brief, devastating moans and he let me loose. The others, seeing the bigger driver holding his hand and crumpled on the sidewalk, pulled back and started to threaten me from behind the hoods of taxis. I walked away and headed straight towards my car, but then I decided to leave it there and walk away. My knuckles, my nails, and my sleeves were covered in blood.

I walked away from the Bolero and took to the streets, aimless, until I reached a bridge. It started to rain again, and I took the stairs up and began to cross over the highway. The cars slid below me, and I watched the city expanding and contracting under the fluctuation of the torrential rain and light. I stood under the water of the god of the seas, the water buffalo’s drooling on the world, the thunder of the son of Cronus, the weeping of mother earth, the slippery love of Yahweh for his tribe, the cleansing of prisoners on the ships crossing the Atlantic, the tattooed hands of Rama scrubbing the untouchables at the edge of the river, the offering of virgins to the surging, dripping, splashing crocodiles, and I let the rain wash my bloody hands and bring back the whiteness to my sleeves.

When I arrived on the east side of the city I took cover under the roof of a bus shelter. I watched the buses leave and the rain fall harder, with the thickness of curtains and the opacity of veils. Then I walked again under the rain. My hair was wet and my clothes nestled against the erection of my nipples and the inward curve of my belly. To the drivers who passed me on the highway I must have looked like a grey ghost, hunched, defeated by the damnation of water and floods. But what do those carcasses of metal and glass, those burners of oil and makers of black rain, know about the pleasures of water, the heaviness of drenched bodies, and the flight of the insane.

In my youth, when it rained, the ringmaster would shout to summon us and we would all take off our clothes and run outside to the elephants with our brushes and buckets. We let the horses and the dogs loose in the circles of mud, and then we sheltered the lions, the monkey, and the birds from the cloudbursts and the pouring sky. We monkeyed around, oinked like pigs in the dirt, and clapped for the seals to come and join us under the grey sky. When the rain stopped, we would all go inside the biggest tent and make a fire, and we would play music and dance among the empty benches. But once, after the rain, I walked along beside the soaking tents and below the wet flags of the circus and I went to our trailer and took off my clothes. I was alone, and my thin, boyish body was shivering from cold and happiness. A few minutes later, my mother came in. Her eyes were vacant, her hair was soaked, and her face was painted with makeup that was dripping down her face. She called me some other name. And she laughed when she saw me naked and stared at me. Flying man, she kept on saying, flying man, let me please you. And she drew me close to her bosom and kissed my neck and her hand swept across my skin and touched me and held my erection and stroked me until I came. There you go, she said, now you can leave and march towards your desert and your stone.

TAMMER

AT TIMES, WHEN the traffic lights turn red and all the engines stop, wait, and release the poisonous fumes from behind the drivers’ asses, little unexpected sprinkles of water fall on your windshield from the squirts of plastic bottles, squeezed by the dirty fingers of street kids who make you want to call out to the world and scream, Injustice! It is the waste of this clean water that the poor depend on that I object to most. I scream in the face of these squeegee kids and say, I’ll give you change but do not obstruct my horizon with your soaked, stained histories of needle-armed mothers and guess-who-done-it fathers.

The next evening, I took the the bus to Café Bolero but I didn’t go in. I claimed my car and drove it through the streets of the city. At a light, I saw a harlequin coming my way with a bottle, ready to spray water on my windshield. But before I could wave my hand and tell him not to carry on with his squirting act, the harlequin started to shout my name, saying, Fly, hey, Fly! It’s me, Tammer. And he rushed to the driver’s side and called to his friend, who was wearing what must have been the worst insect costume I had ever seen.

Tammer, I said, what are you doing on the street?

Hustling like my forefathers, he said, and he and his friend laughed.

Come into the car, I said.

They did and slammed the doors, and by the weight of things, by the imperceptible curve of the seats under their bodies and the look of their cheekbones, I was reminded that famine is no laughing matter. No city masquerade, no costume, smile, or acrobatic act can appease the vacuity of hunger.

Let’s eat, I said.

And they both started to giggle and give each other high-fives.

I took them to a fast food joint. I paid for all the hamburgers they could eat, for the buckets of soda they filled all the way to the rim, and for the extra-large French fries they both insisted upon.

I was still trying to figure out what kind of insect Tammer’s friend was supposed to be. When I asked him, he just said: A bug. And when I asked what his name was, Tammer said, This is Skippy the Bug! and they both found it funny. They ate like hungry puppies.

How is your mother? I asked Tammer.

He nodded, and then shook his head because his mouth was full. And then he managed to say, Not okay.

Working? I asked.

No, not working.

Fredao?

Gone, Tammer said. The boys looked at each other and laughed. Got rid of him.

How did you get rid of him?

We bit him, Skippy the Bug said. And they both laughed again.

So where is your mother?

Recovering in the hospital, he said. Fredao beat her. Then Tammer paused and said, He won’t beat her anymore.

Fucking bastard.

We all stayed quiet for a while. The two bent their heads towards the buns in their hands and ate.

You heard about the killing of the French journalist? I asked.

French fries, Skippy the Bug said, and they giggled.

Then they asked me if I could buy them milkshakes and more food, because they were still hungry.

Are you still living in your mother’s place? I asked Tammer, as we went back to the counter.

No, he said.

Where do you sleep?

That place I took you last time, he said. Under the bridge.

We do barbecue, Skippy said. And they laughed and gave each other high-fives all over again.

I asked Tammer if he had seen Otto since that night.

Yeah, he said. He showed up one night but he left.

How long did he stay?

Not long. He needed stuff, Tammer said.

What kind of stuff?

Booze, the kid said, and laughed.

When we left the restaurant, I handed Tammer a few dollars.

He quickly took the money and showed it to his friend. They started to laugh and scream, and Skippy put his arm around Tammer’s shoulders. Without saying goodbye, they staggered down the sidewalk, crossed the street, and started running through the street blocks, the buildings, and the traffic lights.

ZEE

I PICKED UP Zee that night. He was quieter than usual. He had a bag and he kept fixing his collar and tucking his hand inside his jacket and shifting.