Carnival

by Rawi Hage

  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 h
eaded out the door and into the street to breathe the fresh air of the city sidewalks.

  SPIDERS (AGAIN)

  I STOPPED BY Café Bolero. These spiders are getting fatter by the day, I thought to myself. They sit and eat those large, greasy portions that make them talk louder and sit tighter in their car seats. I ordered coffee and joined the loudest table. Number 17 was waving his hands and talking about this country and the difference between here and there, but Number 67 interrupted him and said, Listen. Yes, there is no democracy where we come from, but at least things get done fast and, if you know the right people and you know how to talk to the person in charge, you get respect.

  Let me tell you this story, 67 said. One night I took a nice-looking lady into my car. She looked very rich and I was driving her to a wealthy area. She asked me where I was from.

  I said, I am from Tunisia, the most beautiful country in Africa. We call it “Tunisia the green.” Do you know where Tunisia is? I asked her.

  She said that she had been there, and that she had made the mistake of trusting a merchant who sold her a carpet in the souk. I said, Tell me what happened. She said she visited Tunis and went to the market to a buy a nice carpet for her house. All the carpet merchants tried to make her come into their stalls. They threw the merchandise at her feet.

  Then this man in a nice suit appeared, and he spoke English with a British accent. Please come with me, he said, and he gracefully held her hand and led her into his store. He told her that in his youth he had lived in England and studied history, but that after his father died, he had come home to take care of the family and the family business. He invited her to sit down, he brought her tea and sweets, and he showed her a few carpets. His daughter came with a flower and put it in the lady’s hair. His helpers at the store flipped the merchandise one after the other, and after she had seen many, she settled on a red Persian carpet . . . everyone says they are Persian but they are all made in Turkey . . . anyway, the problem was that she couldn’t carry it on the airplane. It was too heavy and too big. The owner of the store told her that he could send it by guaranteed mail, and he showed her the papers of a shipping company that reached everywhere, even Japan, because many people from Japan came and bought from his store . . . The owner asked her to leave a deposit of fifty percent and to pay the other half when she received the carpet. He said that he trusted his clients and she could send the balance by money order or wire transfer once the item was safely delivered, and he handed her a business card.

  The lady went home. A few weeks passed and nothing came. She called the number but it was not in service. She had given the guy eight hundred dollars. Nothing. The man stole the money, that’s it.

  I asked her if she remembered the name of the store. She did. We had arrived at her house, and I told her that in a few weeks I’d be going to visit my family, who lived in Tunis. I can get your money, ma’am, I told her. But if I bring eight hundred, I’ll keep two hundred for myself. She thought about it and said, At this point, I have nothing to lose. She went into her house, and what a house, a classy lady, and she got me the business card and the receipt, and she wrote down her number. I will call you when I am back, I told her, and then we said goodbye.

  When I arrived in Tunisia, it was the end of the month of Ramadan. Everything was closed. So the first week after my arrival I spent Eid with the family. The week after, I put on my good clothes and went to the main headquarters of the police station. I asked for the commander, Mahmoud.

  The man at the desk asked, Who would you be?

  I said, Tell the commander that I am an old friend of his little brother Mansour.

  The commander himself came out of his office and took me to his desk. Mansour, his brother, had left Tunisia and they hadn’t seen each other in many years. I knew Mansour because we were roommates here in this country for five years. He is like a brother to me.

  The commander immediately sent for tea and sweets. We talked about Mansour and his life. I told him, I don’t think your brother has changed a bit since he left Tunisia. He still wakes up every morning and eats bread and salt and olive oil. He still, every morning, puts on Oum Kalthoum, moves his head to the songs like this, drinks his tea, and walks in his plastic slippers. The same slippers he brought with him from Tunisia.

  The commander was laughing with tears in his eyes.

  That night, he took me to his village to meet his mother and the family. After we had a delicious meal, the mother asked if I could carry some good olive oil from the village to her son overseas. I said, My bag is full but, for Mansour’s eyes, I’ll carry the world.

  Three days before my departure from Tunisia, I visited Mahmoud in his office again. Commander, I said, I am part of the family now, and Mansour is a brother to me. Before I leave, I have a small favour to ask.

  If anyone is bothering you, if there is anything you need done in this town, just say the word! the commander said.

  I handed him the business card and the receipt the lady had given me and I told him the story of the carpet merchant. I said, Small, thieving merchants like this man make me and your brother look bad in those foreign lands. They throw our names and the reputation of our country in the dirt. Before long, all these foreigners will be telling each other, Don’t go to Tunisia, those Tunisians are thieves. In the name of this glorious country and of our friendship, I am asking if there is anything you can do, Commander.

  The commander stood up, banged his fist on the metal desk, and shouted through the door to his assistant. Ten minutes later, I was riding in a convoy of five Jeeps with twenty police in them, heading to the old souk. I sat next to the commander and, once we arrived, I saw all these policemen running through the streets and closing all the shops except one. I tell you, the whole souk was closed in minutes! I walked down the middle of the souk, right beside the commander. Someone called the owner. I saw this old man in a suit coming out from behind a stack of carpets and bowing his head like a dog.

  The commander showed him the card and the receipt for the carpet. First he slapped him and then he gave him a lecture on cheating and dragging the country’s name down the drain. He slapped him in front of all his employees and his whole family. His wife was wailing and his grandkids were crying. Two minutes, I am telling you, it took two minutes, and the owner of the store came back with the eight hundred dollars. The commander asked the carpet merchant to write a letter of apology to the lady. I said to the commander, Let him write it in English if he is truly what he says he is, a big shot from England. Liar, he was a liar. He probably couldn’t even write it in Arabic.

  The first thing I did when I came back here was call the lady. She was so impressed that she gave me an extra hundred. I made three hundred dollars, just like that.

  WHEN NUMBER 67 had finished his tale, he leaned back and gloated, and I thought that his posture looked pathetic. I looked at the table and saw that his plate was empty, with only a few crumbs lingering on the surface. And now this admirer of dictators and petty tyrants was picking his teeth.

  So I turned my face towards him and said, The only person in that story who should write a letter of apology is the banana republic commander of that police state.

  What banana are you talking about? 67 replied. You think we are bananas? The only banana I see is the one you are sitting on. And a few of the spiders laughed at me.

  That’s okay, I said, I don’t mind a banana up my ass, because I am just warming it up for your virgin sister. And calmly I took a sip of my coffee.

  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.