But luckily for them, those frail victims of history and man, when I finally reach the river and wash away the dirt that has got into my eye, I walk through the cold towards the barbed wire, a metal net lit from behind by the guards’ torches, and I save those poor prisoners and free the girl. (Please note that it could happen that I jerk off more than once a day.)
But in my real life, when I meet Zainab on the stairs, we politely exchange politenesses, and with bashful smiles and downcast eyes and the distance of a few steps between us, not to mention the demarcation of a handrail to save us from temptation, I try to engage her in conversation and I ask her about her life and she asks me about mine.
Once Zainab asked me where I came from. I told her that I grew up in the circus, but one day my father, who was a flying carpet pilot, left us to go east on a pilgrimage to find his God and His ninety-nine adjectives.
She asked me if I was a Muslim, and I said, Yes and no, because I drink and lust, I caress performing dogs on holidays, I devour pink swine, and I never kneel to the east or to the west.
And your mother, Zainab asked.
My mother was a trapeze artist, I told her, a weaver of ropes, who loved for dwarves to nibble on the backs of her knees. She locked me in the back room when the clowns came to provide us with a little extra change for food and cotton candy. She told me that heaven is within our palms and that the inferno is somewhere between the desert and the northern pole.
And then Zainab asked me my father’s name.
I forgot that long ago, I said. He left before I had the chance to see him on the ground. But I remember he wore a turban during his flying carpet show, and then one day his carpet came to a halt and crashed in front of a thousand people. And then he thought of humiliation and death and the meaning of life.
I still remember the tune that went with my father’s flight. It was composed by gypsy Jews and played by a band of menacing Italian rabbits. It sounded like the music that lures snakes out of their baskets to be willingly hypnotized, pacified into doing volunteer work for the boon of the man in the turban and the entertainment of humankind.
I hate snakes and their wickedness, Zainab said.
I love the free-spirited snake, I said. I love it because it hangs from branches to offer us wisdom. It warns us of those confining, egotistical false demiurges who order us not to butt-fuck each other under the cactus tree (spikes are known to be painful), not to ejaculate in their kingdom and stain their carpets of fluffy white clouds and giant’s pea trees. I love the snake because it dances looking us straight in the eye, it sheds its skin and leaves quietly.
And you, dear Zainab, I asked her. Was your father a roamer or your mother a weaver of ropes?
Yes, she said, my father roamed. He lost his home and became stateless at the age of eighteen. His land was taken and he wandered for a while. But when he met my mother, he stayed and worked and prayed and raised us well.
And your mother, I asked.
I won’t talk about my mother or her ordinary life, but feel free, the next time we meet, to go on about yours. And with that, Zainab was gone.
BOAT
MY CAR, OR what I call my boat, or sometimes my airplane, my home, or my library, is always clean, always shiny and swept and taken care of, ever ready for passengers on their way to work or honeymoons, to catch a plane or join a cruise with dancing bands and a hospitable staff of bartenders, captains, and single doctors.
I take pride in the service I provide because I and the likes of me are the carriers of this world, the movers and the linkers. Just try to imagine the fate of any great dynasty without the donkey, the elephant, or the camel’s back. I won’t start about the horse, but do imagine where the Hyksos would be without their chariots, or the Mohammedan invaders without their hunchbacked servants, those magnificent porters of dates, swords, water, and goat’s milk! If it hadn’t been for the services of the camel, the defeated Byzantines would still be arguing and trying to determine the sex of angels while complimenting themselves on the intact orifice of Mary.
In my car, I hide an elaborate feather duster and a screwdriver. I leave the feather duster under my seat and the screwdriver at my side.
You see, I took the advice of my friend Mamadou, the Senegalese Spider who hangs out at Café Bolero. He said to me once, Never carry a gun, and don’t carry a knife either. Carry a thick stick with ostrich feathers on top, to keep away the filth and the troubled, and a screwdriver to stab with when needed. That way, the police can’t accuse you of violent intent. You can always claim that you were defending yourself with whatever happened to be lying around.
Still, I drove for years without carrying either, until my car started to collect dust and fall apart, everything started to rattle and shake, and I feared that the mirrors would fall off and the doors would swing open and the very poor would come in and beg for a free ride.
Like the homeless man I picked up once, on a night when the cold was so cold and the streets were desolate. The man looked as if he was going to collapse. He stood in front of my car, oblivious to the traffic, and the light changed over his shoulder and made him look like a glowing saint. He laid all his plastic bags in the middle of the road, raised his arms like Jesus, and begged me to take him in. I rolled down the window. He approached me and said: There, and pointed to the sky behind him, I am not going far, please, have pity on my old bones. It is cold, I have no money for the bus and I am hungry, I have to get to the shelter, they are serving soup.
I let him in. He sat in the front. He piled the bags on his lap and they covered the dashboard and crossed his seat’s border onto mine. He had the smell of the destitute, and he talked about God and his angels. He said he had seen them that night.
Who, I asked.
The angels, he said, the angels. And he started to talk, and his lips flapped against each other like featherless wings, describing angels that land on a strip beside the river. His big black garbage bags rattled with empty cans, as if they were full of trapped devils and snakes. I dropped him under the bridge. He got out and immediately started to run, shouting, I will pray for you, I will pray for you, and his bags bounced off his rushing heels.
Minutes later, when I was making change for a client, I found that the man who had promised me prayers must have slipped his hand out from under his bags and stolen my cash. And the client, who had been telling me all about his kid’s school and his wife, and who had been complaining about the high crime rate in this city, now started to go on about taxi drivers and how they never have change. I think you do it on purpose, the man said, you get a bigger tip that way.
Suspicious, I thought, people are suspicious, inconsiderate citizens.
They all come with large bills. They press them over our shoulders and wave them with a rich man’s pride. They get all our change and we get tired of aligning our windows with those of our fellow drivers, flashing fifties at red lights, calling, Brother, do you have change, and we resent stopping at gas stations and buying candy bars to break bills and gain the right to wash our faces in dim, filthy bathrooms with curled toilet paper carpeting the wet floors like morning confetti in the aftermath of carnivals and fairs.