Rawi Hage - Cockroach

The woman balanced on one foot and pulled down a stocking, giving her leg a lustier white, silky colour. The man was rotating ice in a whisky glass. He sat on the sofa, untied his tie, and flipped through the TV channels. She went up and then came down the stairs. Now she had on a nightgown, made of a kind of see-through material. And she had plump thighs, ones I had only glimpsed just above the knee at the restaurant. At the time I had been more distracted by the sight of the large plates of food. The woman asked the man if he was coming to bed, and the news anchor was silenced before he had the chance to finish the word “famine.” And then both the man and the woman went upstairs and made noises, opening brass faucets and scrabbling toothbrushes against their gums. Their gargles and their spit rushed through the pipes to join the toilet flushes. I sat downstairs on the sofa and finished what was left of the man’s drink. Then I went up the stairs, crawled up the bedroom wall, and from above I saw them sleeping, both on their sides. The bed was large and high above the floor, balanced by two small dressers filled with medicine bottles, hardcover books, earrings, and tissues. The woman’s thighs were exposed now, and this gave me an uncontrollable urge to fly down and land on the bedsheets and extend my arms like two antennae and extract sweet nectar from between her open legs. She tossed around, exposing different shades of her long thighs. The man, his back to her, snored quietly.

I went and stood at the door of the bedroom. I watched them dream of SUVs, cottages, and business deals, comparing dresses and cigars at high-end cocktail parties. I put myself inside the dreams and helped myself to a few shrimp cocktails and picked up a few hors d’oeuvres from the waitresses’ drifting trays. I ordered another glass of whisky and rotated the ice inside it counter-clockwise to counter the stuffiness of the room. Then I followed the man with the expensive car to the bathroom at the party. As he knelt to wash his face I passed him, took a leak in a urinal in the wall, jiggled my organ, and made sure the last drop was out before slipping my penis back inside my trousers. I went back towards the hall and, without washing my hands, I pulled up my zipper and closed that dramatic scene.

At the couple’s home I stole his gold ring, his cigarettes, a Roman vase, his tie, and his shoes (I took the time to carefully pick clothes that suited my dark complexion). Once I had finished checking myself in the mirror, I slipped under the garage door. And I crawled, glued to the wall, my insect’s wings vertical now and parallel to the house’s living-room window. Then I walked the dreadful suburbs. Along the beautifully paved roads I made my way through a few dentists’ houses, computer programmers’ lawns, executives’ sailboats covered in plastic and maple leaves, and all the while I feared that golf clubs might escape the garages and swing in pairs and chase me for a raise. But what I feared most of all was the bark of dogs who smelled my unwashed hands.

As I walked away from the suburb, the dogs’ barks went up like the finale at a high-school concert. Filthy dogs, I will show you! I said and ground my teeth. I pulled down the zipper on my pants and crawled on my hands and feet like a skunk, swaying from side to side and urinating on car wheels and spraying every fire hydrant with abundance to confuse those privileged breeds and cause an epidemic of canine constipation. Down with monotony and the routines of life! I laughed, knowing full well that some dentist would soon be waiting for his little bewildered bundle of love to get on with its business. I laughed and thought: Some dentist will be late for trays of paralyzing syringes and far from the reach of blinding lights that hover above mouths like extraterrestrial machines inspecting the effect of pain on humans trapped in pneumatic chairs. And I rejoiced and howled (causing more confusion) at the thought of a salesman stuck like a turtle in traffic, late for his work, flipping through catalogues, rehearsing apologies, and mumbling about dogs’ damnation.

WHEN I ARRIVED at the Iranian restaurant for my interview, I humbly knocked on the glass. A teenage girl walked to the door and said from behind the glass, It is closed. We open only for dinner.

I told her that I had an appointment with the owner. She opened the door and let me in, saying that the owner would be back in fifteen minutes.

Can I wait for him at the bar? I asked.

The girl walked to the kitchen and informed the cook of my presence. The man peeped at me from a square opening, nodded to her, then ignored me and returned to his fire.

Are you the daughter of the owner? I asked.

Yes, how did you know? the girl said, and smiled at me.

I just know things.

What else do you know?

That you’d rather be somewhere else today.

Yeah, like where?

In bed, or hanging out.

She giggled.

No school? I asked her.

Not now, she said. In a few days it will start again.

School sucks, I said.

The girl nodded and laughed again.

I used to run away from school, I said.

And where did you go?

I hung out.

Yes, I like to hang out, too, she said.

Maybe we can hang out together, I said.

She smiled and did not answer.

I hang out with my skateboard in Old Montreal all the time, I said. You know, I jump over those stair rails on the government buildings.

No, you don’t, she laughed.

Sure I do, I said. I wear baggy pants and my cap in reverse.

No, you don’t.

Sure I do. I am only dressed like this today because I am meeting your father for a job.

My father will only hire you if you fear God. He says he only trusts those who fear God.

Do you like God? I asked her.

I don’t know.

I do not like him, and I do not fear him.

Well, if you tell that to my father, he will never hire you.

It will be our secret, I said. Our first secret.

What is our second secret?

I will tell you if I am hired.

Okay, she said, and smiled with her head tilted towards the table. I’d better go now. My father will come soon. He does not like it when I talk to strangers.

Oh, is he jealous?

No.

Just afraid that his pretty daughter might run away with a stranger on a skateboard?

The girl laughed and walked away. A few minutes later the owner tapped on the window and the girl rushed to let him in. He entered, his bald head bowed and his hunched posture making him look as if he was about to sniff the floor or fall on his face. He did not say a word. He barely acknowledged the presence of his daughter and ignored me as I stood up to greet his most important presence. I said salaam in a semi-glossy monosyllabic chant.

He replied with a brief dry salaam and went straight to the kitchen. He disappeared for a while and then came back. Without wasting time, he said: We open from Wednesday to Sunday. You can work as a busboy, Friday to Sunday. I do not need you more for now. You work for part of the tips and three dollars an hour. You stay until the end. At the end of the shift, you vacuum the floor and the carpets, you clean and mop the kitchen and the bathroom. Okay?

Okay, I said, nodding more than once.

Come Friday. Be here at three in the afternoon.

Thank you, I said.

And come dressed in a black suit and a white shirt only. And everything should look clean.

But of course, I said. Clean. Clean like the robe of God.

He gave me a quick look, half pleased, half suspicious.

I immediately put on a semi-fearful face, and a semi-pious one. I nodded only once, because there is only one god left. The rest were all slain while they enjoyed offerings of calves and poultry, while they were drunk on wine in the company of sirens and blind poets. Now everything on earth is monochromatic like snow. One, one single nod that goes up and down, like the extended hand of a zealous soldier, is all that we are allowed.