Rawi Hage - Cockroach

I picked one of the six lines of waiting people, making sure I was behind someone who looked like he had taken a shower. Why should I smell poverty? I live it! In one of the other lines, who should I see but the professor himself. I watched him with a big smirk on my face and waited until he saw me. Of course, the coffee beggar buried his face in a newspaper and pretended not to see me. I told the woman who had lined up behind me that I would be right back and went straight over to the man. I would not have missed such an opportunity for the world.

When he couldn’t help but see me, the professor acted surprised.

Hard times, I said.

Well no, no. I am here for a business meeting, a consultation job for the government.

I nodded. I looked at him with that same big smirk. Then I pulled a dollar from my pocket and asked him if he had change.

He pulled out a bunch of coins and started to count.

I said: It is not for a phone call.

He looked up at me and stopped counting his dimes, and his hand was about to close in a fist.

I need a bus ticket, I said, and I am short a dollar and twenty cents. I will pay you right back, when I get the cheque in the mail. And without waiting for an answer, I picked dimes and quarters out of his palm. I wanted something from him. It angered me that the socialist does not want to be identified as poor, a marginal impoverished welfare recipient like me. At least I am not a hypocrite about it. Yes, I am poor, I am vermin, a bug, I am at the bottom of the scale. But I still exist. I look society in the face and say: I am here, I exist. There is existence and there is the void; you are either a one or a zero. Once I was curious about the void. If I had died on that tree branch in the park, I would have experienced the other option. Although. . experiencing it would have meant that I could see and feel, and that would have thrown me back into existence, which would eliminate the notion of the void. The void cannot be experienced. The void should mean perishing absolutely without any consciousness of it. It is either a perpetual existence or nothingness, my friend.

That bum of a professor often talks about his stay in Paris, and how he saw so-and-so sitting dans le café , and how he told her such-and-such and she told him such-and-such. But I’ll bet the exile existed in one of those Parisian shitholes, washing his ass and cleaning his dishes in the same tub. I’ll bet the asshole sought out a few well-off old ladies and discussed Balzac while he stuffed himself with food and wine. I know his type. He does not fool me.

Of course, now that I have taken his change in such a direct and brilliant, cunning manner, he must declare war between us. The little change I took from him is, I am sure, all he had until the arrival of his cheque. I’ll bet he is like me — we watch for the mail delivery and hope for that manila envelope with recyclable paper on the outside and vanishing degradable crumbs on the inside. And the reason he pulled out those fragments of change to show me was because he was seduced by the idea of having a bigger coin — a unified monotheistic empire is better than minuscule slivers that never cease to giggle and laugh in his hollow pockets, constantly reminding him what a destitute financial thinker he is. So I played the oldest trick in the book; I took him by surprise. He must have been disoriented. I caught him on the defensive, when he was busy convincing himself that he really had an appointment with some governmental official. The officials, of course, would love to consult him on the distribution of wealth, equity, and the establishment of an egalitarian society. He is in total denial that he is just like me — the scum of the earth in this capitalist endeavour. I’ll bet he thought that, coming from Algeria and having lived and studied in Paris, his vocabulaire parisien would open every door for him in this town. Oh yes, baby! Those locals would just empty their desks and give you le plus grand bureau to smoke in, and you could gaze from the large window at the falling snow, you could arrive late to work and smile at the security guard, who would greet you with a Bonjour, Monsieur , and have a small lunch at the bistro down the street where the chef, Jacques, and everyone else, would recognize you, and naturally, mon vieux , everyone would be eager to discuss world politics and women with you, and then you would come back to your mahogany desk and make a few phone calls, un apéritif between séances , and in the evening you would get your circumcised Muslim dick sucked by those ex-Catholics, and smoke a last cigarette in bed, and in the morning a croissant would hover like a holy crescent at the break of dawn, announcing another day of jubilation and bliss. Et voilà! La belle vie! La belle province!

Now I was more determined than ever to find a way to that faux government consultant’s shithole of a residence and consult his drawers, his fridge, his glasses, and merge his shoes into one company, and maybe lay off a few excess operatives. The professor got to the welfare window before me, but he was arguing and pulling papers from an envelope. My transaction was straightforward. I handed the man my slips, signed here, here, and there, waited for the sound of the wooden stamp, and left. On my way out, I saw the professor still waiting, pacing back and forth, pretending to be busy, trying to be somewhere between the welfare line and his imaginary appointment. I decided to cross the street, find myself a corner, squeeze myself into it, and wait.

Eventually the professor stood at the door of the welfare office, looked left and right, then walked east. I crouched and put my feet and palms on the ground and let him pass. He walked by in a hurry, and his long coat and his hat gave him the look of an Eastern European spy. I gave him a distance of a few blocks, then followed him. I crawled through and beneath car fenders and hopped above dirty batches of snow and under car tires. At one point the professor stopped and turned back, and I dug into the snow and hid behind a discarded TV on the sidewalk. Its two antennae sprang out of my head like whiskers. One had an advantage being at a low angle like that, close to earth and invisible, I thought; imagine living all your life close to the crust of the ground. When the professor pulled out his long chain of keys, I felt as if I could jump and fly from joy. Just as I thought! He lived in a semi-basement, with a side entrance that led to the kitchen of an old Portuguese lady; he lived in a dark ground-hole. That was all I needed to know. I would take care of him later.

ON FRIDAY, MY FIRST NIGHT of work at the Star of Iran restaurant, I was introduced to Hakim, the head waiter. He was a quiet, gentle-mannered man. He showed me the plastic tray, the dishes, the utensils, the cloths, how to light the candles for the table lanterns. It was all illuminating. Then he introduced me to the cook, Mamnoun, who barely smiled; and to Seydou, the dishwasher, who smiled at me and made his water sparkle in a welcoming manner. Then the owner pulled me towards the vacuum cleaner, pushed me towards the mop, filled my hand with a water bucket, and assigned all of these to me. He led me to the toilets down in the basement and said, This you clean every day, two times, before the customers come and before you leave for home. And then he showed me a little metal closet that held detergent, tablecloths, candles, liquid soap, and napkins.

At around six o’clock, a couple showed up. I rushed to open the lantern on their table and lit the small candle inside it. I ran back to the dishwasher and stacked a few plates, and separated the knives, the forks, and the spoons. By eight the restaurant had six tables full. The owner was calm and quiet. He stayed behind the bar, watched everything, and gave orders to Hakim, who in turn gave orders to me. I laid out utensils and picked up dirty dishes and laid them on the counter next to Seydou, who asked me to empty the scraps of food into the garbage bin before putting the dishes on the counter. And then he asked me about some Arabic song’s title. He tried to sing the tune for me, but it was unrecognizable; it sounded like someone whining with a mixture of anal pain and pleasure. I asked him if it was a recent song.