by Rawi Hage
I knew what the bitch meant by noisy and all kinds of people.
The man must have nodded or not responded.
He was the driver.
She was the driven.
I was the insect beneath them.
At last the car stopped, and the man reached for an electronic device. He pressed it and opened the garage door. I waited until they got out, until the car beeped, blinked, and burped again. Then I dragged myself along the garage floor, avoiding patches of oil from the car, manoeuvred around golf clubs, and slipped under the door and onto the house carpet. When the couple passed me by, I froze in a corner, watching their well-mannered feet.
The woman balanced on one foot and pulled down a stocking, giving her leg a lustier white, silky colour. The man was rotating ice in a whisky glass. He sat on the sofa, untied his tie, and flipped through the TV channels. She went up and then came down the stairs. Now she had on a nightgown, made of a kind of see-through material. And she had plump thighs, ones I had only glimpsed just above the knee at the restaurant. At the time I had been more distracted by the sight of the large plates of food. The woman asked the man if he was coming to bed, and the news anchor was silenced before he had the chance to finish the word “famine.” And then both the man and the woman went upstairs and made noises, opening brass faucets and scrabbling toothbrushes against their gums. Their gargles and their spit rushed through the pipes to join the toilet flushes. I sat downstairs on the sofa and finished what was left of the man’s drink. Then I went up the stairs, crawled up the bedroom wall, and from above I saw them sleeping, both on their sides. The bed was large and high above the floor, balanced by two small dressers filled with medicine bottles, hardcover books, earrings, and tissues. The woman’s thighs were exposed now, and this gave me an uncontrollable urge to fly down and land on the bedsheets and extend my arms like two antennae and extract sweet nectar from between her open legs. She tossed around, exposing different shades of her long thighs. The man, his back to her, snored quietly.
I went and stood at the door of the bedroom. I watched them dream of SUVs, cottages, and business deals, comparing dresses and cigars at high-end cocktail parties. I put myself inside the dreams and helped myself to a few shrimp cocktails and picked up a few hors d’oeuvres from the waitresses’ drifting trays. I ordered another glass of whisky and rotated the ice inside it counter-clockwise to counter the stuffiness of the room. Then I followed the man with the expensive car to the bathroom at the party. As he knelt to wash his face I passed him, took a leak in a urinal in the wall, jiggled my organ, and made sure the last drop was out before slipping my penis back inside my trousers. I went back towards the hall and, without washing my hands, I pulled up my zipper and closed that dramatic scene.
At the couple’s home I stole his gold ring, his cigarettes, a Roman vase, his tie, and his shoes (I took the time to carefully pick clothes that suited my dark complexion). Once I had finished checking myself in the mirror, I slipped under the garage door. And I crawled, glued to the wall, my insect’s wings vertical now and parallel to the house’s living-room window. Then I walked the dreadful suburbs. Along the beautifully paved roads I made my way through a few dentists’ houses, computer programmers’ lawns, executives’ sailboats covered in plastic and maple leaves, and all the while I feared that golf clubs might escape the garages and swing in pairs and chase me for a raise. But what I feared most of all was the bark of dogs who smelled my unwashed hands.
As I walked away from the suburb, the dogs’ barks went up like the finale at a high-school concert. Filthy dogs, I will show you! I said and ground my teeth. I pulled down the zipper on my pants and crawled on my hands and feet like a skunk, swaying from side to side and urinating on car wheels and spraying every fire hydrant with abundance to confuse those privileged breeds and cause an epidemic of canine constipation. Down with monotony and the routines of life! I laughed, knowing full well that some dentist would soon be waiting for his little bewildered bundle of love to get on with its business. I laughed and thought: Some dentist will be late for trays of paralyzing syringes and far from the reach of blinding lights that hover above mouths like extraterrestrial machines inspecting the effect of pain on humans trapped in pneumatic chairs. And I rejoiced and howled (causing more confusion) at the thought of a salesman stuck like a turtle in traffic, late for his work, flipping through catalogues, rehearsing apologies, and mumbling about dogs’ damnation.
WHEN I ARRIVED at the Iranian restaurant for my interview, I humbly knocked on the glass. A teenage girl walked to the door and said from behind the glass, It is closed. We open only for dinner.
I told her that I had an appointment with the owner. She opened the door and let me in, saying that the owner would be back in fifteen minutes.
Can I wait for him at the bar? I asked.
The girl walked to the kitchen and informed the cook of my presence. The man peeped at me from a square opening, nodded to her, then ignored me and returned to his fire.
Are you the daughter of the owner? I asked.
Yes, how did you know? the girl said, and smiled at me.
I just know things.
What else do you know?
That you’d rather be somewhere else today.
Yeah, like where?
In bed, or hanging out.
She giggled.
No school? I asked her.
Not now, she said. In a few days it will start again.
School sucks, I said.
The girl nodded and laughed again.
I used to run away from school, I said.
And where did you go?
I hung out.
Yes, I like to hang out, too, she said.
Maybe we can hang out together, I said.
She smiled and did not answer.
I hang out with my skateboard in Old Montreal all the time, I said. You know, I jump over those stair rails on the government buildings.
No, you don’t, she laughed.
Sure I do, I said. I wear baggy pants and my cap in reverse.
No, you don’t.
Sure I do. I am only dressed like this today because I am meeting your father for a job.
My father will only hire you if you fear God. He says he only trusts those who fear God.
Do you like God? I asked her.
I don’t know.
I do not like him, and I do not fear him.
Well, if you tell that to my father, he will never hire you.
It will be our secret, I said. Our first secret.
What is our second secret?
I will tell you if I am hired.
Okay, she said, and smiled with her head tilted towards the table. I’d better go now. My father will come soon. He does not like it when I talk to strangers.
Oh, is he jealous?
No.
Just afraid that his pretty daughter might run away with a stranger on a skateboard?
The girl laughed and walked away. A few minutes later the owner tapped on the window and the girl rushed to let him in. He entered, his bald head bowed and his hunched posture making him look as if he was about to sniff the floor or fall on his face. He did not say a word. He barely acknowledged the presence of his daughter and ignored me as I stood up to greet his most important presence. I said salaam in a semi-glossy monosyllabic chant.
He replied with a brief dry salaam and went straight to the kitchen. He disappeared for a while and then came back. Without wasting time, he said: We open from Wednesday to Sunday. You can work as a busboy, Friday to Sunday. I do not need you more for now. You work for part of the tips and three dollars an hour. You stay until the end. At the end of the shift, you vacuum the floor and the carpets, you clean and mop the kitchen and the bathroom. Okay?
Okay, I said, nodding more than once.
Come Friday. Be here at three in the afternoon.
Thank you, I said.
And come dressed in a black suit and a white shirt only. And everything should look clea
n.
But of course, I said. Clean. Clean like the robe of God.
He gave me a quick look, half pleased, half suspicious.
I immediately put on a semi-fearful face, and a semi-pious one. I nodded only once, because there is only one god left. The rest were all slain while they enjoyed offerings of calves and poultry, while they were drunk on wine in the company of sirens and blind poets. Now everything on earth is monochromatic like snow. One, one single nod that goes up and down, like the extended hand of a zealous soldier, is all that we are allowed.
On my way out, I saw the daughter sitting at a table with a big smile. I winked at her. As I walked towards her like a Cyclops, she giggled with joy and fear. I twisted the doorknob, opened the door, and stepped outside into a world that looked flat, square, and one-dimensional.
III
I TOLD GENEVIEVE about my new job. She was happy, even touching my hand. Then she drew back fast, knowing full well that I was willing to take her hand and lead her to a spacious bed where we could always have the session in horizontal.
Why the austerity? I wanted to ask. Why this formality? Maybe all I ever needed to be cured was to be held by warm arms, above silky sheets, and fed by food in a full fridge, and gazed at from pillows, and feel my hair caressed. Maybe all these formalities, these thick clothes, this claustrophobic office, these ever-closed thighs and pulled-back hair are making me reluctant to open my innermost thoughts. I am thinking: Doctor, Genevieve, my luscious healer, my confessor, I confess to you that we should touch. Words have no effect on my skin, will never straighten my hair, won’t make my fingers reach out, wet, to explore triangles of pubic hair and soft red cracks, hollows of sensitive secret spots. Words, my love, keep tongues busy with dry air and clacking noise, words are what keep us away from the sources of liquid and life. There must be some branch in therapy where silence is encouraged and touch is the answer.
Tell me more about the job, Genevieve said. Tell me how it happened.
I went inside and waited, I replied. I talked to the daughter of the owner because the owner was not there.
How old is the daughter? Genevieve asked.
Maybe sixteen. I’m not sure.
And what did you talk about?
Skateboarding.
Was she nice?
She giggled.
You made her laugh?
Yes.
Let me look at my notes, Genevieve said, dismissing my attempt at joy and laughter. Okay, so last time when you burst out of the office — do you remember that? You were telling me about your sister and her husband, Tony.
Yes, I was telling you that.
Do you want to go on with that?
I’m not sure where I left off.
Tony had a gun.
Yes, almost everyone did. I mean, many people did.
That is interesting. And how do you feel about guns?
A gun could be useful.
For what?
To get things, accomplish things, defend things.
It will be by means of force — you realize that?
It’s not wrong if there are no other options, I said.
You are not a pacifist, I assume?
Pacifism is a luxury, I said.
Can you elaborate?
No, I can’t. Well, yes. I mean, you have to be well off to be a pacifist. Rich or secure like you. You can be a pacifist because you have a job and a nice house, a big TV screen, a fridge full of ham and cheese, and a boyfriend who goes with you to nice resorts in sunny places.
How would you know? How do you know I have a boyfriend?
I am just assuming. Just because.
Because of what? Her voice was firm and abrupt, she moved a touch forward, her eyes blinked twice from behind her glasses.
Because you grew up here and you have a job and a house, and you know people.
Not everyone who grew up here has a job or a house. There are many poor people who grew up here. But enough about your assumptions. You were saying about your sister and her husband?
Well, one day my sister came back home to my parents’ place, covering her baby in a pink quilt, and her eyes had black rings around them. The bastard had beat her up. My sister cried all the time. She was humiliated. My mother, with her “I knew it” attitude, you should have never married that loser, and my father, with his “women deserve it” attitude, took her and the baby in.
I went looking for the brute. I knocked on the door of his house. He was sitting in a room with two other gangsters, smoking and laughing. When he saw me, he knew I would kill him with my bare hands, with my pierced eyebrows, if I could. His gun was laid out on the table. Everyone became quiet. I stared at the gun, thinking: If I had wings, I could fly over, pick it up, and shoot the three of them from above. Or maybe if I was an insect I could crawl under their doors at night and slay them all in their filthy bedsheets.
What are you looking at, kid? Tony finally shouted. Go back home and bring your sister here. Tell her to come before I have to go drag her back by the hair. He said this not even looking me in the face. Move, he said.
I stood there exhaling my hate, my fists closed, my eyes projecting bullets, flying cigarettes, body holes. And then a kind of elation came over me, I remember.
You still here? Tony said.
And it was as if I was transformed. Maybe I even flew a little. And when I spoke, my voice vibrated loudly.
Tony stood up, grabbed the gun from the table, and walked towards me. One of his men stepped behind me. Tony put the gun in my face and said, You look like a killer. He laughed. The killer is dead, he said. I heard a gunshot. I jerked, thinking, This asshole just shot me! But I did not feel it, not yet. Then Tony and his friends all started to laugh. I can still hear them laugh. Tony’s friend had walked behind me and pulled the trigger in the air.
Scared hen. Is that what you want? Tony waved his gun in my face. Is that what you want, kid? He stuck the gun in my stomach. The two other men were amused by it all. They smiled, sat down, and tipped their chairs onto back legs. Tony raised his palm and tapped it gently against my bare neck. He closed his palm on the back of my neck and said again, Go get your sister, pronto, before I drag her here. When I pushed his hand away, bent my body, and liberated my neck from his grip, he boxed me on my shoulder with the back of his gun. He cornered me in his hallway. I could hear the neighbours and their TV — the loud news, the shouts of the woman calling her kids, the clanging of dishes, the smell of warm food. And suddenly I could hear my own mother calling me to her room, telling me to get ice to lay on her black eye. You tell the neighbours that I fell off the stairs, if they ask, you hear? I felt as if I could slip from under Tony’s hand and disappear under the neighbour’s door. I was sure that I could, if only he would stop chasing me from one corner to another, poking me with the barrel of his gun. His close bad breath, his thick, droopy moustache encircled me, made me crawl against the walls. And, as if I fluttered somehow, I became lighter and more agile. I even slipped under his feet and jumped over his boots. I was so agile and slippery that I almost made him stumble on the stairs. He got mad and said to me: You want to be tough, hen? He slapped me on the head.
I climbed the walls, flew over the ramp, landed on the floor below, and escaped. At that moment, I decided to kill him.
And did you kill him? asked Genevieve.
I was silent.
You do not have to answer that, she said. Even if you do, everything is confidential here.
Is our time up? I asked.
No. Do you have to go?
I did not answer her.
Did you tell your sister what had happened?
What for?
Genevieve was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, Was your mother nice to your sister?
My mother become preoccupied with the baby. My sister cried all the time and lay down on my bed. She slept a great deal and did not want to leave the house.
Depression.
What?
Sleeping and
fatigue is a form of depression, explained Genevieve. But we can talk about that later. Go on.
I went straight to Abou-Roro and told him that I needed a gun.
Who is Abou-Roro?
My mentor. A thief in the neighbourhood.
Genevieve nodded. She looked intrigued but held her composure. Her pen made its way inside her lips, and I could see her breathe in a steady, regular motion, in time to her heartbeat. The doctor, like sultans, is fond of stories, I thought.
Maybe we should stop now, you must have a second appointment, I said.
No, no, no. Go on, please.
Well, I said, Abou-Roro said he could do it, but I had to help him in a little operation, if you know what I mean.
Operation? Genevieve asked.
You know, something illegal.
Oh yes, like shoplifting.
Well, maybe a little more than that, I said.
Like what, then?
Well, I am trying to tell you.
Yes, yes, excuse me. I interrupted you. Go on.
Abou-Roro showed me a few blank bank cheques. He could not write or read. Whose cheques are those, I asked him?
The priest’s, he said.
A missionary lived across the street from Abou-Roro’s house, in the back of the Franciscan convent. One night when the bombing in the city intensified, Father Edmond’s room was hit by a bomb. Abou-Roro ran to the priest’s room. The priest was wounded but still alive. Abou-Roro took a shattered stone and bashed the priest’s head.
He killed the priest? Genevieve asked.
Yes, he made sure Father Edmond was dead, and then he stole what he could find, and ended up with a few blank cheques. He wanted me to fill in the cheques, backdated, so he could quickly cash them before the priest’s account was closed. He even had a sample of the man’s signature from one of the documents he’d collected.
I looked at the shrink and her eyes were wide open. Horrified. Half the pen was in her mouth. I could tell she didn’t believe what I was saying to her.
I said, Madam, if all this bothers you I could stop.
