Rawi Hage - Cockroach

I like the janitor’s wife. I like how she is always hiding in her basement apartment and trying on the old lady’s clothing. Once when I knocked on her door, she opened it wearing one of those large straw colonial hats.

Ready for afternoon tea? I asked her.

What do you want? she said in her thick Russian accent. My husband is not here. You can leave him a message in the box outside if you need to fix something.

I heard classical music coming from behind the dark walls of her apartment.

Stravinsky, The Rite of Spring , I said.

You know your music, she said.

And you know your hats.

Want do you want? She started to swing the door closed, but before she could widen her arm and expose her smooth, sweaty armpit and fling the door in my face, I bluffed and said that I knew the hat belonged to the old lady.

Yes, she said. The old lady gave it to me. What do you want?

And what else did she give you? I winked at her.

She almost smiled. You’re very observant, she said. The lady is very old and she does not have anybody, and she does not need anything. Her husband died a long time ago, in China during the war, so. .

Oh, yes, yes, I interrupted. He must have died from the plague or the typhoon, or maybe from carrying too much tea and antiques.

She barely smiled and said, I don’t know. I do not care. Maybe he was killed in the war. I read his letters to her. Very romantic. He was an officer in the British government. A respected man. Handsome, too. I ask the old lady, but she does not remember anything.

Talking about respected men, did your husband step outside to walk the dog? I asked. And I giggled because I had given the word “step” a high, flat note.

No, he went to buy paint. He will be back in an hour.

Ah, then maybe I can come in for music and tea, I said.

The janitor’s wife did not answer me. Instead, she turned and went inside and left the door open.

I stepped into the apartment. The janitor’s wife was in the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and smoking. As she moved, her large hat bumped against the cabinets on both sides of the kitchen. The straw of her hat rustled, the water in the kettle bubbled and boiled, the jars, the cups, the sugar came down, little spoons made small triangle sounds, and then the pouring and stirring inside china cups lifted my sprits. I was going to sit on the dog-walker’s chair, converse with his wife, and have a warm drink inside his house. What a triumph!

Do you want a drink, or just tea? the janitor’s wife asked me.

Tea, please.

Tea, she repeated with irony and disappointment, and I could hear the rustling straw of her hat again as she advanced with the tray and laid it in front of me on a low coffee table that I immediately recognized. I had seen that table once before, on the sidewalk outside our building. In the moving season, people throw out what they do not need. I was hesitant to pick up the table at the time. Low and round, chipped on one side to show its layers underneath, layers more orderly and refined than all the rocks and stones below gardens and fields. Each metal leg branched out into a triangle that fastened with screws to the bottom of the table’s surface. I had hovered around it for a while, had done a little dance, looked around for tenants or trotting dogs, but then I changed my mind. The white surface was too shiny, I decided, and if I let it sit in the middle of my room, light from the sun might strike it, bounce off, and paste a luminous square on my wall. And I, like a moth, would be drawn to it.

The janitor’s wife took off her hat and leaned over the table. Her eyes looked bigger now, lit by the table’s reflection, shining like a lake (I had been right not to take that piece of furniture). She turned, poured, and waved her spoon at me like a conductor. And then the little china cup came shimmering above my lap, and gold traces on the inner rim of the porcelain were lapped by golden tea, subtle, austere, and expensive tea, now surrounded by a delicate saucer and the elaborate high handle of a white cup that made my pinky tingle and stand erect, a nation’s pride.

Nice china, I said.

Okay! the janitor’s wife exclaimed. The lady is old and dying, okay? Just drink your tea. She poured the tea brusquely as if it were hard liquor that would land in your stomach and make you happy to stand up, dance, chant, and drink from a lady’s shoes.

Those shoes look a bit small on your feet, I whispered with my mouth inside the china cup.

These are mine, not hers, my companion answered, raising her voice. If you want to speak like that, you can go outside now. Anyhow, the old lady’s husband stole everything from the Indians, or the Chinese. Maybe he paid nothing, or very little.

Oh yes, I agree, I said. And what high culture did not steal, borrow, claim, or pay very little?

Yes, she said. I have a master’s degree in anthropology from the best university in Russia, so I know. Do not talk about that. I know more than you.

Well, yes, I said. I am glad you are taking all these things and giving them a new life.

A new life here in the basement, the janitor’s wife added, and surprised me with a loud laugh that made her sound like a pirate. She continued: The old lady has a beautiful big trunk, maybe from China or Japan, but my husband is. . he is afraid. No, not afraid. He believes in the gods. He is Greek!

Oh, is he? I smiled. But he seems so fearless, always walking with his eyes on the horizon, not looking at where his feet land.

Well. . he is half Spartan and very proud. Anyway, it is none of your business, but the trunk is heavy.

Well, I could help you transport it, I said. And you don’t think anyone would notice?

The old lady has a niece, but she never comes to visit.

But when the old lady dies, perhaps the niece will want to claim back the family belongings?

No, she does not know anything about the house or the furniture, not to worry. I will call you when my husband is away, and you can help me carry the trunk. I told him that I wanted to bring the trunk here and we had a big fight. He wanted to break all the china. . Still, I told him I would bring the trunk here. He does not believe me.

Well, yes, just knock at my door anytime you are ready, I said.

What do you want in payment?

Oh nothing, I said. I am just doing it for history’s sake.

You mean to see things go from one culture to another?

No, to watch the loot of war buried, the stolen treasure put back where it belongs, in the underground. I laughed loudly. The underground!

The basement! The janitor’s wife laughed with me. History is coming to the basement, she laughed. Okay, now you can go, she said, and chuckled, and then she remembered my historical words again, and hysterically she laughed.

As I walked out of her apartment and past the sombre cement walls of the basement, I heard the janitor’s wife’s locks and bolts closing the door on the last movement of The Rite of Spring , and I hummed the symphony’s tune, graceful as Snow White.

DURING MY SHOWER, I collected the small pieces of soap that were stranded on my tub’s edges and lathered myself. I am fascinated by the flow of water. It never ceases to amaze me, how all is swept away, how everything converges in the same stream, along the same trajectory. And what really fascinates me is the bits of soap foam floating down the drain, swirling and disappearing. Little things like this make me think. I start to assess my existence based on these observations.

Soon I was clean and dressed. I even did the dishes — against the roaches’ will, depriving them of a wealth of crumbs. A rare feeling of accomplishment, of self-esteem descended upon me. I assured myself that a good, clean, hardworking man such as me could not possibly be left out to burn on that last day or be subjected to the rule of cockroaches in the world to come.