Cockroach

by Rawi Hage

  Until what time?

  Seven.

  The owner nodded and went back inside.

  After a few minutes, a limousine stopped in front of the restaurant and two large men got out. One walked towards me and stood next to me. The other went into the restaurant. The owner came outside and said to the man beside me, Yes, he works here. He motioned for me to come back inside.

  The man walked back to the car, opened a door, and a short Middle Eastern man got out holding his hat, and went inside the restaurant. The owner ran to meet the short man at the door, greeting him and taking his coat. He bowed his head like I had never seen him do before, and extended his arm and showed the short man the way inside. The two big men looked around, protecting the short man like bodyguards do, while the owner showered the short man with welcomes, bowing like a servant. One of the large men — the driver — left after looking around. The other sat at the bar with his shaded glasses and big biceps. The short man sat down at a table in the corner. When I went to light the candle on his table, the owner stopped me and ordered me to go to the kitchen and do some work and not come too close. The owner served the short man himself, smiling and rubbing his hands together like the meek merchant that he was. The cook was ordered to start working on the order right away, then called over to the table by the owner. The owner introduced the cook to the short man, and the cook leaned towards the man’s menu and explained something to him in Farsi, pointing his index finger at the menu. The short man nodded. The cook took back the menu and smiled politely and went back to the kitchen. I watched their gestures; the short man was important.

  Sehar was still in the restaurant, looking bored and neglected. She went behind the bar and picked up the phone and started to chat and play with her hair. Her father took the phone out of her hand and gave her a severe look that was followed by an order. She went back and sat at the table next to the kitchen door. She looked my way and then went down the stairs, glancing at me again. I continued mopping the floor. The cook was busy, concentrating on the stove. He looked preoccupied, as if he had thirty orders. The owner went in and out of the kitchen, restlessly arranging small plates and distracting the cook with his nervous body gestures and questions. Meanwhile, I pictured his daughter-deity’s fingers roaming the underground. They must have reached beautiful Venice and its tight watercourses by now. I swabbed the floor and swung the mop like a gondolier, wishing I could be singing to the drifting tide beneath her thighs.

  A few minutes later, Reza showed up with his musicians. Shohreh and Farhoud had also come with Reza. The bodyguard made them all open their bags, including Reza’s instrument case. The owner walked to the door to talk to Shohreh and Farhoud. His manner seemed apologetic, as if he were telling them that it was a private party. But Shohreh would not take no for an answer. She continued to talk with the owner, pointing at Reza, who stood by, hesitant. Then the owner bowed his head and went to the short man to ask his permission. The man glanced up quickly at the owner and nodded. The owner turned and snapped his fingers at me. I left Venice and its waters and walked across the floor. You help them, the owner said in his usual laconic manner.

  When Shohreh and Farhoud saw me, they both smiled. Shohreh was amused to see me with the white apron around my waist. Farhoud said, Okay, where is the menu, mister waiter? He snapped his fingers and they both giggled.

  As they checked the menu, I waited above their heads with a little book and a pencil in my palm, making maps of Venice, drawing old Italian houses and long, wet canals, and the ink flooded across the pages like murky water. Shohreh asked me a complicated question, sometimes talking to me in Farsi, knowing well that I did not understand it. In the background I could hear Reza and his band tuning their instruments, the cook banging on his pots, the rice steaming, the snow falling, and the daughter’s heavy breathing sounding like foreign languages on a shortwave radio. Finally they ordered and I went back to the cook, who was not happy to receive my incoherent orders, my mispronunciation of the dishes’ names, my slow instructions. He corrected me with curt mumbles that sounded like spitting fire, that hit me in the face like splashes of boiling oil. The whole place was at the service of the short man at the table in the corner. The waiter waited, standing like a guard; the owner buzzed and kneeled and danced and whispered and ordered us around. He looked so pathetic in front of this mysterious man.

  A few minutes later I served my friends rice and saffron, lamb in pomegranate sauce, and mast-o-khiar. Shohreh was dressed up and she looked like a lady, with her little black leather purse, her makeup, her high heels, her see-through silk shawl covering her shoulders, twisting around her elbow, and bending down to lick her knees. Farhoud wore a black suit and bowtie, and he had combed his hair to the side and pasted gel to hold it. He looked like a tough gangster from an old American movie. They were dressed up, playful, exaggerating the elegance of their movements, graceful without shame, assertive, chic, defiant, confident, and they giggled the whole time, not taking anything seriously, not the owner, not the little candles that emitted heat, flickered red, and directed the oval plates in my hands. Shohreh sent me kisses, flirted with me, winked at me, and when I approached the table she took off a shoe and touched my leg with her toes. I imagined pulling the tablecloth swiftly from under the dishes, the candle, and her elbow, just like a magician. I would dangle that tablecloth from the ceiling and annex a part of the room. I would hang it like a veil and strip Shohreh naked, pour yogurt on her breast, and lick it off with my lips and tongue. I would trip the bodyguard, seize a gun, shoot the owner, the cook, and the dead chicken above the stove, pull a red Persian carpet from the wall, flip it twice in the air, and fly with my lover above this white city, through the chilling wind, and land on a warm beach where I would walk with her along the shore, shoes in our hands and the sun in our eyes.

  I watched Shohreh and saw that she talked like a star, smoked like a star, drank like a star. Both my friends ate slowly and delicately. Shohreh made sure none of the food touched her red lipstick, and Farhoud served her like she was a queen. They toasted each other, and turned to toast me as well. Sehar watched all of this from behind the counter. She seemed fascinated with Shohreh. When Shohreh got up and walked to the bathroom, Sehar’s eyes opened wide. My lover came towards me, and in a seductive melodic tone (just as Reza’s santour reverberated to a high note) she whispered: Where is the bathroom, please? I showed her the way. She fluttered her eyelashes and swung her shawl and went slowly down the stairs swinging her hips, carefully depositing every step on the stairs. Near the bottom she looked back at me, and smiled and winked and blew me a kiss. And I wondered if I should unwrap my apron, throw away my latex gloves, make sure the kids were asleep, fix my hair, close the bedroom door, and change into something more comfortable.

  When Shohreh came back up the stairs, Sehar stood in her way. Shohreh smiled and tried to pass around her, but the owner’s daughter still stood in the way, mesmerized. She wanted to look at Shohreh up close. Shohreh smiled, excused herself, and walked by, swaying her upper body in quarter-notes. And then, as she crossed the floor, she stopped. She looked at the short man. Her hands dropped, her walk changed. She walked fast, back to the table. There she drank and looked agitated. She moved her head left and right, glancing again and again at the short man’s back. Then she stood up and walked back towards the bathroom, bumping into a few chairs as she hurtled down to the basement. Sehar followed her. I followed them both. I found Shohreh in the corridor, nauseous, leaning her arm against the wall, her head towards the floor, holding her stomach.

  Are you okay, Madame? Sehar asked.

  Shohreh released a feeble nod, then rushed to the bathroom. Her face suspended in front of her body, she spilled part of her vomit on the bathroom floor and splashed the rest of it into the toilet bowl. I rushed upstairs to get water while Sehar held her arm. Then Shohreh grabbed the edge of the door frame and leaned on it, unsure whether she wanted to go back upstairs or stay. She barely drank from the glass o
f water I offered her. I rushed back to the closet and got her some napkins.

  I must go, she mumbled.

  I helped Shohreh up the stairs. As she crossed the floor, she held the napkins to her mouth, covering her face. The owner saw me holding her arm and became even more distressed. Farhoud stood up, surprised, and the bodyguard too stood up from his stool, facing us and keeping an eye on us. Shohreh went over and talked to the owner in Farsi. He was quiet and kept glancing towards the short man, wondering if any of this was disrupting his important guest’s meal. Farhoud pulled out his wallet to pay, but the owner laid his hand on the wallet and refused to take the money. Instead he rushed them both out the door, eager to get rid of them.

  I followed my friends outside. They were walking slowly, shuffling their feet on the sidewalk. Then they stopped and faced each other. I rushed towards them and saw Shohreh in tears. She and Farhoud were speaking in Farsi and I could not understand them. Then Shohreh’s demeanour suddenly changed and her face looked angry. She appeared to want to go back to the restaurant, but Farhoud grabbed her by the arm and held her back, gesturing with his hands, talking to her in a soft voice. Then Shohreh turned to me, and said, Do you know who the man is? Do you know? Do you know the man?

  I was confused, and before I could answer, Farhoud pushed her back, talked to her, tried to calm her down, and dragged her towards the bus station. Then he looked my way and said, Go back. You will catch a cold without your jacket on. Go back. She is okay with me.

  I went back. As soon as I entered the door of the restaurant, the owner rushed over to me and said in a low voice, Come.

  I followed him to the kitchen.

  He walked all the way to the back. Then he asked me, What happened to that girl?

  I am not sure.

  My food is all clean. If she said that she had food poisoning, it is not true. She ate the same food as everyone else. What did she say?

  I cannot understand Farsi, sir, but she seemed upset. Maybe she had a fight with her friend.

  The owner went to the door of the kitchen and called Reza. Reza gave a sign to the rest of the musicians and followed the owner. I saw him bowing his head and shaking it in denial, quietly gesturing with his hands.

  The owner come back to me, irritated, and said: Take the mop and clean downstairs. Use soap.

  I took the bucket and the mop, and filled the bucket with soap and water. I put everything down at the door to the bathroom, fetched a roll of paper towels from the closet, rolled it around my palm, tore it, and walked back towards my lover’s remains. I swept it all up, until the last bit, the last grain of rice, the last fluid, had disappeared into the bucket, and as I swept I wondered if any of my saliva from last night had been rejected today by her body. I dipped the mop into the bucket, squeezed it, and started to move my gondolier’s pole through all the sewers that run beneath the earth. Then I poured the bucket into the toilet bowl, and all that Shohreh had eaten was gone, feeding the city gutters honey and jasmine. I thought how the long, hollow tunnels must be happy, echoing with the joy of packs of rodents, insects, pet alligators, thirsty vampires, and blind bats. All shall feast on what her teeth ground, her eyes imagined, her fingers ordered, and her lips have touched.

  AT THE END of the evening Reza waited for me at the door, standing there with his instrument box wrapped up in a thick quilt. Let’s talk, he said. What happened with Shohreh?

  You were there, I answered.

  I couldn’t see or hear anything. The owner asked me if Shohreh and Farhoud were my friends. I’ve got to stop bringing people I know to this place. First you — the owner thinks he did me a favour by hiring you. Now if I want to ask for a raise he will mention you, just to make me feel like he did me a great favour. And then, this tonight! Shohreh acting like a drama queen. What the fuck! I am making a living here. What’s with you people? You come here and get me in trouble. So, tell me what was wrong with the diva?

  I don’t know, I said. I just don’t know. She kept on asking me if I knew that man.

  What man?

  I don’t know. Call and ask her.

  Which way are you going? Reza asked me.

  Home.

  Come over to my place.

  No, I am going back home, I said.

  Reza turned and left me and walked towards the subway, and I watched his big body hugging his instrument case as if it were a permanent companion. I kept walking, and when I had gone a block, a taxi pulled up beside me. The window rolled down and I saw Majeed. He gestured to me to get in. I opened the door and sat in the passenger seat.

  Did you see where that man who was in the restaurant went? Majeed asked me. Did you see what direction?

  What man?

  The man in the restaurant — a short, bald Iranian man.

  The owner?

  No.

  The customer?

  Yes.

  He left a while ago, with his bodyguard. His limousine driver picked him up. So that’s what Shohreh was upset about? She asked me about the man as well. Did she send you here?

  Majeed did not answer me.

  What is going on? I persisted.

  It’s not important. Where do you live?

  Pinnacle Street.

  I will drive you home.

  In the car there was silence between Majeed and me. Only the radio dispatcher spoke, calling out car numbers, giving addresses, making the car sound like a spaceship travelling past houses of humans and nests of squirrels. Majeed looked pensive, perhaps a little stressed. After a while I tried to make a conversation with him, but it seemed as if he was in a rush to drop me off. He offered me a cigarette. I took one. He partially opened his window and drove with one hand on the wheel while he smoked with the other. I cracked my window and smoked too, puffing at the passing buildings, the passing signs, the passing lives, the wind, the cold, and the deep, dark sky.

  You must meet a lot of different people in this job, I said at last.

  He nodded, then smiled, and then he said, Yes, all kinds. In this job you meet all kinds. He was taken with his thought, swallowing the cigarette’s fumes, holding every inhalation, making sure every ounce of nicotine touched his heart, stained his lungs, rushed through two cycles of his blood, yellowed his teeth, and was finally released to face the trembling cold air that rushed through the open car windows, smashed against the windshield, ricocheted off dizzying wipers that swung back and forth like a man caught between many thoughts, streets, languages, lovers, backseat conversations, red lights, traffic, metal bars, a few women, and a storm.

  Yesterday these two kids got in the car, Majeed said. They wanted to go to a strip joint on St-Catherine. But they said they wanted to stop at a bank on the way. So I stopped at the bank. I watched them in the rear-view mirror. The girl was maybe sixteen. She had high heels and a very short skirt and only a small jacket. She must have been very cold. The boy was drunk. When they reached the bank, the girl took the boy’s hand and they both started to run. I made a U-turn in the middle of the street and chased them with my car. They went into the back alley beside the bank building. You should have seen the girl running with those high heels and her underwear almost showing. The boy was so drunk she had to hold his hand and pull him. I caught up with them. I made them come back inside the car. She said to me, I was looking for the manager but the bank was closed.

  I said: I am getting paid or I will take you to the police.

  Then the guy said, Take me to a depanneur.

  I said, Okay, but only one of you goes into the store. The other stays in the car.

  When I stopped at a depanneur, the girl said, I will get the money. She got out and then she ran, leaving her boyfriend in the car.

  I said to the boy, Your friend left and you have to pay me or I will take you to the police.

  He was scared. He got out the money and gave me twenty dollars. I said, You are not getting change back. Go now. He left. There are all kinds of stories, my friend. This business is just crazy. Then Majeed aske
d me: How long have you been here?

  Seven years, I said.

  Your family is here?

  No.

  I haven’t seen my parents in twenty years, he said.

  Shohreh is your family, I said.

  Majeed looked at me, smoked, and kept quiet. Then, for no apparent reason, he said: You know, we come to these countries for refuge and to find better lives, but it is these countries that made us leave our homes in the first place.

  What do you mean?

  You know, these countries we live in talk about democracy, but they do not want democracy. They want only dictators. It is easier for them to deal with dictators than to have democracy in the countries we come from. I fought for democracy. I was tortured for democracy, by both the Shah and the mullahs, on two separate occasions. Both regimes are the same. And you know what I do now because of democracy? I drive a car for twelve hours a day, he said, and laughed. Do you think if the mullahs go away there will be democracy in my country? No! They will put back somebody else who is a dictator. Maybe not a religious one, but it will be the same. Do you understand?

  Yes, I do.

  Does that bald man come often to the restaurant?

  Maybe you should ask Reza. He has been working there for a long time, I said.

  That musician will not tell me anything. He just wants to play. I will not ask him anything. He does not care about anything. He does not want to talk about politics. He belongs to that new, hedonistic generation. So, you had never seen this man before?

  No, I said.

  Majeed stopped in front of my home. He pulled out a business card, wrote a number on the back, and said to me, Here. This is my number. If that man comes again to the restaurant, could you call me?

  What about that man? I asked. Who is he?

  Let’s just say he is an old acquaintance of ours.

  Who is “us”?

  Us! Exiles! He left me on the sidewalk and his car lights trailed away, bouncing off the reflections of neon signs on the wet ground. I watched him disappear.