Rawi Hage - Cockroach

The restaurant got busy. I carried many empty plates, swept many tables, and went up and down the stairs. I pulled out chairs, hung coats, and lit candles, and at the end of the night I returned to my dark home.

THE NEXT EVENING, Mr. Shaheed came to the restaurant again with his bodyguard. He was accompanied by another man, who wore an impeccable suit and tie and carried a briefcase in his hand. They entered to the bows and royal fawning of my boss, the meek, the degenerate, the transformed small merchant and pitiful tyrant. The man with Shaheed had blond hair and he held his briefcase straight in front of him so that it pointed the way and led him through the rows of tables and chairs. The bodyguard sat on his usual seat at the bar.

The owner, my boss, that little food trader, snapped his fingers at me. I put down the boxes I was carrying and walked towards him. Without a word he pointed at the blond man’s chair. Despite all the hideous, monstrous organs my boss possesses, like a prehistoric turtle he only uses his neck to point. I pulled out the chair for the large blond man and, in turn, my boss pulled out the chair for Shaheed. And then, agitated, my boss chased me away with a fanning motion of the backs of his hands. He leaned over Shaheed, nodded as if to say he should and would, and then turned around, smiling. He was actually smiling — that austere food purveyor was capable of a mouth crack! He leaned over the blond man with a menu in his hand, explaining it in a drooling accent, his syrupy lips, bent knees, hunched torso, and shiny, unappetizing pate sweating under a beam of light. Then he rushed to the kitchen, briskly transformed into an erect Napoleon.

The cook, who was the only one who could treat the owner like an equal, listened and nodded and turned his back to him. But the little Napoleon went around the island and whispered some more requests and instructions.

While I rushed around with the breadbaskets and the pickles and up and down the stairs to the basement, I was thinking of a way to call Shohreh to tell her that her torturer was here again, eating and merry. But it was too complicated. The owner’s phone was inside the dining room, facing the cash machine. To cross the line under the bald man’s gaze would require an even more experienced cockroach than myself. And what if I managed to pick up the phone? What would I say? Under the circumstances, Shohreh would never understand or detect my ultrasonic insect sounds. I could rub my feet for hours, send loud signals and wave my whiskers, she would still never understand. Besides, no one is allowed into this place, not before the bald man eats, receives bows and compliments, and leaves. After what had happened with Shohreh last time, the owner was strict about not letting anyone else in while the bald man ate. He kept repeating to the rest of us, My food is clean, my food is clean.

Reza arrived, and when he entered the dining room he went out of his way to bow to Shaheed. Shaheed barely nodded. Then Reza turned and bowed to the blond man. The blond man asked about his box and quilt. Shaheed waved his hand to Reza and Reza laid his box on the table opposite and pulled out his santour. Shaheed was proud, smiling as the blond man asked questions. Meanwhile I tuned my mop, ready for a swing above the waters.

The food came and both men ate. The bodyguard went to the kitchen and asked for a steak. I looked at the dishwasher and we winked at each other. The dishwasher laughed and rushed to the back, opened a closet, and handed the bodyguard a ketchup bottle. Then we all laughed, which alarmed the owner. He came into the kitchen and towards us with his wide eyes, thick-knit eyebrows, and neck that turned left and right, sniffing for subversion or any sign of rebellion.

As the men in the dining room ate, Shaheed leaned in and talked and explained and laughed. Soon the blond man pulled out his briefcase and opened it. He extracted a few papers and put them to the side of his plate. He read from the papers and explained, and Shaheed, oblivious to numbers and charts, ate and nodded, glancing from time to time at the papers. When his plate was empty and he had ordered tea for the table, Shaheed started to talk again. Now the blond man listened.

Sehar entered and twirled around the kitchen, hungry but not knowing what to eat. She opened the fridge and leaned over the cook’s shoulder. And then she settled for a piece of Afghani bread. She held it and started to snatch little bites with her teeth, humming a feeble tune of boredom. She walked around, swinging her shoulders while eating.

Ketchup with that? the dishwasher ventured to ask, and laughed.

Sehar turned to him and said, with excitement and anticipation: Why, do we have hamburgers today?

Everyone in the kitchen chuckled, and we looked at one another with fraternity, equality, and bold freedom in our eyes.

In the dining room Reza played a soft, calm tune. The blond man glanced at Reza from time to time and smiled. He was interested in the music, as a refined, well-travelled man would be, I thought, and I wondered about the artifacts he would have in his house, all the maps and objects, the large library of books and records. He seemed to me like a gentle, well-mannered man. He was even thankful and a little apologetic for the tea I brought him.

After a while, the bodyguard stood up and walked towards the coats. That was the sign for departure. The owner rushed over to help.

Shaheed asked the blond man if he needed a ride.

I will walk, the man said.

Walk! Shaheed laughed. Why walk? It is so cold. We have a big car. We can drive you anywhere.

I like the fresh air and I do not live far. Walking is fine.

Sure, walking is good, but it is cold outside, Shaheed persisted.

I know it is cold, the man said, slightly closing his eyes and giving Shaheed a small smile, but I will walk. I don’t mind the cold. I like it.

Shaheed laughed upon hearing these incredible words.

In any case, said the blond man, I will send you the document and we shall meet again soon. Is your stay here okay? Is the place to your taste?

Yes, very good, Shaheed said, and thanked him again.

Then the blond man told Shaheed that he would like to talk to Reza and see the musical instrument once more.

Yes, yes, this is the most famous and oldest instrument in Iran; it is beautiful, beautiful, art. . Shaheed tried to explain.

Reza stood up and bowed goodbye to Shaheed from afar.

I watched the blond man smile and walk toward Reza’s music box. Reza welcomed the man with a smile and the man started his questions, and a long conversation ensued that went longer than our closing rituals of sweeping, toilet cleaning, dish drying, and oven scrubbing.

When closing time came I left the restaurant with a general goodnight that was ignored like a flat note. I went outside, crossed the street, and waited. I stood in the bus-stop shelter. There was some graffiti on the glass. I angled my face between a red circle and a bit of the graffiti and I kept a watch on the restaurant door.

The blond man left and Reza followed him, and they talked some more on the sidewalk.

Then they shook hands and separated. I waited until Reza turned the corner and started my pursuit of the man. He walked briskly, his briefcase brushing against his long coat. At the collar of his coat bulged a burgundy scarf that gave him the air of a tall, well-dressed bird. I followed him, wondering if he had lied to Shaheed about the restaurant’s close proximity to his house. I was hoping he had not lied because the streets were wide and empty, and the sidewalk made noises like the insides of wooden houses, and our breaths left vaporous trails that could be detected from distant mountaintops, read, and decoded by red coyotes, crazy horses, and pipe-smoking chiefs. We breathed against the cold wind in the manner of chimneys and coal trains crossing between Indians’ mountains. And I pursued the blond man, hoping he was someone who never looked back, never remembered he had forgotten a glove, an umbrella, or a paper on the floor. If he did remember, I thought, and if he went back to the restaurant and crossed my path, I would walk straight past him. I would not give him even a nod or a smile.