by Rawi Hage
Talking about shoes, I once saw the janitor on the sidewalk walking the dog of a neighbour, an old lady in our building. The janitor’s wife would bring the old lady food, and on summer days, when the branches of the neighbourhood trees were full of maple leaves, she would drag the old lady out to the sidewalk to bathe in the sun. She took care of the old lady, and also stole her china and the clothes from her youth. When I saw the janitor that morning, he was scraping the ground with one of his feet, rubbing his shoe along the edge of the sidewalk. He had stepped in another dog’s shit. He was cursing people who do not pick up after their dogs. And the old lady’s dog was barking, bewildered, its feelings hurt. It would bark and jump at the janitor’s feet, and sniff, growl, and pull on its leash in protest.
I laughed at them. And the janitor saw me laughing. He looked me in the eye and cursed me in Macedonian, calling me a filthy Turk, or maybe a dog, or perhaps a filthy Turkish dog. And ever since, when he sees me in a hallway or in the basement, he climbs the high steps on his ladder and dangles a wire towards my neck like an executioner. I always remind him of his faux pas, and once I even told him to watch his step because the world is filled with . . . but I paused and added . . . Well, because you know how dangerous heights can be. And I laughed under the bright new light of a fresh bulb.
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, a
nd 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.
A good day indeed! I proclaimed to the seagulls gliding like falling maple leaves outside my window. Now all I need is to get myself a package of cigarettes and a good cup of morning coffee. I remembered how on that day not so long ago, just before I walked to the park and looked for the tree with a rope in my hand, I had a good cup of coffee. I enjoyed that cup the most. Of course, you might think I enjoyed it because it was my last and I made the effort to enjoy it, savour it slowly, wrap my palms around it, brood over it a little, and pay more attention to it. But no, you are wrong; it really was a good cup of coffee. When I had finished my coffee and decided on a tree, I tried to throw my rope over the branch. But I found the task impossible and I realized I lacked some basic cowboy skills. Then I tried to climb the tree, but it was a cold day and my exposed fingers became so frozen that I could not keep from slipping. I changed trees, found a lower branch. I mean, everything was pathetic.
The plan did not work — the branch broke. I tried. I failed.
II
A FEW DAYS PASSED, and then it was time again to climb the stairs of the public health clinic and sit in my interrogation chair.
This time, the therapist was interested in my mother.
My mother, I said, has kinky hair.
What else? she asked.
A long face and pointy teeth.
What does she do?
Well, I said, when she was not dangling clothing by the arms or the ankles off the balcony she would stir her wooden spoon around a tin pot, in a counter-clockwise motion, and if she was not busy doing that, she was chasing after us with curses and promises that she would dig our graves.
Can you elaborate? the therapist asked.
Can you be more specific? I asked in return.
Yes. Did you like her? Was she nice to you?
Yes, I said, she was wonderful, even when I was hanging on to her apron begging her not to leave us, even when I was hiding behind the dresser, watching her jeer in my father’s face, betting with my sister which of her eyes would get the first punch (I always bet on the left side), even when I was chasing a few flying dollar bills as she screamed, What am I supposed to buy with this? I am leaving you, Joseph. You feed the kids. Let your mother come and cook for them if you do not like my food, let her cook for you and your dumb, square-headed, filthy, retard kids. Or better yet, let the midget jockey of your losing horse come and feed them.
I told you not to mention the horses in front of the kids, Manduza, I continued, mimicking my father this time. I told you, my father huffed as I was losing my bet, watching my mother’s kinky hair flying like the hair of a pony on the run.
So, do you love your mother? the therapist asked, pasting on her usual compassionate face.
Yes, I do, I said, thinking that if I told her anything more, I wouldn’t leave this place for two hours. The shrinks are all big on mothers in this land.
The therapist nodded, leaned her chin on her fingers, cracked a spooky smile, and asked, Can you tell me about a happy incident with your mother?
Well, I cannot think of any now, professor. Excuse me. Maybe I should call you doctor?
Genevieve. Genevieve is fine.
Genevieve, I said. Well, if you give me some time for a long walk, maybe in the park across the street, among the trees, I will light a cigarillo somewhere around the war-hero statue, and consult with the pigeons and the begging squirrels. I might be inspired and be able to get back to you next time with wonderful stories.
Was your mother nourishing? Genevieve asked.
With food, you mean?
Well, okay, food. Let’s talk about food.
I like food, I said. Though I worry about food shortages lately.
Did you have enough food in your youth? For now I am interested in your past.
Yes.
A lot of food? she asked.
Yes.
Hmmm. No shortage of food?
No.
You were always skinny like that?
Yes, yes, always.
Listen, she said and leaned my way, I am here to help you. You have to trust me. I am here because you need help. You have to tell me more about your childhood. Who did you play with? Did you have a dog? Did you climb trees?
Yes, I said. I climbed everything, trees, stairs, into windows and cars, whatever it took to . . .
To what?
To get things.
Like what things?
Like silverware, wallets, lipstick, whatever would sell, you know. I winked at Genevieve, but I must have aimed a little to the left because my wink bounced off a cheap reproduction of a Matisse painting of a vase and flowers.
You stole things.
Well yes, I did, I guess. But what kid does not steal?
Do you steal now?
I looked around, left my chair, opened the door, peered outside the room, waited for an African family with a feverish crying baby to pass down the corridor and shake hands with a pediatrician, and then I returned to my seat and said: Yes, sometimes. I said this in a low voice.
That’s okay, Genevieve said. She cracked yet another big smile. That’s okay. This is all confidential.
Confidential, I repeated.
She nodded, and reached out to take my hand, and squeezed. You can, and should, tell me anything and everything. I am here to help.
I held on to her fingers, and as our hands began to get warm, she pulled hers away slowly, fixed her glasses, straightened her skirt, shifted her legs, and sighed with what I hoped was triumph and relief. For no apparent reason, this made me curious about her past, her childhood of snow and yellow schoolbuses, quiet green grass and Christmas lights, her Catholic school that forbade flames, cigarettes, and orgasms. Had she waited for the bus like those girls I saw walking in short plaid skirts in forty-degree-below temperatures? Had she giggled when she saw cute boys? Had she, like my sister, played with herself under her bedclothes, had she bitten her lower lip as she ejaculated rivers of sweaty men?
But really, how naive and innocent this woman is, I thought. If she only knew what I am capable of.
AFTER MY THERAPY SESSION, I passed by the Artista Café and looked for the professor. He was just getting out of the bathroom, shaking his wet hands. I pulled a few napkins from a container on the counter and went over to him. There is never any paper to dry the hands, I said, and that blower is worse than a dying desert wind. I smiled in his face. He took the paper and dried his hands, not grateful but proud. Vingt-cinq sous, mon professeur, I said, and laughed and extended my hand towards him.
The professor paused and looked at me, not sure whether I was the joker, the beggar, or the bogeyman. Then I laid my hand on his pile of wet napkins and pulled one of them slowly, taking it back, gently but intensely, and I laid my other hand below his moist knuckles and put my mouth against his ear and whispered, Twenty-five cents or I shall make these napkins sweep up blood and tears from under our feet, professor.
The professor slowly reached inside his pocket and looked around and pretended to laugh, as if he had just heard a joke made while standing on luxurious carpet between opera acts, below large chandeliers, between the whites of two tuxedos. When he handed me what I had asked for, I became giddy and full of love, and I ran out into the cold looking for a city phone that was not too far away and not too noisy from which to call my beloved.
Shohreh answered the phone and agreed to meet me in a café for a coffee that afternoon.
In the café I made Shohreh laugh by imitating Reza’s nasal voice and wobbly walk. I told her that the conservative coke-head had refused to give me her phone number because, as he put it: She is not that kind of girl. She is Iranian, she is like a sister to me.
Sister! Sister! That hypocrite! Shohreh exclaimed. He was so desperate to sleep with me he even offered to marry me. I refused his offer, of course. No, no Iranian men for me anymore. I am sick of them, they are all mama’s boys; they want their houses to be cleaned and their meals on the table. She lit a cigarette and slammed the package onto the table next to her coffee cup.
I can live in filth and hunger, I assured her. My mother lives far away, and if we ever get married, no one has to clean because I can tolerate filth, cockroaches, and mountains of dishes that would tower above our heads like monumental statues, like trophies, testifying that we value lovemaking and a hedonistic existence, and that all else can wait! And even if you were my sister, I wouldn’t mind hearing your most intimate fantasies.
Shohreh laughed and called me crazy. You are so dirty, she said softly, and suddenly her long, black hair fell away from her face, her thick, arched eyebrows smiled at me and pierced my chest, her laugh escaped her and slapped me in the face, kicked me in the gut, mopped the floor with my hairy chest, dipped me in sweat and squeezed my heart with unbearable happiness. I will sleep with you, said Shohreh, but you have to tell Reza all about it. Reza and his like need to understand, once and for all, that I am not their virgin on hold, not their smothering mother, not their obedient sister. I am not a testament to their male, nationalistic honour.