Rawi Hage - Cockroach

And how do you feel about that? the shrink interrupted me.

I wanted to kill him, but I was young and he was older and stronger. Once, my mother sent me to my sister’s house with some food. When my sister saw me, tears fell onto her cheeks, cheeks that, I noticed, had become round and fat like her belly that was inflated with a child. Her legs to her ankles looked straight as cylinders, she walked slowly with her hand against her back, and she did the dishes as she offered me coffee. Then we sat at the table, and she gazed in my eyes, caressed my hair, cried, and asked me about my father who did not come to see her, my mother who was mad at her, and the neighbours who talked behind her back. I stayed late to scoop her tears and watch her fingers floating towards my face. I closed my eyes and listened to the child in her belly. I was about to leave when we heard a Jeep stop outside, and doors slamming shut, and boots ascending the stairs.

My husband is here, my sister said, and she pulled her hand away from my hair and rolled her eyes. She rushed to set the table, tossing plates like a poker player tosses cards, throwing forks and knives in the air like a circus magician, lighting fires like a primitive in a cave, and sweeping onion-tears from her eyes.

The man was welcoming to me. When he saw me, he shouted, Ahlan be ibn alaam (welcome to the brother-in-law). He patted my shoulder and offered me cigarettes. We ate on the balcony and he poured whisky for both of us, and called my sister to bring more ice, cucumbers, and fresh almonds. When my sister told him that she did not have all this, he cursed her. He cursed womankind, and the hour when he had kidnapped her, and the priest who let him marry her.

How did you react? the shrink asked.

I did not say a thing. I kept silent. I should have said something. But I did not.

Why?

Because my sister looked at me. I knew that look: she was telling me not to say a word, not to interfere. I wanted to leave, but the man grabbed me. He persuaded me to stay. He wanted someone to drink with. He insisted. In the end, he even ordered me to stay. He cursed God and swore at the angels. We poured whisky while my sister cooked in the kitchen. Then, after many drinks, he pulled out his gun and started shooting in the air. None of the neighbours complained or stuck their heads out their windows or went into the street in their slippers and cotton pyjamas to look for cadavers or moaning men. There, everyone is used to gunshots. Shooting in the air is a public statement, a celebration of birth, a farewell to the dead, and private words with the gods.

Here, my brother-in-law said. Shoot the fucking passing angels. Here. He changed the gun’s magazine and handed it to me. Wait, he said. Let me crank it for you.

I can crank it myself, I said.

Let the boy do it! he shouted with pride, and hugged my shoulders. Here, soon you will be an uncle. And he kissed my sister on the cheek and grabbed her hips. She moved her face away from his whisky breath, his unbalanced feet, his scratchy moustache, and nicotine-stained teeth.

And we will teach this baby boy how to use a gun, right? He caressed my sister’s belly.

Our time is up, said the shrink. But I want to hear all about it on our next appointment. How is Thursday for you?

TAXPAYERS, THE SHRINK SAYS. Ha! I thought as I finished my chocolate in the alley. Well yes, yes indeed, I should be grateful for what this nation is giving me. I take more than I give, indeed it is true. But if I had access to some wealth, I would contribute my share. Maybe I should become a good citizen and contemplate ways to collect my debts and increase my wealth. That would be a good start. And who still owes me money but that loud string-plucker with a chicken beak and the fatherless soul of a musician? And then I remembered that every Friday the forty-dollar thief by the name of Reza played at an Iranian restaurant on the west side of the city. He hated it. He thought playing at a restaurant was the worst kind of job for a talented, respected musician like himself. But now I knew how to track him down.

On Friday evening I went to the restaurant. It was a fancy restaurant with all the ornament necessary to transport you to the East. It surrounded you with dunes, lanterns, and handmade carpets that matched the brown plates flying from the waiter’s hands onto woven tablecloths.

I sat at the bar. The owner came over and asked suspiciously, How can I help you?

I am waiting for the musician, Reza, I said. Still the owner looked suspiciously at my clothing that clashed with the fancy surroundings. Reza saw me, but he ignored my presence and continued playing with the other Iranian musicians. When they stopped for a break, he came to me, leaned towards my face, and quietly whispered, You should never come here unless you are going to sit and eat. He said this with aggravation.

Pay me what you owe me, brother, and maybe I will sit and eat.

What I owe you is not enough for you to have a tea here. And you come dressed like that.

Pay me and I will leave.

Okay. I am getting paid at the end of the evening. Do you want to go away and come back around eleven?

No, I have no place to go around here. I am not going to pay bus fare twice, and it is very cold outside.

Okay then, stay here. I’ll tell you what: Sit at the end of the bar, and do not look at the women like that. People here do not like it when a bum like you is checking out their wives and daughters like that. I will get you a drink. Just wait and be invisible.

Reza walked towards the owner, bent his large body towards the man’s ear, and apologetically rubbed his hands together, explaining everything with a smile. They talked in Persian, both glancing my way from time to time. Finally, the owner approached me and snapped in a dry voice, So, what would you like to drink?

A Coke, I said.

The owner nodded, agreeing that I had made a good choice — the cheap choice and the respectable choice. But what I really wanted was a good glass of whisky on the rocks. And what I really, really wanted was to sit in the middle of the bar and rotate my liquor in time to the soft music, maybe a big fat golden ring on my finger, my chest gleaming under a black shiny shirt, my car keys dangling from a gadget that could open doors and beep and warm the driver’s seat despite the cold snow. I wanted a gold chain around my neck and a well-dressed woman with kohl under her eyes, and a late-evening blow job that began in a big fancy car and ended on an imported carpet with a motif of peacock tails fanning shades of purple against my hairy Arab ass.

Instead, the owner went behind the bar and got me my drink himself, calling me over with a nod as if signalling to one of his waiters. You stay here, he muttered.

I sat on a bar stool in the corner, close to the kitchen, and twirled the ice in my drink with a plastic straw. The soft music in the background, the dim lighting, the glowing red from the lanterns, and the gold atmospheric ornaments made me think of the story of the virgins who had lost their lives in the king’s castle before Scheherazade distracted him with her tales of jinn and fishermen. I wondered whether, if I had happened to live back then (wearing a different outfit, naturally), I could have saved any of those women. Maybe I could have been the saqi who slipped a few poison drops from my ring into the king’s wine. And as I watched him writhe in agony from the spell in his stomach, right before he fumbled another innocent girl, I could have stuck a dagger through his silky purple robe, opened his poisonous entrails, and watched his eyes flicker in awe and disbelief as he anticipated the next and final episode. The smell of food from the kitchen brought me back to the land of forests and snow. And then all I wished was to crawl under the swinging door and hide under the stove, licking the mildew, the dripping juice from the roast lamb, even the hardened yogurt drops on the side of the garbage bin. With my pointy teeth, I thought, I could scrape the white drips all the way under the floor.