Rawi Hage - Cockroach

I played along with the bearded one. I became his concubine. He used to ask me if he was handsome, and I had to answer that he was a gift from above and recite some verses. I never knew if they were poems or prayers, I never asked. But the verses described a garden, flowers, and mountains. I promised the mullah that if he released me, we could still meet on the outside and we could go and walk in gardens above the mountains. Slowly I worked on him, and I was eventually released. He would come every day and pick me up from a corner next to my house and we would drive away to the mountains. He told me that he would always find me, and if I tried to escape he would skin me alive. Eventually, with the help of a few old friends, I dressed as a woman, covered myself, and was driven to the border of Afghanistan, then from there to India. In India I met a Canadian diplomat on the beach. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. We spent a month travelling together. We travelled all over India; we took the train everywhere. We stayed in fancy hotels, smoked dope, and made love in many places. It was the best time of my life! He had money and he was willing to spend it.

Oh, the good days, Farhoud said, and lifted his glass of wine. He looked at the wine from underneath the glass, swirled it gently, then slightly lifted his neck, and his lips opened just when the glass tilted and the liquid rushed towards his mouth. I tell you, I needed it all, after the hell I went through with that mullah. Then I asked my lover if he could bring me to Montreal with him. And I remember we were in the region of Orissa at the time, in an old hotel, both naked on the same bed and smoking, high and happy. Outside there were a few trees rustling, a few bicycles and a few bare feet that passed and brushed the crust of dust under our open window, and we could hear them all. And my lover said, I have something to tell you, Farhoud. And I said, Do not tell me you are gay. And we laughed for a while, and then he said, Well no, actually I have the life of a straight man, with a woman. We laughed some more. Oh my god, we laughed so much. Through a connection of his in Immigration, he got me a visa and bought me a ticket to Montreal. We flew here together. He left me at the airport and I watched him rushing towards a woman.

Did you stay in touch?

Yes, for a while. He calls me Chinita, because I look Chinese. We spent a few nights together when he could get away from his wife. But then he slowly turned into a monster. I even thought he became a little xenophobic over time. Once, he came to my room and we made love. Afterwards he went to the bathroom, wet a towel, and threw it at me. Here, clean yourself, he said. You are not in your own country anymore.

I kept silent. And then I asked him, How come you look Chinese?

Iran is not a homogeneous society, he explained patiently. There are Azerbaijanis, Afghans, Turks, and in the south at the border with Iraq there are Arabs, but I suspect I am the residue of the Mongol invasion of the region. Mongols and their descendants, and also, I believe, Koreans, tend to have some kind of a mark on their buttocks at birth. It is called the Mongolian spot. After a while it goes away, but in some cases it stays for life.

You are lying, I said.

No, even a few East Europeans get it sometimes. Genghis Khan, or Attila the Hun, I am not sure exactly who — but they passed by there.

And what army does not spread semen and blood! I declared.

I would say so.

So, you have that Mongolian spot? I asked.

Yes.

I do not believe you.

Well, if you are nice I might show it to you one day. Farhoud laughed. The diplomat used to be very excited about it.

Excited?

It turned him on, silly. He called it his blue jewel of the east.

What was his name, the diplomat?

Bernard. Why?

Where does he live?

Why?

Is there anything you need me to get from his house?

What are you talking about?

I will pay him a visit. I will break into his house. Just give me his address.

Are you crazy? Why would you do that?

I will break into his house and wet his towel with dog piss.

No. It is done, that relationship is done. Dog piss! You are a bizarre man! I do not know where he is anymore. I don’t care anyway. I am here now. And that’s what counts. Do you understand? I am alive and here and I don’t care. I am here and I have a glass of wine in my hand. I am here now, alive. Farhoud started to cry.

But, Farhoud, my dear friend. I lay my hand on his shoulder. I just want to settle a score for you.

What score? Do you know how many scores there are to settle in my life? Do you? Do you?

And with that, we both fell silent, remembering the red of the wine, the white of the snow, and that night was on its way.

LATER THAT EVENING, the doorbell rang. I woke up and saw Shohreh entering the flat and taking off her shoes.

I came to get soup, and look what I see! she said, pointing her chin at me. You guys are stoned, your eyes are red. Stay where you are. I will help myself to some food.

As Shohreh ate, Farhoud stood up and gave her a shoulder massage. I had a long day, she told him. She ate and talked about her boss. I would kill that man if I could, she said. When she was finished eating, I passed her a joint. She thanked me and smoked, then stretched herself out on her seat.

After a while, she got up to leave and I walked her outside. In the elevator, she looked closely at my face. She caressed the scars carved on my face by her nails and said, Come home with me. I scratched you hard, didn’t I? We should put something on these wounds.

So I went back to her home with her and told her that I had got a job at the Star of Iran restaurant.

She laughed loudly. I will come and visit one day, she said. Maybe when Reza is playing. I will listen to Reza and watch you fall with your tray on some customer.

I am there from Friday to Sunday. Come for dinner anytime after four, I said.

I will come with Farhoud, she said, as she patted my face with alcohol. Stop twitching. Come on, be a man and take the pain. This little thing is scaring you?

I am not scared. It just burns.

Well, do not think of it. Let it burn. And she kissed my lips. Then she held my face in her hands and looked me straight in the eye.

Did you call your friend?

Who?

Your friend. The woman who dances with her shoes in her hand.

What are you talking about?

Never mind.

What shoes?

You know what shoes.

No.

The dancing woman with no shoes.

Ah. The gypsy, I said.

She has a nickname now!

No, I did not call her. I did not get her number.

Come, let’s go to bed. You smell all smoky. Take off your clothes. Here! She threw a man’s shirt at me. Don’t ask, just wear it and come to bed.

I did not ask, although I wanted to.

IN BED, AFTER WE CAME, Shohreh was silent. She did not put her head on my shoulder, she did not cover my belly with her thigh, she did not warm up her cold feet between my legs. She smoked and looked at the ceiling, thinking. Then she became worried. She rose, reached for the condom on the floor beside the bed, and checked it.

Do you leave your condoms in your pocket? she asked me.

In my wallet, I said.

That is not good. They could break. She pulled at my condom, tied it at the top, and isolated the liquid in different areas, looking for leaks. When she had finished, she threw it next to the bed. The last thing I want is to bring a baby into this world, she said. She reached for the ashtray, finished the last puff of her cigarette, and said, It is late. I am turning off the light. Tomorrow I am working early.

I opened my eyes in the dark and looked at the ceiling. I amused myself by imagining that I was colouring the flat obscure roof above me with school pencils, making clouds and bright suns. All that is empty in the drawing should be filled in, the teacher said to us kids. First you sharpen the pencil to fill in the thin whiskers, then you use the thick crayon to fill in the wings with brown, meticulously and without letting the crayon leave the page. Six feet can be traced below the soft belly. Now, breathing is hard to detect on paper, the teacher said to me when I asked, but it is easier to feel it in real life. Even insects breathe. So I stretched my fingers from underneath the sheets and lay them on Shohreh’s chest. Her half-coloured wings turned and fluttered and she quickly slipped to the other side of the bed. So instead I looked for the thickest pen available, held it, and jerked it until it burst and spilled on my lap, and my teacher came and slapped my hands and sent me to the dark corner of the room.