Rawi Hage - Cockroach

Majeed will give you a lift, she said.

Sylvie and her friends entered, loud and happy. They were already drunk and high. Reza was laughing among them, hugging his santour and his quilt. Inside there was plenty of food displayed on the table in the middle of the kitchen, where everyone would end up smoking and drinking.

Majeed entered the apartment and walked straight towards me.

Give me a minute, he said. He went to the bathroom.

I found Shohreh. I stood beside her and said, I am off. She squeezed my hand. I leaned my lips towards her ear and told her that I wanted her to hold my hand forever. She smiled, and squeezed my hand again.

Majeed came out of the bathroom. I followed him out of the apartment and down the stairs. He walked slowly. He even opened his car door slowly. We drove across town, down towards the bridge. We took the casino exit and arrived at the place where the son of the industrialist lived. I told Majeed to stop just before we reached the entrance. I asked him to park and wait across the street from the building. Then I hurried towards the entrance. I crawled against the walls and under the glass door of the lobby entrance. The doorman was sitting at his desk. I looked up at him and passed right under his nose, and made my way into the apartment. I rushed straight to the bedroom. I dug into the son of the industrialist’s drawers. One of his drawers was filled with medicine. I cursed him: weapon-loving hypochondriac, son of the manufacturer of filth. I turned to the closet where I knew he kept his gun. It was still in the towel I had used to wrap it all that time ago. I pulled out the magazine and saw that it was still full of bullets. I passed my hand over the shelf in the closet and found a small box with bullets in it. This I took. And then I went downstairs looking for money, gold, anything small I could carry. I found nothing. I slipped down the stairs to the basement, exited, and walked around the building.

I climbed back into the car with Majeed. He did not say a word to me at first. Then he broke the silence and asked: Did you get what you need?

Yes, I said.

He nodded and drove back towards the city.

Majeed, what is in the file I gave you? I said.

Information about weapons. Canada is selling weapon parts to Iran. Does the man who comes to the restaurant have an Iranian or a Canadian bodyguard?

Canadian.

Yes, of course. The Canadian government assigned him protection. They want to make sure he stays well and that the deal goes through.

But Canada. .

Of course, Canada! Montreal, this happy, romantic city, has an ugly side, my friend. One of the largest military-industrial complexes in North America is right here in this town. What do you think? That the West prospers on manufacturing cars, computers, and Ski-Doos?

Do you still have the file? I asked him.

No. I gave it to Shohreh. She asked me for it, he said. I thought she would have told you. There are these charts in English. . Did you read it before you gave it to me? Oh, right. You can’t read Persian. .

Well, I can, but I don’t understand what I read.

Right, of course. We use Arabic letters in Persian.

What else does it say? I asked.

Well, some local weapon manufacturer is in the process of producing lighter weapons. And Iran wants the light weapons.

Light, I said. Everybody wants things to be light.

Yes, agreed Majeed. Light arms for boy soldiers so they can use and handle these weapons better. The old machinery is too heavy for those kids who are forced to join the armies. The light weapons could be easily managed. So they are manufacturing them light.

I am always suspicious of the light, I mumbled.

This should be stopped, Majeed said.

Yes, I said. Let’s drive back to Shohreh’s place. The music must have started.

I ENTERED SHOHREH’S bedroom and slipped the gun under her mattress. Then I went back to the living room. Reza was tuning his instrument and everyone was quiet, waiting for the music to start. Finally Reza and his band played. Sylvie and her friends applauded. They were impressed, of course. But they were a little aloof towards me, and they avoided me all evening. They feared me still, but no longer admired me. The phase of the foreign savage was gone. Now was the time of the monkey with the music box.

Later, Shohreh danced with Farhoud. They pulled me onto the floor and all three of us put our hands on one another’s shoulders and danced in a small circle together.

A last dance, Shohreh whispered, weeping and kissing us on both cheeks. And then everyone started to dance. I left the crowd, fetched my jacket, went back to the bedroom, pulled out the gun from under the mattress, hid it under my jacket, and walked out. I saw the industrialist’s son coming my way, and he was high and swaying and mumbling. He approached me with open arms, wanting to hug me with his family rings and arms. As soon as he got close to me I grabbed him by his collar. I made sure he never touched my jacket or the gun underneath it, and I pushed him away hard, cursing his father and mine. I took the stairs down to the streets and walked back to my home.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON when I arrived at work, the owner asked me to pick up a sealed envelope from his lawyer downtown. On the way to the metro I saw a man dressed in a new suit, a handsome fellow in his forties, hair neatly combed. He was standing with two magazines in his hand, smiling with confidence and leaning towards waiting commuters, offering them the word of God.

I approached the man. He smiled.

I am lost, I said. I need direction.

Where do you want to go?

No, I am lost in general, I said.

He smiled again. The Lord can guide you to the right place.

And where is that, you filth? I asked between grinding teeth.

God’s kingdom is the right place, he said. You will never be lost again.

I see you are all ready and well dressed to meet him.

His face became larger with pride and exuberance. He leaned towards me. Yes, he said, it is like meeting an important person. You have to look your best.

Like a lawyer? I asked.

Lawyer?

Or a good citizen, I finished. And do you need to dress up to be a good citizen?

Well. .

Well what, you charlatan? I said. Look at you, all dressed up to seduce, charm, and bring these poor citizens into your fantastical imaginary world. To make them kneel on hard benches, repeating redemption chants inside the same walls, through the same burning suns of their hard-working days. And then you take their money, breed their daughters with other sheep from the same flock, promise them heaven full of incestuous clouds. Filth. You are a charlatan, standing there with your magazines full of promising images like opium. Look at you, human, all dressed up. Look at you, son of man, dressed in silk. You can’t be handsome without weaving the saliva of worms around you, without stealing the wool from the backs of sheep, without making the poor work like mules in long factories with cruel whistles and punch-in cards. I, at least, do not need any of your ornaments. Look at me! Look at my wings straight and hard, look at the shine of their brown colour, look at my long whiskers and my thin face, look at all my beauty. All of it is natural. I have never needed rags or jewels. I have an all-natural shine, well brewed and aged like distilled wine.

And then I extended one of my many arms and snatched the man’s magazine. I turned my back to him, pretending to read, and quickly I nibbled on every word that looked like God. I gave the magazine back to him and said: Now look, read, and tell me what happened to your God. Is he still coming? Is he still here? Cannibals! Cannibals!

And I walked away and went down the stairs into the tunnel. As I went down I noticed the low beams that hung above the staircase. I bent my long whiskers and thought how self-absorbed these humans are. All they ever build is for their own kind and their own height.