Cockroach (18 page)

Violence was everywhere.

Right. Well, I'm not interested in the war for now. I am interested
in your family's genealogy.

Yes.

Yes what?

Yes to your question about violence.

Who was violent?

My grandfather beat my grandmother when he got drunk.

You saw it?

Yes, once.

And what did you do?

Nothing, I froze. I was a kid. What could I do?

Right. Okay, let's talk some more about Tony. What did finally
happen between you and Tony?

He managed to take my sister and her baby back to his house.

You couldn't stop him?

No, he came when I was away at the beach. I used to go with friends to the
beach. We used to jump from a high rock.

Was that dangerous?

Yes.

Because the rock was so high?

Well, you had to be careful. You had to land in the water between two
other rocks.

And did you land every time in the water?

No.

Ah. So . . . is that how you got the scar on your face?

Yes.

How did all of this make you feel?

Jumping?

No, the fact that your sister went back with Tony.

Well, I'm not sure. I think she wanted to go. But when I heard that
he pulled her by the hair, I was determined to kill him.

You kept a gun all that time?

Yes.

Did you have a licence for it?

A licence, doctor? You make me laugh sometimes.

I do? I'm glad I do.

Well, things were different there. There were not so
many laws.

Tell me more.

About?

Tony.

Well, I went to Abou-Roro.

Abou-Roro?

The thief.

Oh, yes. Here, I have it here, written down.

I told him that I wanted to kill that bastard and asked him about the best
way to do it. He did not answer me. Instead he said, So your sister is working for
Joseph Khoury, I heard.

Yes, I said.

I thought he already had two salesgirls in the store.

What are you trying to say? I asked.

Listen, don't take things personally. I am just trying to help.

Help?

Yes, if you think a little, you'll realize that the old man has
money. Right? Revenge and honour are good, but if you can get a little money out of it,
it is better, no?

What do you have in mind?

I could tell you, but you might get all offended.

Shoot. I won't be offended, I said.

Well, what is my cut?

Forty percent, I said.

Abou-Roro turned and left.

Fifty, I said.

This he accepted. He smiled, came back, put his hand on my shoulder and we
walked together while he explained his
plan. It is easy, he said,
talking with his hands. You let Tony suspect that something is going on between your
sister and Joseph Khoury. And I am not saying there is anything going on, please do not
misunderstand me. Your sister's honour is safe with me. Still, if you said this,
Tony would want to kill the old man. But first you go to Joseph Khoury and tell him that
Tony is convinced he is sleeping with your sister, and that Tony promised to put a
bullet between Joseph Khoury's eyes. Then tell him how much you hate the guy, how
he mistreats your sister, et cetera, and that you have a common interest in getting rid
of him. You do not tell him that you will do it. You tell him that you know someone who
can do it for, let's say, fifteen thousand lira.

He won't pay it.

He will be scared for his life. He will even put you in his will. Listen.
I've changed the plan. You do not say a word to Tony about your sister and Joseph
Khoury. I will do it. Let me leak the rumour. That will be my half of the work.

But as soon as Tony knows, I said, he will come and kill the old man. That
fucking guy is not going to give the old man a warning. He will just go and do it.

Timing, my friend, timing. It is all in the timing. You warn the old man
first. It will give him a chance to leave. He hides, and then we tell Tony. Tony will go
to the store looking for the old man, and when he finds Joseph gone, this will confirm
everything. I see I still have a few things to teach you.

Then we will have to find out where Joseph Khoury is hiding so we can
collect the money from him before we kill Tony.

No, you will drive him to his hideout.

And my sister? You think Tony will save her if he
hears something like that?

When you take the old man to his hideout, you take your sister as well.
She will be working that day at the store.

She won't come.

You will make her come.

What if the old man wants to leave the country instead of paying the
money?

He won't. He is too old for that.

I'm not sure if this will work, I said.

It will. How long have you known me? Things have always worked out,
right?

Genevieve listened to my story without saying anything. Now she asked, Did
your sister know about your scam?

Of course not.

She was not aware of it at all?

No, she was not.

Someone knocked at the office door and apologized for the interruption.
Genevieve stepped out. She came back and said: I'm sorry, but I have to go. There
is an emergency at the hospital.

The hospital? I asked.

Yes. You know which one I am talking about?

The one?

Yes.

Give my regards to everyone there, I said.

I am sure the staff remember you.

I meant, give my regards to the patients, whoever, whatever, wherever they
are.

Make an appointment at the desk and I will see you
next week, said Genevieve. And she ran out of the room and slammed the door.

THE NEXT EVENING
, when the girl entered her father's
restaurant, we exchanged looks, fast and brief. I quickly buried my head in my work
again. As she walked by me, I kept my eyes on the floor and caught a glimpse of her
skirt and feet. I heard her father calling her by her name, Sehar. They exchanged a few
words in Persian. I tried to think about what I could fetch from the basement, what
might need to be fixed, arranged, filled. Then I went to the owner and said, There are
boxes of supplies that need to be stacked on the shelves downstairs. Would you like me
to empty them?

He nodded. The man barely talked to me. He barely acknowledged my
existence. If he agreed with me about something, he would never give me the satisfaction
of a Yes! or, What a brilliant idea! And if he objected to something I did, he directed
me to do something else.

I waited for his daughter to come out of the kitchen with her daily plate
of food. I crossed paths with her, showing her that I was on my way to the basement.
Downstairs, I opened boxes with a cutter, took my time placing cans on the shelves, then
folded each empty box and tucked it in the corner. I was almost done and Sehar
hadn't appeared. She must be eating still, I reasoned. I took the broom and
started to sweep the floor.

The boss came halfway down the stairs so that only the
lower part of his body showed. His talking shoes called me back up. He wanted me to
help the waiter pull two tables together for a large party with a reservation that
evening. Upstairs, Sehar was almost done eating, and I could hear her shouting something
to her father. He responded in a full clear sentence, longer than usual. His voice
sounded calm. She laughed and kept on telling him something. He ignored her, as if she
was taking up too much of his time, and went back to the kitchen, sniffing slowly as he
went.

When he was inside the kitchen, I waited until the other waiter went to
get more lanterns and then I tried to get Sehar's attention. She noticed me but
did not smile. She called me over to her table and said in a loud, bossy voice, Go bring
me some sweets and some tea from the kitchen.

Would you like sugar? I asked.

Yes, you should always bring sugar with Iranian tea.

I meant with the sweets, I mumbled, and gave her a large smile.

She laughed and said: Bring me two brown sugar cubes. Brown ones, you
hear, brown like my eyes. She smiled mischievously.

And I thought, She shouldn't have said that. Any hint of flirtation
and I am out the door. It would take only one encounter like that to make her father
realize that his daughter's laugh is accompanied by a sweep of the hair, a
slightly longer look than usual, a fluttering of eyelashes, a bend of the neck, and that
she even imagines stories that make her touch herself in dark alleys, below the stairs,
under pyramid-like quilts. But I lucked out. The owner was still in the kitchen and
the dishwasher's water was running, covering up the sound of
young, luscious body fluid drizzling above silky plates and silver spoons.

After her afternoon tea and biscuits, Her Highness dipped her toes down
the dark stairs. I did not waste time. I followed her right away. While she was in the
bathroom down there, I gathered all the empty boxes, piling them in the corner. I cut a
piece of rope, made a small knot at the end of it, passed it around the boxes, made
another knot around the first knot with the other end, and pulled on the rope until it
squeezed the boxes together.

I am good with ropes. It was finding a structure to support the rope and
my own weight that had failed me that day in the park. But what if my plan had worked,
and my windpipe had snapped with the sound of crunched-together boxes? I would have made
a nice sight against the white landscape. I wore my red jacket that day. Just picture, a
large red fruit swinging from high up in the tree. Just imagine how it would have looked
from afar. No one could have missed it. And from afar the rope wouldn't have been
visible at all. All that anyone would have seen was a red dot against the white horizon,
suspended above the earth. Maybe that is all that is supposed to be left of our lives: a
glimpse of beauty, an offering for those who are still trapped, a last offering to
console them in their mundane existence.

The bathroom door opened. Sehar came towards me and asked, What are you
doing here?

Working and singing.

I do not hear any singing.

It is in my head.

What are you singing?

A song from the new Boys in Black
CD
.

Oh my god, you listen to them?

Yes.

I love them. Which song is it?

I can't remember the title, but I have the whole
CD
at home.

Their last album?

Yes, the whole album. Cool cover and lyrics.

Bring it here next time, she said. I want to see it.

Why don't you come to my place and we can listen to it?

And Sehar put her hands on her waist and said: Wow, the busboy is inviting
me to his palace! How exciting. She said this with irony, her body swaying under
blue-black shiny hair. And what would we do there? Anything exciting? Like, washing
dishes maybe? How fun.

I thought we could listen to the
CD
and watch what
happens.

I think you've watched enough.

Not enough, never enough, I said, and smiled and looked her straight in
the eyes, half begging, half suggesting, and fully waiting for a nod from under the
stairs despite the risk of expulsion from paradise and the cuts of kitchen knives.

She was silent as she looked straight back at me. Her lashes were long,
and her eyes reflected a small rectangular patch from the neon light behind me. It
crossed her brown pupil like a streetlight in a store window, or an alien's eyes
shining behind a mask. She squinted and said: Where do you live on this earth?

At Pinnacle Street, I said.

That's near my school.

Come after school, then.

Well, maybe. Leave me the address later.

Tuesday?

Sehar did not answer. She ran up the stairs. I opened the freight door,
dragged the boxes by the rope up the stairs and through the back alley, and put the
whole bundle next to the large metal garbage bin.

ON MONDAY I WENT
to the music store on St-Catherine Street. I
asked an employee for the latest
CD
by Boys in Black. I opened the case,
slipped the cover booklet into my bag, and on my way out threw the
CD
in
its case into the bag of a woman who was leaving the store. I followed her outside, and
continued to trail her all through downtown. She shopped, walking from one window to the
next. When she sat in a restaurant, I sat next to her. I ordered coffee, acting as suave
and polite as I could, speaking French and rolling my R's. The woman even looked
my way and gave me a smile. I smiled back at her. I took off my jacket, and while my
hand was still inside my sleeve I slipped that hand into her bag and pulled out the
CD
case. I actually held it in my hand, making sure she could see
what I had pulled out of my pocket, then I got out the
CD
booklet and
read it. After a few minutes I pretended to go to the bathroom and instead walked out of
the restaurant.

On Tuesday I got up late and went into my kitchen. Roaches ducked for
their lives. I walked back to the bathroom,
peed, and returned to
the kitchen with a newspaper in my hand. I attacked the invaders on the head with news
and headlines. I spotted a particular one with light-coloured stripes, like an albino
roach. It was fairly big and faster than the rest of the herd. It slid, almost gliding
above the surface, more than it walked. It was skilful in its manoeuvres, confident. At
one point it faced me and stood there, waving its antennae towards me like a
TV
receptor on a roof on a windy day. When I lifted the newspaper to
pound it, it disappeared. I looked into the sink and saw its last white stripe ducking
down the drain. I immediately opened the faucet and watched the water run down,
imagining it chasing the albino in a gigantic flashing wave, rushing towards the
glittering striped creature through the howling abyss. Then I cleaned the dishes and
buried the cadavers. I fixed my bed, tucking in my sheet like the flag in a ceremony for
dead soldiers. I opened the window to freshen the air and revive the atmosphere. I
cleaned the toilet bowl and the sink. I closed the window, took a shower, dressed, and
opened the window again. I positioned the Boys in Black
CD
on the floor
below the window, turning the faces on the cover towards the light. The slight shininess
of the plastic reflected the light, and I was afraid that the glare would efface the
singers' faces. So I played with the angles until I evaded the sun and those
smiling boys with the pierced ears and noses became visible again. Then I waited.