SOLSTICE
CARNIVAL
By
Nemo Arator
“WAKE UP,” said the voice with the elbow that jarred me from
slumber, shuddering back into consciousness. It sounded
like Neil, but I knew it couldn’t be him because I
hadn’t seen Neil for over a year; therefore, this must
be a dream.
I tried
diving back under, but then he nudged me again and that
killed it – the balloon popped, and the whole thing was
wiped away, all the vivid colors, shapes, scenes and
feelings, vague intangible associations. I grasped
desperately to retain something of it, anything, but
clutched empty as like silt pouring through my fingers
every last bit drained away without a trace, slipping
forever back down into the black hole of my unconscious.
I opened my
eyes and looked around. I was in a theater; I was at a
play; I had fallen asleep. The voice was that of my
friend Stephen, whom I was sitting beside and had
slumped over when consciousness deserted me sometime
during the previous act.
“It’s
getting on to the next part,” he said.
I pulled
myself back upright and rubbed the blear of sleep-resin
from my eyes, then looked toward the stage. The curtains
parted to unveil a bathroom scene that featured an old
claw-foot tub, a sink, a toilet, and a man in pajamas
sobbing on the floor uncontrollably. A pair of angels in
soiled robes floated in the shadows near the ceiling;
they looked down on him with gentle faces. Then one of
them farted, and the other picked its nose.
“Poor
fellow, isn’t he?” said one of them.
“Yes, he
is,” said the other.
“I wonder
what he’s crying about.”
“I don’t
know. He certainly is sad though.”
“Yes, he
is.”
They went on
like this, and I yawned helplessly and looked around.
The theater (which had formerly been a church) was in
full attendance today. Nonetheless, I felt my eyelids
droop once more. This was a rather somniferous
interpretation of the solstice legend whose anniversary
was being celebrated tonight with a carnival after dark,
to which this afternoon’s theatrical rendition was a
prelude. A bitter, beautiful irony made interminable as
they carried on:
“Is there
nothing we can do to help him?” said one of them.
“I don’t
think so,” said the other. “Whatever his ailment is, it
is something he will have to solve himself.”
“Then why
are we here?”
“I am not
sure....”
And then
suddenly, before the scene could go any farther, the
rear doors burst open and two ninjas on hovercrafts came
soaring into the theater. They swooped above the
audience in a figure-eight, then charged at the stage,
unsheathing katanas and started to hack and slash at the
actors. The angels being stuck suspended were unable to
escape; but I saw the protagonist manage to crawl
off-stage.
One of the
ninjas pulled around to pursue him, but they turned too
sharp and nearly tipped over. The other effected a more
graceful maneuver and zoomed into the wings, the first
one fast behind, and then both were gone, the murdered
seraphim left to hang bleeding, twitching cadaver sway.
This all
happened so fast I could hardly react – I jumped out of
my seat, and then my eyes popped open.
The stage
was deserted. The props remained in place, but the
actors were gone. They had evidently taken their bows
and returned to the “Real World” and the roles they
played there. I looked around and saw that much of the
audience had also departed; the last few stragglers were
just going out the door. They moved thoughtfully,
unhurried, certainly not the panic aftermath of
witnessing a massacre.
I turned to
Stephen and said, “What happened? Did I miss something?”
And he
laughed. “Of course you did. But you always do. It’s
over now anyway. Let’s go.”
We got up
and shuffled to the main aisle, whereupon I headed for
the stage, spurred by a vague but urgent impulse. At the
front I went to the side-door that led to the dressing
room, which I found to be heaped with various props and
costumes; a coterie of dolls and puppets stood in the
corner, along with a pulpit, an upright cross, a bunch
of flags and banners, some folding tables, and a
wheelchair.
But nobody
else was in here. I stood there looking at this. What
was I even doing in here? Something was wrong with the
air: it was too dry and lacked oxygen. I felt my lungs
tighten in my chest, then my vision started blurring. I
reached out to brace myself against the nearest wall and
then I saw the closet door swing open and one of the
ninjas emerged, a small hunched figure dressed entirely
in black.
The ninja
pulled a cardboard box over its head and came at me with
a police baton and started beating me with it, viciously
and relentlessly. I crumpled beneath the onslaught, my
vision ruptured by black flashes. Then the assailant was
gripping my arm and shaking me, but the trauma was too
much; the blackness swelled in one final flash, and I
sank down into it.
I awoke an
indeterminate time later, lying on the floor in the dark
of an unfamiliar room, half-curled beside a large box
crammed to overflow with masks and assorted garments.
Faint multi-colored lights flickered in a small square
window near the ceiling, a ghostly strobing rainbow. In
those amnesiatic first moments after waking, I couldn’t
remember who or where or what I was – the details of my
present condition were as elusive as those of my current
surroundings.
I struggled
to my feet, went to a door I didn’t remember closing,
and back into the now-deserted theater. With all the
lights off and the people gone, the silence in here was
a tangible thing if one were to remain still for long
enough to feel it. The main doors I knew were bolted
shut, but in the gloom across the stage I saw a dead
exit sign over a door with a horizontal push-bar, which
doubtless led to the alley. I strode swiftly to it and
through.
The door
opened into a narrow cobblestone lane between the
buildings and I emerged onto a small landing. I shivered
in the late December chill and buttoned my coat to the
collar, then descended the crumbling steps and started
walking toward the far end of the alley, where I could
see the passage of a lugubrious parade slowly making its
way down the street. I could hear music too, the sound
of horns: a mournful, raucous dirge. And then I realized
– the carnival, it was happening now.
My heart
swelled with excitement, and I picked up the pace,
restraining the desire to run. Soon I emerged out onto
the sidewalk, right into the midst of the festivities.
Here the music had a melody as much of the carousel as
the requiem, and celebrants thronged in the street, a
masquerade of fire-breathers, belly-dancers, magicians,
musicians, and exotic freaks of every stripe, adorned in
paints and jewels and all sorts of costumes and great
flaring feathers, rippling capes and scarves. A motley
cavalcade of floats and carriages drifted through the
crowd which was as likely as not to be dressed in only a
mask, gloves, shoes, and nothing else, for carnival was
a night to turn the world inside out.
Tables and
booths were set in rows down the way, each boasting
various novelties and phenomena, their attendants
beckoning passersby to come sample the wares. All the
lights and sounds and movement and color – everything
together boiling Saturnalian euphoria up into the air;
for a moment I could only stand there and try to take it
all in without being swept away.
I saw a
naked Aboriginal man with long gray hair standing
outside a sidewalk café, waiting patiently stoic in his
nudity to be admitted. But no one was in front of him,
and empty tables were visible within. Just as I noticed
this, a man dressed like a circus ringmaster quickly
approached and ushered him into the cafe, stopping to
watch as the elder walked directly to a specific table
and seated himself there.
As he stood
there, the ringmaster reached into his pocket and
withdrew an ordinary hotdog wiener and stuck it in his
mouth like a cigar. Indeed, he then reached into his
waistcoat for a lighter and held its flame to the
protruding end, holding it there until the meat
blackened and charred.
I turned
from the sight feeling faintly disquieted, and looked up
at the old church building instead. Small dim lights I
hadn’t noticed from inside made the front windows glow.
This was surely done to symbolize that the great
performance is everlasting, the show will go on, and
there will always be a candle lit. But I had seen for
myself the benighted cavities within that were its
rooms, containing only dust, garbage, gravity-bound
furniture, silence, and stillness.
Standing
above the main entrance in an open-faced vertical niche
was a statue of the saint Mary. The marble manikin stood
serenely over the bacchanal, forever frozen in the act
of conferring her blessings upon the flesh-and-blood
anthropomorphs below. Already rotten vegetables,
excrement, and handfuls of money lay in scattered piles
upon the front steps.
I turned
back to the crowd and ventured into the milieu. All
around me people were drinking, laughing, dancing,
staggering about, engaged in various behaviors. I
watched the gaping faces tilt back for another swig of
whatever elixirs were on tap, tilting forward to burst
out with the laryngeal audities, slurred verbiage, their
eyes blinking pools of expression. I continued onward,
following the longitudinal curvature of the boulevard
toward the row of traffic pylons barricading a side
street.
A little
farther down some women in a doorway were saying
something to me, a denim-wearing duo who waved and
beckoned. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, so I
went over to find out. They giggled impishly as I
neared, a blond and a brunette, both of them wearing
striped sleeves and stockings. The brunette stepped
forward and handed me a black sugar cube with a wink but
without a word; instead she took my hand and drew me
into a cramped foyer.
“What were
you saying out there?” I asked.
“That you
should come with us,” said the blond. “We need one more
person, and you’d be perfect.”
“Perfect for
what?” I asked.
“Come with
us, you’ll see,” said the brunette. “It’s just through
here.”
The blond
took me by the hand and I thought, What
the hell. It was unlikely I’d find Stephen out
there in that mess, and doubtless the fellow was already
caught up in some carnival adventure of his own, or
would be before the night was over; so I might as well
see this through, whatever it was. I dosed the sugar
cube and followed them up a flight of stairs and from
there into a convoluted series of passageways and
stairwells.
After a
while, as we went from room to room, down one corridor
after another, sometimes doubling back on places we had
already been (or seeming to), I began to wonder whether
they were playing a prank, leading me on this
interminable journey for the sake of some unknown
amusement – or perhaps they themselves had become lost,
confounded by the building’s interior sameness. Their
manner was no longer as playful, their faces set,
looking vaguely troubled, and I began to worry.
The interior
of this building seemed to consist entirely of these
endless passageways of closed doors, various rooms
within, furnished or not, peopled or not, giving way
only to further rooms, hallways, and stairwells. But we
continued onward, a seemingly endless peristalic passage
through the inexorable maze of worn carpet and peeling
wallpaper. Eventually we must have passed through every
single room within that building.
Finally we
emerged into a long, wide, poorly-lit corridor. I sensed
their relief at the sight of the glowing red Exit
sign above a door in the distance. As we walked toward
it, I noticed openings in the ceiling that appeared to
be ladder-holes, into which one could jump and grab hold
of the rungs and climb up to whatever was in the
darkness above.
I realized
we must now be somewhere far down in some deep
subterranean level, for there was a nitric dampness in
the putrid air, the smell of mildew was palpable. I
heard the buzzing of flies along with the murmur of
voices, clotted with mucus and sleazy sardonic laughter.
We passed a
couple drunks who stood casually pissing on the wall,
staring down at their releasing organs as the urine
flowed into a trough at their feet. Curtained booths had
been carved from the bedrock, wherein I saw people
seated facing each other across tables per usual, but
with their bare asses sitting upon toilet bowls.
“You did sow
all that you could, now eat,” said the blond jejunely,
and the brunette laughed.
“It is
rather ingenious,” I said.
Then we
reached the door; we went through it and up some stairs;
then through another door and emerged out into the night
and open air, staggering across the parking lot behind
the building. It seemed a colony of nomads had encamped
here, for a ring of tents was set up, forming a sort of
eye-in-the-storm refuge away from the carnival throng,
which was still audible, pulsing distant diastolic.
Back here
the air was calmer, quieter, the people more subdued.
Lanterns hung from poles and I detected a playful lilt
in the soundscape, something amid the discombobulated
syncopation of casino games and arcade machines within
the tents. I could see people inside those tents,
playing cards, spinning wheels, rolling dice – making
bets, taking chances – they played in secret these games
of risk, manifesting fate mechanical.
I glanced
back at the building we emerged from and saw the man
dressed as a ringmaster standing near the door. He
nodded at me with a knowing smile, as though he and I
were both privy to something no one else was, and that
it was significant.
But even as
he smiled, he kept his eyes fixed on the two women I
arrived with, swiveling in their sockets to watch as
they headed for a specific tent and went into it. I took
a step closer and saw them gathered inside with the
other occupants; they were looking out at me
expectantly, their eyes wide, waving their arms
excitedly, beckoning to come on.
Ku-kaw,
ku-kaw!
I looked up
just in time to see a huge raven alight upon a nearby
lamp post and stare down at me with eyes like shiny
stones. The ringmaster gestured for me to enter the tent
with the ladies, which I then did.
Inside the
tent eight or ten people were gathered around a table
upon which sat a rectangular box-like device made of
stainless steel. It had eight hoses protruding from it
like a hookah or the limbs of a spider; at the end of
each hose was a translucent respiration mask. I figured
it must be either a beer keg or a nitrous oxide tank.
Folding chairs were arranged around the table and a
single light shone from the roof. The ringmaster came
into the tent and gestured for us to seat ourselves
while he closed the entrance flap.
After I sat
down I noticed the entire floor was covered by a single
large and exquisitely detailed piece of carpet,
perfectly fitted to the dimensions of the tent. It was a
lush supple spread awash in crimson dust and golden
arabesques; I briefly recalled the flying carpets of
Arabian lore. The blond and the brunette seated
themselves on either side of me. Across from us sat the
others, though their features were indistinct in the
gloom.
“What’s
going on?” I asked. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s the
longest night of the year, and we cannot fall asleep,”
said the blond.
“So we are
going to inhale this magic laughing gas, and it will
enable us to talk to the spirits of Christmas past,”
said the brunette.
“It’s like a
séance and a time machine.”
“Trust us,
this is going to be grand.”
I looked
back and forth between them incredulously, but they were
serene and imperturbable. The ringmaster got the hoses
untangled and started passing one to each person.
Somebody handed me one, and after a moment’s
consideration I fitted it over my face, as the others
had done.
“Is everyone
comfortable? Are you ready now?”
The question
brought me back; it was the ringmaster. I had never
heard him speak before and I was surprised by the sound
of his voice, though I shouldn’t have been, for it
perfectly befitted his personage. He stepped toward the
machine and rested his hand lightly upon what I presumed
was the start switch, which was (I hoped ironically)
fashioned from a common toilet flush lever. The
ringmaster looked down at those of us who were seated at
the table and smiled.
“Then close
your eyes,” he said, and I did. In the molten lava
static behind my eyelids I could see nothing, hear
nothing, feel nothing; suddenly I was in a self-induced
sensory-deprived state, and for those last few moments I
just floated in it, happy to exist and be at peace.
I heard him
say, “Now make a wish,” and then I heard the sound of
the lever plunge and the machine hummed into life.
All memory
ceases there.
[30]
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