Free Carnival by Rawi Hage Page A

recover his coat, and then he chatted with a young man who had a belt of beads on his waist and a diminutive see-through piece of cloth around his genitals. As I waited, I noticed a guest book on a small table. It was opened to a page full of inscriptions; beside it lay a pen shaped like a feather.
    I picked up the pen and it was light as a . . . well . . . I proceeded to write a long letter in which I thanked the establishment for the moving experience, for the opportunity to witness it through this communal tunnel of the senses, and I mentioned the necessity of the symbolic and, if one so chooses, the experiential as well in the enactment of this lesser existence, the degeneration of all that is tangible, the howl of dogs, the chains of entrapment, the need to personify the fate of men in this inferior world . . . and as I was about to compose some verses on the subject of the obscurity of entanglement in relation to the scarcity of light, my client tapped me on the shoulder and said, My dear fellow, I am flattered that these dungeons of love have given you some inspiration, but I believe your meter is still running and I do need to get home and release myself from the tight feeling in my chest, literally, that is.
    I drove the “British” man back to town. He smoked in my car and I didn’t object. There was more than two hundred dollars on the meter, and I was sure the tip would be phenomenal, I mean spectacular, fabulous, darrrling (said with a snap of the fingers), and fantastic. I dropped him downtown. He asked for my number.
    I’ll call you, he said. You are a smart, hard-working man, perceptive indeed. You have the gift of knowing, and to know is to earn! I shall call you, he said, and he gave me a jolly good tip that doubled the fare.
    Ta ta, he said, and calmly walked in front of my car and entered a fancy building with a sentinel in a green suit and top hat who rushed to open the door.
    CARPET
    I DROVE BACK home. The money was enough to let me retire for two nights. In celebration of my wealth, I parked my car and ran upstairs and lay on my carpet. After I’d battled a few barbaric armies, I declared to the people, Veni, vidi, vici. The reception in Rome after our successful military campaign was magnificent. The horses, the slaves, the looting, and my proud soldiers shouting my name brought wind to my chest. The daughter of the king of the Visigoths was among the captured. I made sure that she walked freely. I didn’t want her round ankles to be bruised or ringed with marks of blood. I didn’t want her hands to get tired from the weight of metal and chains.
    After I rested and visited the public baths, I returned to my quarters and asked for her. She came in, defiant, all washed and covered in a long purple gown, her golden hair combed and long, covering her shoulders. Her beauty made me weep. To tempt her, I left a dagger on the steps. And I saw her eyeing it. Proudly she stood there, oblivious to the marble surroundings and all the gold around us. I ordered my guards and my slaves to leave us alone. I walked around her. She was fearless, just like all of her kind. How many of these Germanic tribes had I slaughtered, how many had I enslaved, yet I had never seen such a beauty. I didn’t touch her. I walked farther away from the dagger and a sexual thrill came over me. I wanted her to grab the dagger and stab me. I wanted to see her screaming as she plunged it into my chest calling her father’s name. Nothing could move me anymore. After all those campaigns, triumphs, and riches, beauty and violence were the only things that could give me a sense of existence. I wanted to ejaculate while the dagger burned my skin and entered me. I wanted to see her face in the ecstasy of ten consecutive, vengeful orgasms as I covered her with my own blood. A multiple coming in the name of her father, whom I had slain in front of her eyes, in memory of the huts that I had burned, the looting, the rapes, the occupations, the