by Rawi Hage
Okay, ça suffit, she said. The neighbours will come out now. They are going to think we are crazy, she laughed. She loved being labelled crazy. La bourgeoise thinks that she is wild and crazy! She is convinced that she and la gang, as she calls her friends, are dingue.
Reza and I took off our shoes and entered Sylvie’s apartment. Reza walked towards the piano. He recognized the Steinway. He walked around it, passed his palm across its shiny black surface. He and Sylvie chatted about it and then he laid his box on the coffee table. Sylvie was intrigued. On her way to the kitchen, she glanced at me, and said: Il est charmant, ton copain. I smiled and followed her to the kitchen, where I remembered the cheeseboard’s position, the wine bottle on its belly, the fridge standing upright, the French baguette sticking out from the woven villager’s basket. All this brought back the memories of food and good living that I had once experienced.
Sylvie talked to Reza in her broken English with a heavy French accent, apologizing for her poor pronunciation. Reza smiled, assuring her that her English was perfect. He even laid his palm on her arm to reassure her. Their bodies moved closer and Sylvie asked him to play again, and he did. She told him that she loved his music, and that she would introduce him to a composer she had worked with on her own recording. She was very impressed when he told her that the instrument he played was a few hundred years old, that it was handed down from master to student. And that the seventy-two strings stood for the grandson of the Muslim prophet who was killed in battle with his entourage of seventy-two. Reza gave Sylvie the history of the instrument, and she was so intrigued that she asked him if she could touch it. He politely told her that he would rather not allow it, apologizing repeatedly.
Ah, je comprends, je comprends, she replied, I understand ça doit être tellement délicat.
Spirituel, I shouted from the kitchen, like a salesman closing the deal.
Ah, oui, spirituel. Mais, bien sûr, spirituel. Comment j’ai pas pensé à ça? Then Sylvie sat at the piano. As always, her long, silky robe dangled behind her, falling from the chair and touching the stage like an opera curtain. She played some of her own music for us, and her dramatic facial expressions made me sick. I remembered why I had felt I had to leave her and her lucrative la gang. But Reza stood beside the piano with a baby smile on his face, checking out the rich surroundings just like I had once upon a time. As her notes filled the space I went back to the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out goat cheese, ham, pâté, lettuce, tomatoes, olives, mustard, and mayonnaise, and made myself a duplex of a sandwich. Sylvie’s cat rubbed its whiskers against my feet. I hate pets. I have nightmares about them chasing me, leading me down sewers, into deep gutters, sticking me with their claws and flashing their fangs behind me. Creatures like this only have respect for what is above them.
When I was on my last bite, Sylvie stood in the kitchen doorway. I see you found your way to the food as usual, she said. Eat what you want, but do not steal anything today, please. Your friend looks decent. Do not embarrass him.
Maybe I should be going, I said, still chewing.
Reza didn’t want to leave; he gave me a “wait a little” wink. But Sylvie said she had an engagement and that settled it. On the way down the stairs Reza gave me the thumbs-up. We passed the entrance to the building but continued down the stairs, all the way to the laundry room. Reza poured the contents of a minuscule plastic bag onto the laundry counter and cut the powder with his bank card, and we both sucked it up like two loose vacuum cleaners. When we were warm, dry, and fluffy, we went back upstairs and walked the streets without feeling fear or the cold. A kind of grandiose assurance came over me and I felt confident and energetic.
Here is the deal, I said.
What deal? The deal is done. The deal is up your nose, man.
The deal has just started. You will make good with her friends. They don’t trust me anymore, but you they will trust. You are in. You have skills, you can perform, you do art. You naturally belong with the corrupt rulers, my friend. It must be because you come from a long line of Persian rulers. Six thousand years of civilization is finally paying off.
So, how did you belong? You have nothing to offer, no culture, no shit whatsoever. He laughed.
Do not be so sure about the latter, O grand heir of Xerxes. But okay. Listen. Let’s cut the shit. They are loaded. I bluffed my way. You know, I was l’aventurier. I gave them a sense of the real.
Real? You! Reza laughed.
The fuckable, exotic, dangerous foreigner, I said. Play it right and they will toss you from one party to another. I want a cut.
What cut?
I will get you the shit from Big Derrick. You just tell them it is the real stuff. Those guys will snort anything. And we will split the difference. You won’t forget your friend who is walking beside you. I know you won’t.
How do you know that?
Because. Just like I put you in, I can pull you back out.
Pretty confident, aren’t you? Let’s see what happens first.
Things will happen, I said. They will.
We separated and I walked back home. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I felt the landings getting longer. And when I passed by the windows on the landings, I went faster and faster. The wells of light looked like water that could drench my hair, gush over my shoulder, fall like mop-water out of buckets thrown from balconies by housewives in sunny places, with permanent cigarettes on their lips and aimless twitching eyes. Now I ran up the stairs, looking for my keys, but could not find them. Cursing Reza, I accused him of stealing my keys. Frantic, I took off my jacket and searched it. Then I took off my shoes, my pants, and dug my hands through many pockets. I found the keys at last and somehow managed to open my door. I went inside the apartment and quickly reached for the curtains on the windows and closed them. I had inexplicable energy. I wanted everything to cease moving, but at the same time I knew that nothing was really moving. I went to the kitchen and frantically banged my shoes on the counter, whether the creatures were there or not. I hit my shoes against the sink, the dishes, the fridge. Then I climbed onto the counter and hit the walls, chasing creatures and slapping them flat. I could see myself doing this as if I were someone else’s double and could predict every future move. Everything happened within time lapses. And just when I was about to kill a few more creatures, I heard a voice whispering to me: Manipulative, good-for-nothing murderer.
Before it could continue, I scrambled to the floor, lifted my slippers in the air, and said, Stop your insults or I might just slap your face.
Anger, hmmm. I never thought you would act on it again, the voice said.
And when I looked behind me, I saw the gigantic striped albino cockroach standing on two of its feet, leaning against the kitchen door. It had grown to my size — even bigger, if you were to measure its antennae that touched the ceiling. It had a long thin face, curved like a hunched back, and as it spoke two of its small hands continuously rubbed against each other. Let’s see you pounding with your slippers now, it said. Not feeling too big anymore, heh?
I was suddenly convinced that the Last Day the two Jehovah’s Witness ladies had told me about had come to pass, and that all the good people had been zipped up to heaven. Only the likes of me had been left to face the creatures, the future rulers of the earth. Judgment Day seems so informal, even personal, I thought. I had always thought there would be collective punishment, an endless line of exhausted people pulling on ropes under the whips of half-naked, leather-bound foremen and slave-drivers. But this seems more personal. A representative of the future ruling race is actually here to escort me.
So, the world finally came to an end, I said to the striped beast.
But mon cher. The slimy creature at my door leaned its head sideways. The world ended for you a long time ago. You never participated in it. Look at you, always escaping, slipping, and feeling trapped in everything you do.
It is not escape, I said. I refuse to be a subordinate. It is my voluntary decision.
Yes, yes, the creature said impatiently. Because in your deep arrogance you believe that you belong to something better and higher. You are what I call a vulture, living on the periphery of the kill. Waiting for the kill, but never having the courage to do it yourself.
And what is a cockroach like you to judge? I replied, waving my shoe in his face. Hiding and nibbling on bits and pieces, on crumbs, I shot back at him. I’m not intimidated by your size or your horrific looks.
Yes, we are ugly, but we always know where we are going. We have a project.
An evil, oppressive one, if I may add! I shouted.
A change. A project to change this world, the creature corrected me, and waved his whiskers.
And to subordinate and kill all those who do not conform to your project.
Kill? Did I hear you say kill? Dear child, let’s not be judgmental here. Let’s not open wounds and recite the past. I have known you since your childhood. I even bit you once. Ah, I am sure you remember that day back home. Imagine: a barefoot child, gliding on those dirty tiles, in a hurry to go outside and play. Without socks, and in a childish hurry, you slipped your little toes inside your little shoes and something soft and tender fretting in there bit you. That was me. When you hid in your mother’s closet I was also there, and when you stole candy from the store I was there, and when you collected bullets, and when you followed Abou-Roro down to the place of the massacre and watched him pull golden teeth from cadavers, I was there.
No, you were not! I threw my slipper at the creature’s face. Soles will make you shiver, insect! Ha ha ha, no matter how big you get you will always crawl, insect, crawl! I screamed at the monster. I, at least, have no fear of stomping soles, of the sound of earth when it rattles under marching men’s boots. I, at least, have the courage to refuse, to confront.
And kill? the insect interrupted me. You are one of us. You are part cockroach. But the worst part of it is that you are also human. Look at you how you strive to be worshipped by women, like those jealous, vain gods. Now go and be human, but remember you are always welcome. You know how to find us. Just keep your eyes on what is going on down in the underground.
V
WHEN I TOLD the therapist about my encounter with the giant cockroach, she was quiet for a moment, and then asked me to tell her more.
It was a big cockroach. And we had a conversation, I repeated.
What did you talk about?
Me.
What about you?
He said that I am part cockroach, part human.
Genevieve was quiet again. She looked me in the eyes. Do you feel part cockroach?
I don’t know, but I do not feel fully human.
What does it mean to be human?
I’m not sure. Maybe being human is being trapped.
To be an insect is to be free, then?
In a sense. Maybe.
Tell me how.
You are more invisible.
To whom, to what?
To everything, to the light.
How long ago did this happen?
What?
The encounter with the cockroach.
Five days ago. On Saturday.
And since that time, what happened? Did it visit you again? Or did anything else appear to you?
No. Nothing happened. Or everything happened as usual. I went to work the next day, everything was normal.
Did you take something that day you saw the cockroach?
Like what?
Like drugs.
I kept my silence.
If you still do drugs, I can’t help you, Genevieve said. But I am glad you shared that with me. It could be a reaction to something you took. If this happens more often, and especially when you are not on drugs — because you will not take drugs again, right? — you will tell me, right? I won’t ask more questions now, but you are lucky that you got out of the hallucination. Some people never recover from episodes. Drugs are usually not the only cause of hallucinations, but in your case they make you more vulnerable. What are we going to do about it?
About what?
About taking drugs! Genevieve’s voice became higher and she looked more irritated, more disappointed. I am here to assess your situation, she said, and to monitor your progress. Yes, I am here to help you, but you know what? In the end I am an employee of the government. People are paying taxes for you to be here. Do you understand my responsibilities? I really want to help, but you have to meet me halfway.
Somehow, despite her anger, I was waiting for her to touch my arm as she sometimes had in the past. But with time she had become more cautious. She could tell that I wanted to bring her hand into my lap, to hold on to her fingers. I hate to admit it, but the big roach knows me well. I want to be worshipped and admired.
THE NEXT DAY at noon, a soft, light cascade of snow fell. I could see it through my window. It was the kind of wet snow that hits the glass and immediately turns to water. I opened the window, stuck my hand outside, touched the outer side of the glass, and waited until a falling flake hit my open palm. I pulled back my hand, closed the window, and licked the drop in my palm. I had always wanted to capture one of those flakes before it settled and took over the ground, the cars, and the city roofs. Little creatures that seem insignificant and small are murderous in their sheer vast numbers, their conformity, their repetitiveness, their steady army-like movements, their soundless invasions. They terrify me.
My grandmother told me about the famine days, when zillions of grasshoppers came and invaded the countryside and ate all the grain, all the fruit, all the vegetables. Her family survived only because they had a few chickens and they dug up roots. But the famine took the lives of half the population, and then the Turkish army came and confiscated the stores of grain and food. There was a boy, she remembered, who was her own age and who came every day and asked my grandmother’s mother for food. All he said was, Aunty, I am hungry. But her mother chased him away. And then my grandmother chased him away. And then one day he didn’t show up. My grandmother cried as she told this story. She watched those insects settle like clouds on fields and turn them bare and plain. I see people that way, I see snow that way, I see wind, cars, the words that fly from people’s teeth, the white dust that I channel through my nostrils, the flowing water that way. Everything is made of little particles that gather in groups and invade. All nature gathers and invades.
How can I explain all of this to Genevieve? How can I tell her that I do not want to be part of anything because I am afraid I will become an invader who would make little boys hunger, who would watch them die with an empty stomach. I am part roach now, and what if my instincts make the best of me and lead me to those armies of antennae, hunched backs, and devouring teeth that are preparing from the underground to surface and invade? Could it be that the cockroach saw me throwing my rope over the tree in the park, and rushed to cut that branch above me? Yes, that is what must have happened. I had thought that branch was sturdy. I must go and take a look. I must walk back to the mountain and see if there are traces of nibbling teeth on the tree. I must walk up and look again. I must see it now. I will stand in front of the tree and imagine how I would have looked, hanging by a thread, with only a thin link to existence. But how, how to exist and not to belong?
A little while later, I walked to the park on the mountain, passing through a graveyard of marble angels and words carved in stone. I passed the man-made lake, the few bare maple trees. It is funny, I thought. What I remembered most was these trees. That day, I must have examined them all closely. Now I found the particular tree. I also saw a few horse droppings underneath it, which reminded me of the mounted-police post nearby. I looked up, trying to see the branch, but it was hard to see from the ground. I thought of climbing the tree, but was afraid that if I was seen again and captured by those modern horse-riders, they might think I was contemplating another attempt at my life. I walked around the tree for a little while, pretending that I was looking for squirrels to feed — or at
least that would be the official story if I were asked. Then I decided to walk back home because I was getting late for work, that place were humans and insects are equally fed.
I ENTERED THE RESTAURANT. Sehar was there, earlier than her usual time. These days she treated me like an employee, and she hardly ever went down to the basement anymore. If I followed her even accidentally, she looked at me with squinty eyes and said, What are you doing down here? Go up to your work. And she said this with defiance, with the abuse reserved for retards, for the sick-minded, the impolite, the hypocrites, the subversive.
After her meal she called out to me loudly, as one calls ancient servants, and asked me to bring her tea and sweets.
Somehow I found her treatment reassuring, because it meant her father would never suspect anything. His perception was that no princess would ever sleep with her inferior. But now that I had turned into a eunuch in her palace, a slave to bring her food and fill the pool with warm water for her bath, I knew that she might wait for the king to be away fighting dragons and slaying peasants, and then she might pretend that I was a gladiator, and touch my muscles, and have her orgasm before dropping me into a circle of lions.
I brought Sehar her tea and looked her in the eyes. She shifted her gaze immediately. Then as soon as I turned my back, she called to me and said: This tea is too strong. Go bring me another one.
Shall I put that one in a doggy bag, My Highness? I inquired politely.
I could tell she wanted to laugh, but she kept a serious face. Then she barely smiled and said, Just get me another one, and pushed the cup towards me.
A little later, the owner called me over. He asked me to get my coat from downstairs, and when I did, he said, Come. I followed him out of the restaurant.
Stay outside here, the owner told me, and if anyone comes to the restaurant you say, We are closed until seven for a private party. Understand?
Yes.
What will you say?
Sorry, we are closed for a private party.