Carnival (9 page)

The bathroom in Robe’s place is the filthiest of them all. I relieve myself a great distance from the bowl. I heard a story once of a dictator who, on his trip to his own native village, went to use the bathroom at the town hall and found that it was filthy. He summoned the villagers and fired the mayor. The mayor and the inhabitants of the village were a most fortunate lot, because none of them was hanged. I guess dictators know that the last act a hanged man performs is not saying prayers or eating his last meal but releasing a final drop of urine that slimes down to his ankles and falls at the feet of the crowd.

CAMELS

WHILE I WAITED
for my car to be fixed, I saw Number 43 having a soft drink on the sidewalk. When I asked him what was wrong with his car, he said that his horn was broken. I joked, You are lucky you are not a ram or you would never procreate. Then I told him about the lady’s curse. He said, If I were you, I wouldn’t take the matter lightly. I smiled and said, It was just the bulb that needed to be changed.

Number 43 rushed to his car, retrieved a pen, and said to me, Here, call this lady, she will fix your curse. I folded the paper and stuck it in my vest pocket, still smiling at Number 43. He told me stories about cats that knock on your door at night, spiders that take the form and shape of humans, sorceresses with tails, festivities with masks and chicken feet and chains, and blood, certainly blood, offerings.

What about camels and turbans? I asked.

He laughed and laughed, saying, Camels? No camels, and turbans? No turbans, man. The turban-heads only believe in their book. They can’t even dance like we do.

But they are the masters of flying carpets, I said.

He roared and laughed and hugged me. He went to his car and pulled out the floor mat and laid it on the ground. Here, sit on it and fly, show me how!

One day, I said, I’ll show you the carpet flight.

And he laughed and laughed and held his stomach and laughed some more. He reached through his car window, blasted the music, and danced a bit around the headlights, and then he picked up his mat and got in his car, shouting, Call the lady, call the lady before you get on your carpet and fly! and laughed again and drove away.

The next day, I called the lady. The first thing she did was ask me how I had gotten her number. I told her that the taxi driver had given it to me. She said that was good, because she only worked on a referral basis. She gave me her address and an appointment for the following week.

The night before my appointment, I drove to her house. The lights were off and I thought she must be sleeping. There was no scent of a dog, but even if there had been, I knew the tricks of animal tamers to make dogs lie down, roll onto their backs, and go to sleep. I jumped into her garden and stole the flowers from her backyard. I opened my trunk and the back door and loaded them all inside, and then I drove with the scent of nature at my back. It was a welcome change from the dampness that people bring with their wet feet. I contemplated having a garden in my car: a few cactuses around the dashboard to protect my belongings from petty thieves, a few roses that could spring from the radio and act as receivers to induce clarity of communication between the passengers and the rest of the world. During the period of festivities, I could allow a climbing plant to grow and cover my car in greenery and so contribute to the saving of the planet and consequently the human race . . . and I could grow fruit . . . yes, fruit and vegetables . . . and trees . . . and if I applied myself, I could one day be looking at meadows in my rearview mirror . . . one day . . .

I got home and went up to Zainab’s place, and when she opened her door, I started bringing in the flowers and I filled her living room with pots. She was ecstatic, she was smelling them and laughing, and the more I brought in, the more she found the whole thing funny and amusing. And then, when all was settled and my creation was complete, I stood in the middle of her living room and I asked her if we could both get naked between the branches and play doctor and Bible games.

She said, Absolutely not.

THE FORTUNE TELLER
had a big smile and she made her eyes look bigger by staring at me as if she was reading my mind. Amateur charlatan, I thought. The taxi driver must be in on it. He must be fucking her. He must be giving references left and right and getting a cut, or some favour or another. Predictable!

And the first thing the clairvoyant asked me was whether I needed to go to the bathroom. An old trick that I knew from the days when I and Pips the magician cheated people out of their money. Ninety-five percent of the time, people will say yes. And when they say yes, the impostor will let slip a faint smile, implying:
Aha! I knew it
. People, of course, will say yes because they are reminded of all that is held inside, and their first reaction is to want to release it. This response is indeed in the tradition of the Freudian subconscious methods of confession, the Socratic formulas for extracting knowledge and vomiting poison, a liquid
a priori
, the spectacular burst of innate consciousness, a gnosis splash. The last drop might well lead us to the release of a soft determinism, the synthesized potential of porcelain hygiene, the painful path of a kidney stone, the magnificent yellow of sunset horizons . . . Besides, people will likely have travelled from far away and need to relieve themselves. They calculate that they will be stuck for an hour with the unknown while the lady channels dead souls back to the table. I say pissing would clear the mind to meet the other world, and who doesn’t wish to travel light! So I said yes, and I followed with a prophetic gesture of my own by saying, Do not tell me, I believe the bathroom is this way. And I glided gracefully towards the source of water and life.

When I returned, she gave me little stones to hold. Each one cost me a few dollars. Precious, she said, when I complained about the price of the stones. Precious stones, she repeated, and then asked me to be quiet as she started to roll her eyes. She ordered me to hold the stones tight and she proceeded to read my chakra, aura, or some other exotic, hazy package. But when she closed her eyes, my inner voice rose and I started to speak in an old lady’s voice: Where are the flowers, Florence? Who stole my vases and my flowers?

She jumped, opened her eyes, and said, What did you say?

I squeaked my voice like Mickey Mouse on helium and said, Flowers, who took my garden away?

The fortune teller stayed silent and then suddenly she burst out, Who are you?

The third ring down . . . I said in my rodent voice.

The fourth ring down . . . I continued.

The fifth ring down . . . but not the begonias . . . not the lilies, Florence!

I suddenly opened my eyes wide and asked her where I was, and I got up and started to drift around, opening the door to her bedroom and wandering among her furniture and her displays of crystal and china. And then I lay on her bed and started to shiver and rub myself.

She shouted, Come back here. Who are you?

I am Zalou from the outer world, I declared, and started to juggle the stones in my hand, tossing them above my head with my eyes closed. The circus of the afterlife! I cried. The caravan from beyond the dunes, the last act, the wisdom of the joker, the bringer of fire and the eater of hell, the evolution from monkey to devil . . . Fire of ropes and chariots of fire, and here comes your inner spider to wrap you and sacrifice you upon the tabernacles of the gods . . . WowoooWOOO!

She was confused. And that is when I lay my hand on her thigh and said, Open the petals and let me breathe the smell of the brown roses.

She screamed and said, Leave or I will call the police. Leave now. Just leave . . . now. Now! And she started to scream even louder, she was hysterical . . .

I left and walked down the hallway singing the “Scarlet Begonias” song, which went like this . . .

SHIP

DURING THE NEXT
few days, business improved. Organizers, tourists, and vendors were arriving in town for the Carnival and many of them needed rides to their hotels or around the city. And to participate in the general spirit of entertainment and wonder, I bragged to my customers that my car was protected by stones and good omens, that nothing unfortunate would ever happen to my car, that the stone on my dashboard was spirited, gleaming, and no matter how I sped, sailed, or flew, this ship of mine would never sink, because my car was encircled by a kind of chakra that bounced all the evil eyes away.

I had one woman who thought I was mad. At a red light, she threw a bill at me and left without waiting for her change. I had a man who wanted to hear it all: he giggled and kept on saying, How interesting, and giggled some more.

And then I had a well-travelled man who worked for an NGO, a man who went to poor countries to sprinkle some financial aid and, in the process, I suspect, paid himself handsomely, and he told me about his own private driver, who wore a necklace and slept with prostitutes without using any protection. And when my client warned his driver about the diseases he could collect, the driver would show him the
necklace that he wore around his neck and say, This protects me.

Just like your car here, my client said to me. I send money and medicine to him now, he added. I think the necklace must have lost its effect. Once, that is all it takes.

When we arrived, my client tapped me on the shoulder and said, Be safe, don’t believe in the stone, and he left.

ZAINAB CAME DOWN
the stairs and I told her that I had been waiting for her smile to light my morning. Then I asked if she had her lunch in a box, if she had sharpened her pencils, and if she needed a friend to walk her to school.

Are you being flirtatious and cheeky? she asked me, and smiled.

I could carry your books to the train station!

No need, she said, I will walk alone to the train station.

It is good to be late for the train. It gives us the chance to run after it and wave our scarves like in those old Indian movies. And I suggested we go up to my place so I could show her some books.

I’ll borrow your books but I won’t enter your home.

Oh, the believer’s fears!

Oh, the non-believer’s dreams, she said, and she glanced at me in defiance.

Cruel for a believer not to have mercy, I said.

Bumptious for a non-believer to hope for a miracle, she said, and smiled.

Sinful for the pious not to give . . .

Futile for a heathen to hope! Any stories? she added, as we both smiled at each other.

Yes indeed, I said. Talking about lost souls and things, last night I passed by Café Bolero, where all the drivers feed themselves between their shifts and spin boastful tales and stories. Number 55, a pious man who fears God and his many laws, got a call from the dispatcher to pick up a client in front of the supermarket. The old lady asked him to carry her groceries to the car. He lifted the bags but, when it came to the case of beer, he refused to touch it. He said that he didn’t touch alcohol, be it open or closed. The lady was upset. She asked him to remove her groceries from the trunk and call her another taxi, but he also refused to do that, just in case one of the bags contained a piece of a swine or something else forbidden. So the old lady tried to pick them up herself and now claims to have hurt her back. Both the taxi owner and the driver are being sued. The old lady is well off and now she is bringing some big-shot lawyer to handle the case. Watch it explode in the news! Watch those journalists salivating over Islam and its values. Terrorism, morning shows, secularism versus religion, stand-up comedians, clowns with paper bags blown out of proportion and popped to laughter and applause!

So, Zainab, I concluded, do tell. What do you think?

I have no problem with booze. I am a Muslim and I drink.

Yes, I gathered that. But what do you think?

Obviously, the man’s comprehension of the text is very limited and literal.

And yours is multi-layered, you are saying.

Yes, the text can be read on many levels.

Gnosis for the few, I said.

Not for the few, Zainab said, but for the willing and able.

Exclusivity! Mystery! Interpretation that is changeable and adaptable, I said. Even the most detrimental of verses should be accepted as an allegory for something wiser and bigger?

Indeed.

But Zainab, my dear neighbour, how about some editing, you know, with a long pen that reaches between the continents and other places. I say! A long pen could be a magnificent invention for lawyers and writers alike.

No, she said. Nothing needs to be changed; the verses should simply be read in their proper context.

So we shift from the literal to the poetic, then to the allegorical, when and if necessary? I asked. Change when it is convenient, stasis when it is not . . .

Look at it as an intellectual challenge, an exercise in reason and imagination, she replied.

Intellectual masturbation, I mumbled.

What was that?

I said, Then let’s treat all these holy texts as stories, fictions, and imperfections that could excite us into tears or erections.

Erections, you said, I heard you well this time?

Of thoughts, that is. Intellectual erections.

I have to go, she said. Your sexual insinuations are becoming childish. I’ll leave you with your “intellectual” thoughts . . . She actually made quotation marks with her fingers. Let me ask you, Fly, have you ever taken responsibility for anything? Have you ever thought about settling down, stopping your drifting existence, maybe having someone in your life . . . getting a dog . . . having a child?

No, no. Why have children and leave them in the hands of this laughable world? But, Zainab, now that you are late and the train has surely left, I can see the Bollywood actor waving his scarf in farewell, let me walk with you and tell you about the dancing Shakers who once offered to adopt me, after my mother’s death. That order of religious men took a vow never to have children, never to bring another soul into this inferior world. And so their whole community consisted of orphaned children who grew up to become dancers and holy men. Christians they were, but they must have gotten a trace of eastern influence from somewhere . . . Dionysians, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Sufis, who knows. Deep, deep inside, I suspect they believed that a lesser god rules this earth and that our bodies are unworthy of our spirits, and the light inside us needs to be released somewhere else, not in this pigsty we live in. Anyhow, some of these Shakers were called the dancing Shakers, because they danced and danced.