Rawi Hage - Cockroach

Maybe we should stop now, you must have a second appointment, I said.

No, no, no. Go on, please.

Well, I said, Abou-Roro said he could do it, but I had to help him in a little operation, if you know what I mean.

Operation? Genevieve asked.

You know, something illegal.

Oh yes, like shoplifting.

Well, maybe a little more than that, I said.

Like what, then?

Well, I am trying to tell you.

Yes, yes, excuse me. I interrupted you. Go on.

Abou-Roro showed me a few blank bank cheques. He could not write or read. Whose cheques are those, I asked him?

The priest’s, he said.

A missionary lived across the street from Abou-Roro’s house, in the back of the Franciscan convent. One night when the bombing in the city intensified, Father Edmond’s room was hit by a bomb. Abou-Roro ran to the priest’s room. The priest was wounded but still alive. Abou-Roro took a shattered stone and bashed the priest’s head.

He killed the priest? Genevieve asked.

Yes, he made sure Father Edmond was dead, and then he stole what he could find, and ended up with a few blank cheques. He wanted me to fill in the cheques, backdated, so he could quickly cash them before the priest’s account was closed. He even had a sample of the man’s signature from one of the documents he’d collected.

I looked at the shrink and her eyes were wide open. Horrified. Half the pen was in her mouth. I could tell she didn’t believe what I was saying to her.

I said, Madam, if all this bothers you I could stop.

Genevieve pulled the pen from her mouth, fixed her composure, and pasted on a calmer, more stoic face. Non, non, pas du tout , she said.

Well, do you need some water?

No, go on, I am fine. Believe me, nothing surprises me in this job. People come with all kinds of stories. Did you help the man?

Well yes, I practised the father’s signature. And then I wrote a cheque for a few thousand.

Did the plan work?

Yes, it did.

You were never caught?

No.

So you got your gun?

Yes. I got my gun.

She was quiet, and I knew she wanted to ask me if I had killed Tony once I had the gun. I knew she was hooked, intrigued. Simple woman, I thought. Gentle, educated, but naive, she is sheltered by glaciers and prairies, thick forests, oceans and dancing seals.

Finally, she said: Well, there is something very interesting you said, something I would like to ask you about.

Shoot, doctor.

Genevieve.

Genevieve, I repeated.

You said that when Tony was hitting you, you felt you could slip under the door and disappear, and climb walls, and flutter. Do you still have feelings of slipping or disappearing?

Yes, doctor, Genevieve, I am good at slipping under anything. I told you. I can enter anyone’s house.

She nodded. Have you entered anyone’s house here in Canada?

Yes.

Did you steal anything?

Yes.

Have you made any break-ins?

Yes.

Genevieve was quiet for a few moments. Then she terminated the session.

A FEW DAYS LATER, I called Farhoud. Farhoud, I said, do you know where Shohreh works?

I can’t tell you that. Shohreh would kill me.

Is she upset with me?

I could ask her, he said.

No, don’t ask her.

Well, I warned you about falling for Shohreh. Where are you?

On the street.

Where? On what street, silly?

Near McGill University. I am standing under those Roman arches at the entrance. Somewhere behind me there is a naked statue.

A man or a woman?

A man, I believe.

Does he look like a naked David? asked Farhoud. I love those naked David statues.

David was a goat-herder, a stinky, bearded boy with dirty nails and worn-out sandals.

That could be all right, he said. Come, I just made some soup. Come over and warm your bones.

Well, Farhoud, I should warn you now, I like my lovers hairless.

That could be arranged, he said, and laughed. Don’t be silly. Come over, silly man, or I am going to start thinking that you are a homophobe.

So was David, probably, I said.

Well, perhaps, but he did fuck the giant.

Myths and lies! I shouted

Anyway, said Farhoud, you are probably a confused homophobe, afraid of it but secretly craving it. Like the rest of you men. But come anyway, just because you are such a crazy character. I will feed you. Come, my pretty boy, come.

So I rang Farhoud’s buzzer, and sat at his table. He offered me soup that released a vapour thick as sweat, and bread that incited riots, and a little salad that rested on a yellow plate on an old, squeaky table. Your table is shaky and squeaky, I said, smiling and winking his way. Maybe I should eat there, in the living room. Shut up and eat, you nasty boy, Farhoud said. He had a scarf around his neck and he was meticulous in arranging the utensils and plates, and he went in and out of the kitchen with ease, making everything presentable, tasty, and warm.

Stop smiling and stop shaking that table like a kid, said Farhoud. I invited you to eat, not to judge and speculate.

But, Farhoud, I never judge.

No, but you imagine things.

I deduce.

You assume.

I imagine.

And judge.

No, I just see things.

You presume.

I fancy and create.

You wish, said Farhoud. Now just stand still and eat or I might send you to your room.

I got a job at the Star of Iran restaurant, I told him.

Well, well, you are going to learn Farsi now. You were hired as what, a waiter?

No, a busboy, I said.

Well, congratulations. Farhoud went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine. Here, we should celebrate. Another immigrant landing a career!

Shohreh is angry with me, I said.

Well, do not worry about Shohreh. She will come around. She is a little funny with love matters.

I need to see her.

Call her.

She is not answering my calls.

Well, like I said. I warned you not to become attached.

I am not attached.

Wine? Of course you are not, sweetheart. Wine, I asked. Wine? Answer me: wine?

Yes, yes, indeed.

You are attached, my dear, and down to your ears, and around your neck. Face it. You can’t even hear me anymore.

We drank the whole bottle. I lay on the couch, and Farhoud lay on the floor across from me.

Look at the snow, Farhoud. It falls without shame. How did we end up here?

I do not know about you, my friend, but I know how I ended up here.

Tell me, Farhoud, how you ended up here.

Let’s open another bottle of wine. He swayed into the kitchen and came back with the corkscrew and gave me the bottle. Here, strong man, open it and I will tell you all about me ending up in the snow. After Khomeini won the revolution, we — you know, the gay community — held clandestine parties. Someone must have been an informer who told the regime about us. One of our parties was raided and they took us all to the jail. They separated us and asked us to sign a paper acknowledging that we were homosexuals and that we would never touch another man again. And that our acts were against God and his Prophet, that we would repent and pray every day, five times, and become good, decent believers. But I did not even know how to pray. And I was sick and tired of being pushed around all my life, and imagine me growing a beard, wearing those horrible long robes, and not touching a man anymore? No, baby, no way!

So you refused?

I refused.

Courageous, or fucking crazy. And?

More like crazy. But, oh well, everyone who signed that paper disappeared anyway — probably killed, who knows? No one ever heard from them, and believe me, some of them were loud, darling, very loud. I know. Anyway, all they wanted was a confession from us. The redemption part was bogus. After I refused to sign, they put me in a crowded jail filled with women. It was a statement, you know. When I entered the jail cell I saw a small space packed with women. Some had children, and even a pregnant woman was there. The place was so crowded, no one even noticed me. I even recognized a couple of old girlfriends, who started to cry when they saw me. I spent a few days in that cell until a bearded mullah came, shouted, and asked the guard to remove me. He protested the mixing of men and women, even if I was not a real man, as he put it. So I ended up in a small cell, as big as a box, with no one to talk to, no bed, no chair, and a filthy, disgusting toilet seat, oh my god. . The next day, I was led by the guard to a shower and asked to make myself clean. While I was in the shower that same bearded mullah passed by me and stood behind me, watching me clean myself. I turned my back to him, but I could feel his looks falling onto my thighs like drops of acid. At night a woman guard came, opened the door of the cell, and led me to an office. That same old man was there, sitting behind a desk. He smiled, and his gold tooth shone. He asked me to close the door and made me sit down across the desk from him; there was a plate of small dried figs between us. He smiled at me and pushed the plate towards me. I did not reach for it. He was insulted. You refused my hospitality, you kouny (faggot), he said, and he stood up. A thin cane appeared in his hand from inside the sleeve of his robe and he started to beat me with it. Then he asked me to take off my shirt and to position myself facing the wall. With my arms spread, my legs wide open, he flogged my back. It burned like hell, and then I felt his beard, his lips, and his breath on my wounds, licking my blood and asking me for forgiveness and touching me everywhere. For the next few months he fed me dried figs and raped me. Once I asked him if God approved of his acts. He replied that I was God’s gift to him, God loves beauty and rewards believers. And he smiled and touched me.