Carnival

by Rawi Hage

  I think the Father needs to talk to you concerning a few matters, she said, ignoring my question.

  Fine, I said. Which hospital?

  He is in St. Mary’s Hospital.

  Not the church of St. Mary but the hospital of St. Mary. Am I correct?

  Yes, Miss so-and-so said.

  Okay, should I meet him at the St. Mary’s Restaurant inside St. Mary’s Hospital?

  No, you can go straight to the room.

  The number of the room?

  It is 107.

  Perfect.

  Thank you. God bless you, she said.

  I hung up the phone and went back to the van and discussed it all with the Red Brigades girl.

  Plan B? I said.

  She nodded and looked seductive in her assertive way.

  I’ll show you how to get to St. Mary’s Hospital, I said. We could always drop the minister there.

  And the manifesto, the ransom? she asked.

  I’ll see if the Church will pay it, I told her. The Vatican’s citizens are wealthy.

  I took my car and flew below the clouds. When I spotted the hospital, I locked my wheels and took a kamikaze dive towards the lot. I walked inside nonchalantly and took the stairs and entered the room.

  I hardly recognized the priest. He looked as if he had been kidnapped by aliens and tied up in plastic wires, and he also looked frailer and older than he had the last time I’d seen him. Behind him sprouted a jungle of flowers and a row of get-well cards picturing bowed heads, a collection of Marys, and crosses and little houses. I went straight to the window and checked on my car. I had left it parked in the Doctors Only lot as a protest against favouritism and privilege. So far, the car was still there, safe. I stretched my neck and looked out the window, but I didn’t see any tow trucks coming my way. Nothing alarming, only an ambulance siren rushing towards the emergency doors.

  There were two nuns in the back of the room whom, at first, I didn’t notice, or smell, for that matter. When do you think the priest will regain consciousness? I asked them.

  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 thr
oat. 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.

  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 me
re 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.