Cockroach (14 page)

ON FRIDAY, MY FIRST NIGHT
of work at the Star of Iran restaurant, I was introduced to Hakim, the head waiter. He was a quiet, gentle-mannered man. He showed me the plastic tray, the dishes, the utensils, the cloths, how to light the candles for the table lanterns. It was all illuminating. Then he introduced me to the cook, Mamnoun, who barely smiled; and to Seydou, the dishwasher, who smiled at me and made his water sparkle in a welcoming manner. Then the owner pulled me towards the vacuum cleaner, pushed me towards the mop, filled my hand with a water bucket, and assigned all of these to me. He led me to the toilets down in the basement and said, This you clean every day, two times, before the customers come and before you leave for home. And then he showed me a little metal closet that held detergent, tablecloths, candles, liquid soap, and napkins.

At around six o'clock, a couple showed up. I rushed to open the lantern on their table and lit the small candle inside it. I ran back to the dishwasher and stacked a few plates, and separated the knives, the forks, and the spoons. By eight the restaurant had six tables full. The owner was calm and quiet.
He stayed behind the bar, watched everything, and gave orders to Hakim, who in turn gave orders to me. I laid out utensils and picked up dirty dishes and laid them on the counter next to Seydou, who asked me to empty the scraps of food into the garbage bin before putting the dishes on the counter. And then he asked me about some Arabic song's title. He tried to sing the tune for me, but it was unrecognizable; it sounded like someone whining with a mixture of anal pain and pleasure. I asked him if it was a recent song.

Yes, he replied.

I haven't heard any recent songs in a while, I said. I've been hanging out with Iranians too much. We both laughed. Seydou smiled again and washed more dishes and sang a few African songs.

A few minutes later, Reza and his band came and the music started. They played their instruments in unison — soft background music. Reza and I did not even glance at each other.

I kept busy, attentive to the bread that had to be sliced, stacking dishes, picking up empty plates from beneath customers' chins. The owner asked me a few times to go down to the big fridge in the basement and bring up limes for the bar and more sodas. The only time I stopped for a moment was when I went to the bathroom in the basement and relieved myself. I washed my hands afterwards: “Employees must wash hands,” a sign said. Then I went back upstairs and worked.

Late in the evening, after the customers were gone, Reza got a ride home with the other musicians. He invited me to come, but I declined. I did not feel like sitting on a secondhand sofa in one of those depressing newcomers' homes,
filled with smoke and broken alarms. Besides, when Reza and his friends got together they talked in Persian and I could not understand a damn thing.

Shortly after Reza left, the owner's wife and daughter came to pick up the owner. Before they showed up, the owner counted his money behind the bar. Then he waited for his wife and daughter just inside the restaurant door, behind the locked glass. When his wife showed up, he asked everyone else to leave first. When he was alone, he rushed into the car and locked the doors of the vehicle. I watched his daughter leaning against the car-window glass, looking at me. I smiled. She barely nodded, then pulled back her face and disappeared.

I walked home. Late at night in this city, the snow is pasted just above the street like a crunchy white crust that breaks and cracks under your feet. There is a sound to the cold, a constant quiet, a subtle permanent buzzing. It is not the vibration of the long-shadowed fluorescent city lights tracking the trajectory of falling snow, nor is it the wind, nor the people. It is something that comes out from underground and then stays at the surface. After a while stomping through the snow, I could hear the rhythm of my own steps. My breath was smoking like a Bollywood train, my feet were steadily marching; I was all warmed up. I got rid of my scarf first, then unzipped another layer; my hands swung back and forth like those of a soldier. The city was empty and whistling in the wind.

I WENT TO THE RESTAURANT
on Saturday and Sunday, and on Monday I was off work. My appointment with my therapist was at three, and I had nothing to do until then. I walked into the kitchen and pretended to be busy washing the dishes. Then, suddenly, I pulled off my slippers, opened the cupboards, and began pounding left and right. Whether they are here or not, I thought, I will keep those insects on their toes! Guilty or not, present or not — this was my new tactic. Well, it was not my own idea, really. I was inspired by the story of a young man I knew who had experienced a totalitarian regime.

I had met this young man on a bus, back where I came from. The bus was crowded and he squeezed in next to me. He asked me for directions, and then he told me his story. He told me that he had been released only a few days ago from detention. The secret service in the small town where he came from made arbitrary arrests to keep the population afraid. For no reason, they would knock on people's doors at night, line up the young men, randomly choose a few, and pack them into a jeep and off to jail. For a week or so the young men were beaten, humiliated, even tortured — all for no reason. Then the young men would be released so that everyone in town could see what was in store for them if they tried anything subversive. The young man on the bus had left his village, he said, and now he was looking for a job in the city. I thought he looked too honest to be hired by my mentor, Abou-Roro. He was either traumatized and couldn't stop speaking or he was naturally too trusting. Either way, I thought, I couldn't help him; he was damaged and he did not fit the profile of a petty thief.

We got off the bus, and the young man said he was hungry. I told him to follow me. I went straight to a grocery store and told him to wait for me outside. I went into the store and came out with a bag of bread, a package of cheese, some fruit, and yogurt. I gave this to him and turned to walk the rest of the way home. But this fellow followed me. He asked me my name, and talked more and more. So at last I asked him what kind of job he was willing to do. He assured me that he was willing to do anything. I looked at his hands and I could see they were rough — banged-up and strong. Had he ever stolen or killed? I asked him.

He stopped eating, bewildered. No, he said.

How far are you willing to go to survive? I asked.

I will steal, but not kill. I am hungry, but I won't kill.

Would you kidnap? I said.

I am hungry, he answered.

Meet me here in two days, I said. Same place. In two days.

I learned that his name was Naim. I watched him eat, and I saw that he was very hungry.

HOW WAS YOUR WEEK
? the shrink asked me later that afternoon.

Good, thank you. How was yours? What did you do? Did you watch
TV
, did you eat a good sandwich, open an interesting book, lie on the floor, walk barefoot, dance a little?

Genevieve smiled at me. How are you feeling?

Fine.

Any dizziness? Do you ever experience episodes?

What do you mean?

As if things around you are shifting or slipping?

No, I said.

You hesitated. You thought about it.

Well, yes. But everything shifts, everything slips.

Like what?

Like, everything around us.

Walls?

Yes, certainly walls.

Beds?

Uh-huh.

Does your bed shift?

The mirror does.

We have medicines now that can help you.

I am fine, I feel fine, I said. And anyhow, a mirror never reflects the same image twice.

Well, we might have to prescribe something for you eventually. But right now I am curious about something you said the last time we met, something about stealing.

I remained quiet.

Any break-ins lately?

No. Well, almost.

Almost?

I volunteered for something, but in the end I didn't do it.

Who did you volunteer for?

For Farhoud, my gay friend.

Why?

To settle a score with someone who abused him.

But did he ask you to do it? Or did you volunteer without him asking?

No. Yes.

Do you like him? Is that why you volunteered?

I like him.

Genevieve was silent.

No, not that way, I added.

Have you ever been attracted to a man? she asked.

Not sexually, I don't think. But my mentor was attracted to a man.

Genevieve flipped through her notes. Abou-Roro, your mentor in theft and crime?

Yes, and it killed him.

What do you mean, it killed him? Do you mean he couldn't come to terms with the fact that he was attracted to men?

No, but because of the attraction he was killed. Shot dead.

Because people where you come from do not accept gays?

Well, yes. But no. It is a long story.

I am listening.

Well, you see, he was approached by a local gangster, a notorious, powerful man, one named Jurdak, to do an operation.

An operation. Like a medical procedure, Genevieve teased me.

No, I said. A kidnapping.

Genevieve lifted her head then, and I could see her ears turning pointy and poking through her glittering straight, long hair. She was struggling to keep her eyes from blinking under the weight of her heavy eyelashes.

I continued: The gangster gave him the name, address, and photo of the son of a millionaire. Abou-Roro was to kidnap
the son, and Jurdak would ask for a ransom and deal with the negotiation and money collection, and all the logistics. A pretty straightforward operation. So one night Abou-Roro waited for the boy in the parking lot of a nightclub. He parked his car next to the boy's car. When the son showed up and pulled out his keys to open the car door, Abou-Roro stuck a gun into his ribs from behind. He asked the boy not to turn around and shuffled him into the back seat. Naim, a hungry chap that I had recently met on a bus and introduced to Abou-Roro, covered the boy's face with a hood. He blindfolded the boy and tied his hands, and they all drove outside the city to a house on a beach.

When they arrived, Abou-Roro and Naim led the boy into the house and locked him in a room, and waited for phone calls from Jurdak. There was food and alcohol in the house. Any escape attempt by the boy and they were to shoot him and throw him in the sea. But looking at the kid, both Abou-Roro and Naim knew that they would never do that. The boy had soft, white skin (his mother was Scandinavian), and he had blue eyes and blond hair, and he was very good-looking — kind of frail and soft-spoken. He never once resisted, never complained. Even when his head got banged on the car window and then the door to the house, he never said a thing. Abou-Roro held his hands and guided him everywhere. He would push the boy gently and call him “Beauty.” Lower your head, Beauty; lift your head, Beauty; eat, Beauty. Go check on the beauty, he would say to Naim.

One night when Naim went to use the bathroom, he saw Abou-Roro sitting on a chair facing the boy, smoking, with
a glass of whisky in his hand and his eyes fixated on the boy's blindfold. Abou-Roro had fallen in love with the boy. He would drink whisky and gaze at the boy for hours. Finally he undid the boy's blindfold, and with a gun in his hand, a cigarette on his lips, whisky in his palm, and the sea at his back, he would look at the boy all night and weep, not knowing what to do, or what to say to him, or how to approach him. But then, one day, Abou-Roro started to cough. The boy in his soft voice said: You should have some tea. I can make you tea.

Hearing the boy's words, Abou-Roro wept again, approached the bed, kissed the boy on the cheek, and released his bonds. He freed the boy's hands and unzipped the boy's pants.

Abou-Roro closed the bedroom door, and he made love to the boy on foreign sheets through a haze of smoke. And then, next thing you know, the boy was riding beside Abou-Roro as they drove along the village streets. They were buying food together, and walking the beaches.

What will I do if Jurdak gives me the order to kill you? Abou-Roro asked the boy one night. What will I do? I can't do it, and if I don't, Jurdak will find us and kill us both.

Finally the boy's father negotiated with Jurdak and paid some of the ransom.

The next morning the phone rang and Abou-Roro picked it up. He said yes a few times, and alright, and then he looked at Naim, nodded at the phone, and hung up. He walked towards Naim and told him that the chief, Jurdak, wanted Naim to leave because someone else was coming to take Naim's place.

But why? Naim asked.

The chief said so. I told you.

When did he say that? Naim asked.

Just now, on the phone, Abou-Roro replied.

Okay, but I will wait until the replacement comes, Naim said.

No, you have to leave now. It's the chief's order. He wants one of his own men to stay here.

When should I be back? Naim asked.

Never.

What?

You are not to come back, said Abou-Roro. He took some money and gave it to Naim. You will get the rest of your share later, he said. Your role in this is over.

I will get my full share, right? asked hungry Naim.

Yes, you will get it all when the operation is done. The father is paying the ransom. Now, start walking.

Naim left that day.

Here I paused in my story.

Is that it? Genevieve said.

No. But do we have time left?

Yes, yes, go on.

Well, Naim left, but he climbed a nearby hill and watched the house. Soon a car came and parked in front of the house. It was full of Jurdak's men, come to pick up the boy. Abou-Roro shot the first man who knocked at the door. He shut the door, ran back to the bedroom, and pushed the boy under the bed, closed all the curtains, and then opened the door again, stepping outside and emptying his gun, shooting with tears in
his eyes. Jurdak's men fired back and killed Abou-Roro. And the boy was freed. Abou-Roro was killed because he was in love with the boy's blue eyes, because he wanted to keep the boy and didn't want to hand him over to Jurdak and his men.