Rawi Hage: Cockroach

I WORKED ALL EVENING, went home and slept soundly, and the next morning I walked down St-Laurent Street. I avoided the café. I was not in need of confrontation that morning because somehow my head felt clear. A euphoric sense of existence had come over me, maybe because the weather was getting warmer, and soon, in a few weeks perhaps, these streets would be filled with shirtless young men and half-naked women, and bicycles and flowers and gardens. A rare mood I was in, indeed. I took arbitrary turns. I stopped at shop windows and looked at merchandise and displays. When I reached a quieter street, I saw a woman coming towards me with a hesitant smile on her face. I recognized Genevieve only when she was close to me. I had almost passed her without stopping. She stood in front of me and it took both of us a few seconds to say something.

Nice day, she said, and followed this with, How are you feeling?

Great, I said. I am very happy today. I do not know where this source of happiness is coming from.

Maybe it is the weather, she said. The sun. You are still without a phone, eh?

No phone, I agreed.

I tried to call you. I wanted to talk to you.

About what?

I filled out a report on you.

Did you?

She nodded and quietly said, You will be contacted soon by someone from the hospital.

They won’t find me, I said.

Where are you going?

Underground, I said.

You can’t live like a runaway. It is best if you go and get some treatment.

No, I am going underground, I said.

I recommended that you see a psychiatrist and stay in the hospital ward for a short while.

And what would a psychiatrist do for me?

It is more of a medical approach. You might be put on pills.

Pills? What for?

They might want to monitor your behaviour at the hospital.

I am not going back there. They won’t find me.

Well, they just might. They might do you some good.

I just wanted to know you, I said. I just wanted to be invited in.

I have to go, she said. Take care of yourself.

It is a nice day, I said.

Genevieve glanced back once as she continued her walk.

AS I STROLLED, a few clouds moved over the sky and covered the sun. All of a sudden things started to turn grey and damp, and the darker side of nature appeared on people’s faces. I saw some looking up at the sky and muttering to themselves. Then, a few streets later, drops of water fell. You could see the drops dotting the pavement. At first they were distinct and visible because there were only a few of them, but then the whole city was taken over by thunder and a homogeneous wetness that swallowed everything and changed the city’s colour and odour. Tin roofs sounded like snapping lashes across a monster’s back. Car windows looked like cascading water. A few human silhouettes with invisible heads hurried down cobblestone streets. The edges of the sidewalks harboured little streams that soon became swollen and fast. I followed them, oblivious to the water falling from above. I am interested in water’s flight, not its source. Everything became wet, the walls, my hair and clothing, even the gun beneath my jacket was wet. My pants stuck to my legs. My socks made squelching noises. Then the rain stopped, suddenly. And I walked back home to the tempo of my wet feet.

At home, I took off all my clothing and piled it on my chair. I found an old T-shirt and used it as a towel, brushing it all over my body. Then I took another T-shirt and dried the gun with it. I snapped the chamber back and checked it. It did not seem wet. A good gun does not leak. Bullets are waterproof. My mood, like the weather, suddenly changed, and I felt the need for darkness again. I rushed to the window and closed the curtains. Then I sat on my chair facing the gun. I held it; I looked at it from many angles. I pointed it and walked around with it, scaring all the creatures that inhabited my place. I went to the mirror and aimed it at the mirror. I saw the large cockroach facing me, wings and jacket and all. I pointed it at his chest and spoke to him. I told him to go away. Shoot, he said to me. You know what they say: When you pull out a gun, you shoot. If you have no intention of shooting, never pull it out in the first place. A hand went up to my face, and I could see that sardonic smile of his. I did not blink. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. I looked straight at him. Shoot, coward! we both said. We lowered our hands and cocked the gun at the same time. He laughed, and I could almost feel his index finger pushing the trigger ahead of mine.

The doorbell rang.

We both laughed. He shouted towards the door, One minute, please!

I wrapped a towel around my waist and opened the door.

The Pakistani woman from downstairs stood in front of me with a plate of food in her hand. She smiled when she saw my bare chest. I asked her to come in. She shook her head and pushed the plate towards me.

Come in, I said. Please.

She looked behind her, then entered.

I held the towel with one hand and took the plate in the other. She turned around, and I could see she had decided to leave right away when she saw my bare wings. I put down the plate, held her hand, laid it on my chest.

No, she said. No, too much problem.

She quickly drew away her hand and walked out my door. I closed the door and went back to the mirror. The gun was on the sink. I took it and walked to my bed, pushed it under the pillow, and, exhausted, fell asleep.

THAT EVENING THE OWNER of the restaurant rushed into the kitchen. He called me over and sent me to make sure the bathroom was clean and that there was an empty bottle of water above the sink. Between his and his daughter’s flamboyant demands I was kept busy running around. The cook was carving a lamb thigh with his large kitchen knife. The dishwasher was carrying plates. The waiter was standing at the door. Then the door opened and the bodyguard from the other night stepped inside, followed by the bald, short man. Shaheed took off his coat and the owner whisked it away from him and snapped his fingers, and I ran over and hung it in the back closet. The coat was wet and heavy, and from this I knew it was still raining in the outside world.

LATER THAT NIGHT, after my shift was over, I went to Shohreh’s place and told her that the man had been at the restaurant again that night. She became agitated and asked me why I had not called her right away.

I told her that the phone was behind the bar and protected. And besides, I told her, the time was not right yet. But soon, I said. You will face him soon.

Couldn’t you go outside and call me?

Next time, when we are all ready, I will do that, but the owner and his daughter are demanding.

She paced and smoked and went to her bedroom and closed the door. I could hear that she had picked up the phone and was talking loudly in Farsi. I decided to leave, but before I had put my jacket on, she called me back and made me some tea in the kitchen. She held my hand and asked me again about the bald man and the owner. She made me repeat every detail of the evening. What did the owner ask you to do? What kind of car did the man arrive in? What did he order?

I told her that the owner had asked me to make sure the bathroom was clean. And to make sure there was an empty bottle above the sink.

Yes! Shohreh snapped, to clean himself, that religious hypocrite, after he takes a piss. He never cleaned himself before he made me spread my legs. It was lucky I did not get pregnant. The women who did get pregnant were killed.

She took a sip of tea. Then she said: Can I see the gun? Who did it belong to?

The industrialist’s son.

Which one was he?

The one with the flowery shirt.

They are all so artificial and flowery. Where did you meet those buffoons? And Reza was kissing their asses all evening.