Cockroach (22 page)

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.

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 of 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.