Rawi Hage - Cockroach

Shoot. I won’t be offended, I said.

Well, what is my cut?

Forty percent, I said.

Abou-Roro turned and left.

Fifty, I said.

This he accepted. He smiled, came back, put his hand on my shoulder and we walked together while he explained his plan. It is easy, he said, talking with his hands. You let Tony suspect that something is going on between your sister and Joseph Khoury. And I am not saying there is anything going on, please do not misunderstand me. Your sister’s honour is safe with me. Still, if you said this, Tony would want to kill the old man. But first you go to Joseph Khoury and tell him that Tony is convinced he is sleeping with your sister, and that Tony promised to put a bullet between Joseph Khoury’s eyes. Then tell him how much you hate the guy, how he mistreats your sister, et cetera, and that you have a common interest in getting rid of him. You do not tell him that you will do it. You tell him that you know someone who can do it for, let’s say, fifteen thousand lira.

He won’t pay it.

He will be scared for his life. He will even put you in his will. Listen. I’ve changed the plan. You do not say a word to Tony about your sister and Joseph Khoury. I will do it. Let me leak the rumour. That will be my half of the work.

But as soon as Tony knows, I said, he will come and kill the old man. That fucking guy is not going to give the old man a warning. He will just go and do it.

Timing, my friend, timing. It is all in the timing. You warn the old man first. It will give him a chance to leave. He hides, and then we tell Tony. Tony will go to the store looking for the old man, and when he finds Joseph gone, this will confirm everything. I see I still have a few things to teach you.

Then we will have to find out where Joseph Khoury is hiding so we can collect the money from him before we kill Tony.

No, you will drive him to his hideout.

And my sister? You think Tony will save her if he hears something like that?

When you take the old man to his hideout, you take your sister as well. She will be working that day at the store.

She won’t come.

You will make her come.

What if the old man wants to leave the country instead of paying the money?

He won’t. He is too old for that.

I’m not sure if this will work, I said.

It will. How long have you known me? Things have always worked out, right?

Genevieve listened to my story without saying anything. Now she asked, Did your sister know about your scam?

Of course not.

She was not aware of it at all?

No, she was not.

Someone knocked at the office door and apologized for the interruption. Genevieve stepped out. She came back and said: I’m sorry, but I have to go. There is an emergency at the hospital.

The hospital? I asked.

Yes. You know which one I am talking about?

The one?

Yes.

Give my regards to everyone there, I said.

I am sure the staff remember you.

I meant, give my regards to the patients, whoever, whatever, wherever they are.

Make an appointment at the desk and I will see you next week, said Genevieve. And she ran out of the room and slammed the door.

THE NEXT EVENING, when the girl entered her father’s restaurant, we exchanged looks, fast and brief. I quickly buried my head in my work again. As she walked by me, I kept my eyes on the floor and caught a glimpse of her skirt and feet. I heard her father calling her by her name, Sehar. They exchanged a few words in Persian. I tried to think about what I could fetch from the basement, what might need to be fixed, arranged, filled. Then I went to the owner and said, There are boxes of supplies that need to be stacked on the shelves downstairs. Would you like me to empty them?

He nodded. The man barely talked to me. He barely acknowledged my existence. If he agreed with me about something, he would never give me the satisfaction of a Yes! or, What a brilliant idea! And if he objected to something I did, he directed me to do something else.

I waited for his daughter to come out of the kitchen with her daily plate of food. I crossed paths with her, showing her that I was on my way to the basement. Downstairs, I opened boxes with a cutter, took my time placing cans on the shelves, then folded each empty box and tucked it in the corner. I was almost done and Sehar hadn’t appeared. She must be eating still, I reasoned. I took the broom and started to sweep the floor.

The boss came halfway down the stairs so that only the lower part of his body showed. His talking shoes called me back up. He wanted me to help the waiter pull two tables together for a large party with a reservation that evening. Upstairs, Sehar was almost done eating, and I could hear her shouting something to her father. He responded in a full clear sentence, longer than usual. His voice sounded calm. She laughed and kept on telling him something. He ignored her, as if she was taking up too much of his time, and went back to the kitchen, sniffing slowly as he went.

When he was inside the kitchen, I waited until the other waiter went to get more lanterns and then I tried to get Sehar’s attention. She noticed me but did not smile. She called me over to her table and said in a loud, bossy voice, Go bring me some sweets and some tea from the kitchen.

Would you like sugar? I asked.

Yes, you should always bring sugar with Iranian tea.

I meant with the sweets, I mumbled, and gave her a large smile.

She laughed and said: Bring me two brown sugar cubes. Brown ones, you hear, brown like my eyes. She smiled mischievously.

And I thought, She shouldn’t have said that. Any hint of flirtation and I am out the door. It would take only one encounter like that to make her father realize that his daughter’s laugh is accompanied by a sweep of the hair, a slightly longer look than usual, a fluttering of eyelashes, a bend of the neck, and that she even imagines stories that make her touch herself in dark alleys, below the stairs, under pyramid-like quilts. But I lucked out. The owner was still in the kitchen and the dishwasher’s water was running, covering up the sound of young, luscious body fluid drizzling above silky plates and silver spoons.

After her afternoon tea and biscuits, Her Highness dipped her toes down the dark stairs. I did not waste time. I followed her right away. While she was in the bathroom down there, I gathered all the empty boxes, piling them in the corner. I cut a piece of rope, made a small knot at the end of it, passed it around the boxes, made another knot around the first knot with the other end, and pulled on the rope until it squeezed the boxes together.

I am good with ropes. It was finding a structure to support the rope and my own weight that had failed me that day in the park. But what if my plan had worked, and my windpipe had snapped with the sound of crunched-together boxes? I would have made a nice sight against the white landscape. I wore my red jacket that day. Just picture, a large red fruit swinging from high up in the tree. Just imagine how it would have looked from afar. No one could have missed it. And from afar the rope wouldn’t have been visible at all. All that anyone would have seen was a red dot against the white horizon, suspended above the earth. Maybe that is all that is supposed to be left of our lives: a glimpse of beauty, an offering for those who are still trapped, a last offering to console them in their mundane existence.

The bathroom door opened. Sehar came towards me and asked, What are you doing here?

Working and singing.

I do not hear any singing.

It is in my head.

What are you singing?

A song from the new Boys in Black CD.

Oh my god, you listen to them?

Yes.

I love them. Which song is it?

I can’t remember the title, but I have the whole CD at home.