Rawi Hage - Cockroach

I walked to the kitchen, struck a match, and lit one of the professor’s letters. I watched it burn in the sink. A magnificent bonfire rose up and consumed it all: the Mediterranean shores, the fancy resorts, the rolling green landscape that stretched down to southern beaches, the old couples walking hand in hand, and the soft winds that passed by and carried the puffs of smoke out of my window. I looked up at the wall and I saw hundreds of roaches hypnotized, turned towards the light source, waving their whiskers in farewell to the fire.

ON FRIDAY AT WORK, Sehar was absent. I was very curious about her whereabouts, but I knew it was useless to ask the waiter or the cook or the dishwasher. Only her father knew the answer, and I could not ask him. What if she had suddenly grown older, I thought, and could stay home alone? She would walk the streets by herself, straight to her own house, and make her own food, get her own cup of tea and sugar. What if she decided to leave home and find rapture with her own kind and embrace the snow and long roads on her own?

I worked hard that night. I even made sure the owner saw me plunging my feet down the stairs and my hands down the toilet. Whether your daughter is here or not, sir, nothing will change my loyal behaviour and dedication to this God-fearing establishment of yours, I cunningly and implicitly said.

On my way home from the restaurant I turned south and with my cold fist knocked at Shohreh’s door. She opened the door and walked back inside without saying a word. I took off my shoes, left them at the entrance to bleed snow, and walked across the hardwood floor to the kitchen, following in my lover’s footsteps.

Do you want tea? she said.

Yes, please, I replied.

Are you hungry?

No, I ate at the restaurant.

Shohreh was in her pyjamas and her hair was pulled back and tied with an elastic band. Though her pyjama pants were loose-fitting, when she moved I could see the round curves of her ass. She stood at the sink washing a mug. I approached her and rested my hands on her buttocks. She didn’t say a word, and though my hands were cold, she did not protest. I reached for her thighs with one arm and my other arm curved around her waist. I kissed her exposed neck.

I could never predict what Shohreh would do or how she would react to my advances, so when I touched her, my heart sped up. I could never get used to her rejection, but still I always took my chances. This time the water rushed down the sink and a red sponge foamed between her fingers. The mug was in the sink, filling with water. I tried to turn her so that she faced me, but she resisted. She wanted me to hold her like a stranger she couldn’t see. Then she reached for the boiling kettle, killed its whistle, cut off its steam. She placed a full teapot on the counter, turned off the faucet, and sat down at the table.

You’ve been talking to Majeed, she said.

Who?

The taxi driver, Majeed.

Yes. He told you?

Shouldn’t he?

Yes, if he wants to. But there’s not much to say, really.

You know, you’re one nosy and intrusive man.

I saw him by accident. It is not like I went looking for the guy.

Still, you could have walked by. But no, you were curious.

Yes, I could’ve walked on by, but I thought it was rude that you did not introduce me to him that night at the club.

Do you want sugar with your tea?

No.

How is your work at the restaurant?

Good.

Finish your tea and let’s go to bed. You probably need a shower first. There is a towel in the closet. Do you have condoms?

Yes.

Show me.

In my jacket, over there.

Come to bed when you’re done in the shower. Shohreh turned off the kitchen light and walked down the hallway. I stayed sitting in the dark and it suited me. I could hear Shohreh enter her bedroom. A small light flashed from her room, passed through the bedroom doorway, and fell into the narrow hallway. I wrapped my fingers around my mug of tea. Then I lifted it up and laid it against my cold cheek. After a moment, I sipped the tea, but I did not finish the cup. I poured most of it in the sink and watched it gladly disappear. I walked to the closet and pulled out a towel. The bathroom floor was cold. I let the water run for a while until it got warm. I stripped off all my clothing and laid it out on the floor. I used Shohreh’s soap and shampoo, and her water fell on my face, rushed down my neck, my chest, my legs, and went under, taking with it all the restaurant leftovers, the kitchen smells, and the cold.

WHEN I GOT TO BED, Shohreh had her back turned to me.

Show me the condom, she said.

I gave it to her.

It is wrinkled. It is not good. She threw it on the floor.

But. . I said.

Forget it. Just hold me.

I held her. She buried her face in my chest. Her hands were folded against her body, not touching me.

What did Majeed tell you?

That he was a journalist.

He was a good poet, too.

Tell me, I said. I am curious.

I know you are. I will tell you, but keep on holding me.

I squeezed her closer.

Majeed was my uncle’s best friend, Shohreh said. They started together this underground magazine after the revolution in Iran.

What kind?

A socialist, leftist, intellectual magazine. The mullahs could not pinpoint its source. Finally they found the printer. He was tortured until he told them my uncle’s name. They arrested my uncle. They tortured him, but he never gave them the names of any of his friends. Majeed was always grateful to him. My uncle was killed in the end. He was big and handsome, Shohreh said, and smiled. With straight black hair, so black that it almost seemed blue sometimes. He used to come to visit us and my mother would be so happy to see him. When her brother showed up, she would forget us, forget my father, forget the world. I used to watch her looking at him and forgetting herself. She never recovered from her brother’s death. They were very close. She changed. A few years later, I had to leave Iran. I came here and got in touch with Majeed. He helped me. He took care of me. He felt responsible and was protective. Until something happened.

She fell silent.

Tell me. I won’t settle for half the story, I said.

One curious soul you are, Shohreh sighed. Well, Majeed worked as a taxi driver, thinking it would be temporary until he learned French and found a job as a journalist or a teacher here. At first he kept writing poetry, and he tried to translate it into French, but I guess he did not see the point after a while. Maybe there was no interest in his work. He can recite Hafez. If you only understood Persian poetry and listened to him reciting, you would find it sublime. Anyhow, I was alone when I arrived here. I had no one here but him. He was the only one I could talk to. He cooked for me every day. Shohreh laughed, and said, At first I called him uncle. Then one day I came to visit him. He was on the sofa. He was smoking and drinking that night. He told me that he had always felt guilty about my uncle being dead while he, Majeed, could breathe in and exhale, and he held his cigarette up high. He did not cook and he did not eat that day. I went to the kitchen. He followed me and held my hand. Well, a few weeks after that, I found out that I was pregnant. Leaving a condom in a wallet in your back pocket when you’re a taxi driver for ten hours a day is not a good idea. I do not understand men and their pockets. Maybe they should all carry purses. She laughed again.

The baby?

No. Shohreh shook her head. I did not have it. I had an abortion.

And he. .?

He knew. I told him. He wanted me to keep the baby. I had the abortion without telling him. I went alone. I walked to the clinic alone, and on the way there I was wondering how my uncle would feel about it. I became a fatalist in that moment. I thought that maybe everything is predetermined, that maybe I should keep the baby. Maybe my uncle had died to save the seed of that man. But still I walked to the clinic. I entered the building. Alone. Every other woman had someone with her. I was alone. Now you know. Satisfied, my curious soul?