by Rawi Hage
Fine, I said, let’s go outside.
We all went towards the door to the back alley, me in the lead. Just before I got to the door, I stopped and looked behind me and called out to the waiter, telling him that I would see him afterwards. As everyone looked back to see the waiter’s reaction, I grabbed an empty coffee mug from a deserted table. As soon as I reached the back alley, I swung around, jumped forward, and hit the big man on his forehead with the mug. He collapsed. Everyone ran to his rescue, and then some of the men came towards me. I put my hand behind my back, pretending I was holding something dangerous. The professor, trembling, stood between me and the others and shouted, waving his hands in the air: Stay away! He has something, maybe a knife. They all stopped in their tracks. I walked away. When I reached the end of the little alley I started to run. Then I stopped. I felt a bit of coffee liquid sticky between my fingers. It smelled like sour milk, and the idea that it had touched some human’s lips repulsed me. I buried my hand in a snowbank and started to clean it. A dog and his owner passed me by. The dog stopped and licked itself. Filthy dog, I thought.
I walked. I walked all evening. I could have picked three more fights. I did not feel the cold anymore. I felt the warmth of violence. I thought: All one has to do is substitute one sensation for another. Changes. Life is all about changes.
THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY, I stood in the hallway outside Shohreh’s apartment and watched Sylvie’s bracelets. Her painted nails grabbed the stair rail, and I heard her laugh ascending towards Shohreh’s door. I leaned over the landing and thought how much I had come to despise that woman. I could not stand her or her friends. I was worried that her friend the politician’s son would breathe processed food in my face. But even more than that, I was worried that the industrialist’s son wouldn’t show up. At last his head came into view, and I was relieved. I saw his straight yellow hair and I went back inside to Shohreh and said to her, They are here.
Majeed will give you a lift, she said.
Sylvie and her friends entered, loud and happy. They were already drunk and high. Reza was laughing among them, hugging his santour and his quilt. Inside there was plenty of food displayed on the table in the middle of the kitchen, where everyone would end up smoking and drinking.
Majeed entered the apartment and walked straight towards me.
Give me a minute, he said. He went to the bathroom.
I found Shohreh. I stood beside her and said, I am off. She squeezed my hand. I leaned my lips towards her ear and told her that I wanted her to hold my hand forever. She smiled, and squeezed my hand again.
Majeed came out of the bathroom. I followed him out of the apartment and down the stairs. He walked slowly. He even opened his car door slowly. We drove across town, down towards the bridge. We took the casino exit and arrived at the place where the son of the industrialist lived. I told Majeed to stop just before we reached the entrance. I asked him to park and wait across the street from the building. Then I hurried towards the entrance. I crawled against the walls and under the glass door of the lobby entrance. The doorman was sitting at his desk. I looked up at him and passed right under his nose, and made my way into the apartment. I rushed straight to the bedroom. I dug into the son of the industrialist’s drawers. One of his drawers was filled with medicine. I cursed him: weapon-loving hypochondriac, son of the manufacturer of filth. I turned to the closet where I knew he kept his gun. It was still in the towel I had used to wrap it all that time ago. I pulled out the magazine and saw that it was still full of bullets. I passed my hand over the shelf in the closet and found a small box with bullets in it. This I took. And then I went downstairs looking for money, gold, anything small I could carry. I found nothing. I slipped down the stairs to the basement, exited, and walked around the building.
I climbed back into the car with Majeed. He did not say a word to me at first. Then he broke the silence and asked: Did you get what you need?
Yes, I said.
He nodded and drove back towards the city.
Majeed, what is in the file I gave you? I said.
Information about weapons. Canada is selling weapon parts to Iran. Does the man who comes to the restaurant have an Iranian or a Canadian bodyguard?
Canadian.
Yes, of course. The Canadian government assigned him protection. They want to make sure he stays well and that the deal goes through.
But Canada . . .
Of course, Canada! Montreal, this happy, romantic city, has an ugly side, my friend. One of the largest military-industrial complexes in North America is right here in this town. What do you think? That the West prospers on manufacturing cars, computers, and Ski-Doos?
Do you still have the file? I asked him.
No. I gave it to Shohreh. She asked me for it, he said. I thought she would have told you. There are these charts in English . . . Did you read it before you gave it to me? Oh, right. You can’t read Persian . . .
Well, I can, but I don’t understand what I read.
Right, of course. We use Arabic letters in Persian.
What else does it say? I asked.
Well, some local weapon manufacturer is in the process of producing lighter weapons. And Iran wants the light weapons.
Light, I said. Everybody wants things to be light.
Yes, agreed Majeed. Light arms for boy soldiers so they can use and handle these weapons better. The old machinery is too heavy for those kids who are forced to join the armies. The light weapons could be easily managed. So they are manufacturing them light.
I am always suspicious of the light, I mumbled.
This should be stopped, Majeed said.
Yes, I said. Let’s drive back to Shohreh’s place. The music must have started.
I ENTERED SHOHREH’S bedroom and slipped the gun under her mattress. Then I went back to the living room. Reza was tuning his instrument and everyone was quiet, waiting for the music to start. Finally Reza and his band played. Sylvie and her friends applauded. They were impressed, of course. But they were a little aloof towards me, and they avoided me all evening. They feared me still, but no longer admired me. The phase of the foreign savage was gone. Now was the time of the monkey with the music box.
Later, Shohreh danced with Farhoud. They pulled me onto the floor and all three of us put our hands on one another’s shoulders and danced in a small circle together.
A last dance, Shohreh whispered, weeping and kissing us on both cheeks. And then everyone started to dance. I left the crowd, fetched my jacket, went back to the bedroom, pulled out the gun from under the mattress, hid it under my jacket, and walked out. I saw the industrialist’s son coming my way, and he was high and swaying and mumbling. He approached me with open arms, wanting to hug me with his family rings and arms. As soon as he got close to me I grabbed him by his collar. I made sure he never touched my jacket or the gun underneath it, and I pushed him away hard, cursing his father and mine. I took the stairs down to the streets and walked back to my home.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON when I arrived at work, the owner asked me to pick up a sealed envelope from his lawyer downtown. On the way to the metro I saw a man dressed in a new suit, a handsome fellow in his forties, hair neatly combed. He was standing with two magazines in his hand, smiling with confidence and leaning towards waiting commuters, offering them the word of God.
I approached the man. He smiled.
I am lost, I said. I need direction.
Where do you want to go?
No, I am lost in general, I said.
He smiled again. The Lord can guide you to the right place.
And where is that, you filth? I asked between grinding teeth.
God’s kingdom is the right place, he said. You will never be lost again.
I see you are all ready and well dressed to meet him.
His face became larger with pride and exuberance. He leaned towards me. Yes, he said, it is like meeting an important person. You have to look your best.
Like a lawyer? I asked.
Lawyer?
Or a good citizen, I finished. And do you need to dress up to be a good citizen?
Well . . .
Well what, you charlatan? I said. Look at you, all dressed up to seduce, charm, and bring these poor citizens into your fantastical imaginary world. To make them kneel on hard benches, repeating redemption chants inside the same walls, through the same burning suns of their hard-working days. And then you take their money, breed their daughters with other sheep from the same flock, promise them heaven full of incestuous clouds. Filth. You are a charlatan, standing there with your magazines full of promising images like opium. Look at you, human, all dressed up. Look at you, son of man, dressed in silk. You can’t be handsome without weaving the saliva of worms around you, without stealing the wool from the backs of sheep, without making the poor work like mules in long factories with cruel whistles and punch-in cards. I, at least, do not need any of your ornaments. Look at me! Look at my wings straight and hard, look at the shine of their brown colour, look at my long whiskers and my thin face, look at all my beauty. All of it is natural. I have never needed rags or jewels. I have an all-natural shine, well brewed and aged like distilled wine.
And then I extended one of my many arms and snatched the man’s magazine. I turned my back to him, pretending to read, and quickly I nibbled on every word that looked like God. I gave the magazine back to him and said: Now look, read, and tell me what happened to your God. Is he still coming? Is he still here? Cannibals! Cannibals!
And I walked away and went down the stairs into the tunnel. As I went down I noticed the low beams that hung above the staircase. I bent my long whiskers and thought how self-absorbed these humans are. All they ever build is for their own kind and their own height.
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 ni
ght. 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.
Have you handled a gun before? I asked.
The guards in the jail used to walk with guns hanging off their belts. I did not know how gunfire sounded until one night we heard trucks coming and going, and for a week every night we heard shots coming from the backyard. They brought people every night and shot them against the wall. They must have killed thousands of men and women. How quiet they were. None of those prisoners complained, none of them objected or said anything. They must have known that they were about to die. Maybe they were too scared, too tortured, too weak, or maybe they were just happy to die. At times I wanted to be there, I wanted to be against that wall, I thought they were the lucky ones. One night, just before the shooting, I heard one man scream: For Iran! And the rest of the prisoners started to shout, For Iran! And then there were many shots and a long silence. Can I see it?