by Rawi Hage
Genevieve pulled the pen from her mouth, fixed her composure, and pasted on a calmer, more stoic face. Non, non, pas du tout, she said.
Well, do you need some water?
No, go on, I am fine. Believe me, nothing surprises me in this job. People come with all kinds of stories. Did you help the man?
Well yes, I practised the father’s signature. And then I wrote a cheque for a few thousand.
Did the plan work?
Yes, it did.
You were never caught?
No.
So you got your gun?
Yes. I got my gun.
She was quiet, and I knew she wanted to ask me if I had killed Tony once I had the gun. I knew she was hooked, intrigued. Simple woman, I thought. Gentle, educated, but naive, she is sheltered by glaciers and prairies, thick forests, oceans and dancing seals.
Finally, she said: Well, there is something very interesting you said, something I would like to ask you about.
Shoot, doctor.
Genevieve.
Genevieve, I repeated.
You said that when Tony was hitting you, you felt you could slip under the door and disappear, and climb walls, and flutter. Do you still have feelings of slipping or disappearing?
Yes, doctor, Genevieve, I am good at slipping under anything. I told you. I can enter anyone’s house.
She nodded. Have you entered anyone’s house here in Canada?
Yes.
Did you steal anything?
Yes.
Have you made any break-ins?
Yes.
Genevieve was quiet for a few moments. Then she terminated the session.
A FEW DAYS LATER, I called Farhoud. Farhoud, I said, do you know where Shohreh works?
I can’t tell you that. Shohreh would kill me.
Is she upset with me?
I could ask her, he said.
No, don’t ask her.
Well, I warned you about falling for Shohreh. Where are you?
On the street.
Where? On what street, silly?
Near McGill University. I am standing under those Roman arches at the entrance. Somewhere behind me there is a naked statue.
A man or a woman?
A man, I believe.
Does he look like a naked David? asked Farhoud. I love those naked David statues.
David was a goat-herder, a stinky, bearded boy with dirty nails and worn-out sandals.
That could be all right, he said. Come, I just made some soup. Come over and warm your bones.
Well, Farhoud, I should warn you now, I like my lovers hairless.
That could be arranged, he said, and laughed. Don’t be silly. Come over, silly man, or I am going to start thinking that you are a homophobe.
So was David, probably, I said.
Well, perhaps, but he did fuck the giant.
Myths and lies! I shouted
Anyway, said Farhoud, you are probably a confused homophobe, afraid of it but secretly craving it. Like the rest of you men. But come anyway, just because you are such a crazy character. I will feed you. Come, my pretty boy, come.
So I rang Farhoud’s buzzer, and sat at his table. He offered me soup that released a vapour thick as sweat, and bread that incited riots, and a little salad that rested on a yellow plate on an old, squeaky table. Your table is shaky and squeaky, I said, smiling and winking his way. Maybe I should eat there, in the living room. Shut up and eat, you nasty boy, Farhoud said. He had a scarf around his neck and he was meticulous in arranging the utensils and plates, and he went in and out of the kitchen with ease, making everything presentable, tasty, and warm.
Stop smiling and stop shaking that table like a kid, said Farhoud. I invited you to eat, not to judge and speculate.
But, Farhoud, I never judge.
No, but you imagine things.
I deduce.
You assume.
I imagine.
And judge.
No, I just see things.
You presume.
I fancy and create.
You wish, said Farhoud. Now just stand still and eat or I might send you to your room.
I got a job at the Star of Iran restaurant, I told him.
Well, well, you are going to learn Farsi now. You were hired as what, a waiter?
No, a busboy, I said.
Well, congratulations. Farhoud went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine. Here, we should celebrate. Another immigrant landing a career!
Shohreh is angry with me, I said.
Well, do not worry about Shohreh. She will come around. She is a little funny with love matters.
I need to see her.
Call her.
She is not answering my calls.
Well, like I said. I warned you not to become attached.
I am not attached.
Wine? Of course you are not, sweetheart. Wine, I asked. Wine? Answer me: wine?
Yes, yes, indeed.
You are attached, my dear, and down to your ears, and around your neck. Face it. You can’t even hear me anymore.
We drank the whole bottle. I lay on the couch, and Farhoud lay on the floor across from me.
Look at the snow, Farhoud. It falls without shame. How did we end up here?
I do not know about you, my friend, but I know how I ended up here.
Tell me, Farhoud, how you ended up here.
Let’s open another bottle of wine. He swayed into the kitchen and came back with the corkscrew and gave me the bottle. Here, strong man, open it and I will tell you all about me ending up in the snow. After Khomeini won the revolution, we — you know, the gay community — held clandestine parties. Someone must have been an informer who told the regime about us. One of our parties was raided and they took us all to the jail. They separated us and asked us to sign a paper acknowledging that we were homosexuals and that we would never touch another man again. And that our acts were against God and his Prophet, that we would repent and pray every day, five times, and become good, decent believers. But I did not even know how to pray. And I was sick and tired of being pushed around all my life, and imagine me growing a beard, wearing those horrible long robes, and not touching a man anymore? No, baby, no way!
So you refused?
I refused.
Courageous, or fucking crazy. And?
More like crazy. But, oh well, everyone who signed that paper disappeared anyway — probably killed, who knows? No one ever heard from them, and believe me, some of them were loud, darling, very loud. I know. Anyway, all they wanted was a confession from us. The redemption part was bogus. After I refused to sign, they put me in a crowded jail filled with women. It was a statement, you know. When I entered the jail cell I saw a small space packed with women. Some had children, and even a pregnant woman was there. The place was so crowded, no one even noticed me. I even recognized a couple of old girlfriends, who started to cry when they saw me. I spent a few days in that cell until a bearded mullah came, shouted, and asked the guard to remove me. He protested the mixing of men and women, even if I was not a real man, as he put it. So I ended up in a small cell, as big as a box, with no one to talk to, no bed, no chair, and a filthy, disgusting toilet seat, oh my god . . . The next day, I was led by the guard to a shower and asked to make myself clean. While I was in the shower that same bearded mullah passed by me and stood behind me, watching me clean myself. I turned my back to him, but I could feel his looks falling onto my thighs like drops of acid. At night a woman guard came, opened the door of the cell, and led me to an office. That same old man was there, sitting behind a desk. He smiled, and his gold tooth shone. He asked me to close the door and made me sit down across the desk from him; there was a plate of small dried figs between us. He smiled at me and pushed the plate towards me. I did not reach for it. He was insulted. You refused my hospitality, you kouny (faggot), he said, and he stood up. A thin cane appeared in his hand from inside the sleeve of his robe and he started to beat me with it. Then he asked me to take off my shirt
and to position myself facing the wall. With my arms spread, my legs wide open, he flogged my back. It burned like hell, and then I felt his beard, his lips, and his breath on my wounds, licking my blood and asking me for forgiveness and touching me everywhere. For the next few months he fed me dried figs and raped me. Once I asked him if God approved of his acts. He replied that I was God’s gift to him, God loves beauty and rewards believers. And he smiled and touched me.
I played along with the bearded one. I became his concubine. He used to ask me if he was handsome, and I had to answer that he was a gift from above and recite some verses. I never knew if they were poems or prayers, I never asked. But the verses described a garden, flowers, and mountains. I promised the mullah that if he released me, we could still meet on the outside and we could go and walk in gardens above the mountains. Slowly I worked on him, and I was eventually released. He would come every day and pick me up from a corner next to my house and we would drive away to the mountains. He told me that he would always find me, and if I tried to escape he would skin me alive. Eventually, with the help of a few old friends, I dressed as a woman, covered myself, and was driven to the border of Afghanistan, then from there to India. In India I met a Canadian diplomat on the beach. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. We spent a month travelling together. We travelled all over India; we took the train everywhere. We stayed in fancy hotels, smoked dope, and made love in many places. It was the best time of my life! He had money and he was willing to spend it.
Oh, the good days, Farhoud said, and lifted his glass of wine. He looked at the wine from underneath the glass, swirled it gently, then slightly lifted his neck, and his lips opened just when the glass tilted and the liquid rushed towards his mouth. I tell you, I needed it all, after the hell I went through with that mullah. Then I asked my lover if he could bring me to Montreal with him. And I remember we were in the region of Orissa at the time, in an old hotel, both naked on the same bed and smoking, high and happy. Outside there were a few trees rustling, a few bicycles and a few bare feet that passed and brushed the crust of dust under our open window, and we could hear them all. And my lover said, I have something to tell you, Farhoud. And I said, Do not tell me you are gay. And we laughed for a while, and then he said, Well no, actually I have the life of a straight man, with a woman. We laughed some more. Oh my god, we laughed so much. Through a connection of his in Immigration, he got me a visa and bought me a ticket to Montreal. We flew here together. He left me at the airport and I watched him rushing towards a woman.
Did you stay in touch?
Yes, for a while. He calls me Chinita, because I look Chinese. We spent a few nights together when he could get away from his wife. But then he slowly turned into a monster. I even thought he became a little xenophobic over time. Once, he came to my room and we made love. Afterwards he went to the bathroom, wet a towel, and threw it at me. Here, clean yourself, he said. You are not in your own country anymore.
I kept silent. And then I asked him, How come you look Chinese?
Iran is not a homogeneous society, he explained patiently. There are Azerbaijanis, Afghans, Turks, and in the south at the border with Iraq there are Arabs, but I suspect I am the residue of the Mongol invasion of the region. Mongols and their descendants, and also, I believe, Koreans, tend to have some kind of a mark on their buttocks at birth. It is called the Mongolian spot. After a while it goes away, but in some cases it stays for life.
You are lying, I said.
No, even a few East Europeans get it sometimes. Genghis Khan, or Attila the Hun, I am not sure exactly who — but they passed by there.
And what army does not spread semen and blood! I declared.
I would say so.
So, you have that Mongolian spot? I asked.
Yes.
I do not believe you.
Well, if you are nice I might show it to you one day. Farhoud laughed. The diplomat used to be very excited about it.
Excited?
It turned him on, silly. He called it his blue jewel of the east.
What was his name, the diplomat?
Bernard. Why?
Where does he live?
Why?
Is there anything you need me to get from his house?
What are you talking about?
I will pay him a visit. I will break into his house. Just give me his address.
Are you crazy? Why would you do that?
I will break into his house and wet his towel with dog piss.
No. It is done, that relationship is done. Dog piss! You are a bizarre man! I do not know where he is anymore. I don’t care anyway. I am here now. And that’s what counts. Do you understand? I am alive and here and I don’t care. I am here and I have a glass of wine in my hand. I am here now, alive. Farhoud started to cry.
But, Farhoud, my dear friend. I lay my hand on his shoulder. I just want to settle a score for you.
What score? Do you know how many scores there are to settle in my life? Do you? Do you?
And with that, we both fell silent, remembering the red of the wine, the white of the snow, and that night was on its way.
LATER THAT EVENING, the doorbell rang. I woke up and saw Shohreh entering the flat and taking off her shoes.
I came to get soup, and look what I see! she said, pointing her chin at me. You guys are stoned, your eyes are red. Stay where you are. I will help myself to some food.
As Shohreh ate, Farhoud stood up and gave her a shoulder massage. I had a long day, she told him. She ate and talked about her boss. I would kill that man if I could, she said. When she was finished eating, I passed her a joint. She thanked me and smoked, then stretched herself out on her seat.
After a while, she got up to leave and I walked her outside. In the elevator, she looked closely at my face. She caressed the scars carved on my face by her nails and said, Come home with me. I scratched you hard, didn’t I? We should put something on these wounds.
So I went back to her home with her and told her that I had got a job at the Star of Iran restaurant.
She laughed loudly. I will come and visit one day, she said. Maybe when Reza is playing. I will listen to Reza and watch you fall with your tray on some customer.
I am there from Friday to Sunday. Come for dinner anytime after four, I said.
I will come with Farhoud, she said, as she patted my face with alcohol. Stop twitching. Come on, be a man and take the pain. This little thing is scaring you?
I am not scared. It just burns.
Well, do not think of it. Let it burn. And she kissed my lips. Then she held my face in her hands and looked me straight in the eye.
Did you call your friend?
Who?
Your friend. The woman who dances with her shoes in her hand.
What are you talking about?
Never mind.
What shoes?
You know what shoes.
No.
The dancing woman with no shoes.
Ah. The gypsy, I said.
She has a nickname now!
No, I did not call her. I did not get her number.
Come, let’s go to bed. You smell all smoky. Take off your clothes. Here! She threw a man’s shirt at me. Don’t ask, just wear it and come to bed.
I did not ask, although I wanted to.
IN BED, AFTER WE CAME, Shohreh was silent. She did not put her head on my shoulder, she did not cover my belly with her thigh, she did not warm up her cold feet between my legs. She smoked and looked at the ceiling, thinking. Then she became worried. She rose, reached for the condom on the floor beside the bed, and checked it.
Do you leave your condoms in your pocket? she asked me.
In my wallet, I said.
That is not good. They could break. She pulled at my condom, tied it at the top, and isolated the liquid in different areas, looking for leaks. When she had finished, she threw it next to the bed. The last thing I want is to bring a baby into this world, she said. She reached for the ashtray, fin
ished the last puff of her cigarette, and said, It is late. I am turning off the light. Tomorrow I am working early.
I opened my eyes in the dark and looked at the ceiling. I amused myself by imagining that I was colouring the flat obscure roof above me with school pencils, making clouds and bright suns. All that is empty in the drawing should be filled in, the teacher said to us kids. First you sharpen the pencil to fill in the thin whiskers, then you use the thick crayon to fill in the wings with brown, meticulously and without letting the crayon leave the page. Six feet can be traced below the soft belly. Now, breathing is hard to detect on paper, the teacher said to me when I asked, but it is easier to feel it in real life. Even insects breathe. So I stretched my fingers from underneath the sheets and lay them on Shohreh’s chest. Her half-coloured wings turned and fluttered and she quickly slipped to the other side of the bed. So instead I looked for the thickest pen available, held it, and jerked it until it burst and spilled on my lap, and my teacher came and slapped my hands and sent me to the dark corner of the room.
IN THE MORNING Shohreh cooked me breakfast and got busy brushing her hair, moving from bathroom to closet, from dresser to eyeliner, digging in her bag, changing blouses. Then she stood at the door and said, Are you ready to go? You can take the coffee with you. Here. She poured the coffee into a plastic cup.
I walked her to the metro station and then turned back and walked towards my home. The coffee kept my fingers warm for a while. The steam that escaped the cup danced against the backdrop of the grey roads, the grey buildings, the leafless grey trees, the grey people, the Greyhound buses, and then it lost its energy and turned cold — the fate of everything around me.
I decided to walk all the way home, and on my way I stopped at the Artista Café to get warm. A few North African men surrounded the professor, who sat in his usual chair. He always managed to dazzle those newcomers with his stories and grand theories. For some reason that I do not understand, he always managed to impress his compatriots. But I know the charlatan is in it for the free coffee and to bum cigarettes from those nostalgic souls. He would suddenly, in the middle of a story, ask one of the men to bring him a cup of coffee, and he would take a cigarette from someone else’s supply, and then he’d nonchalantly continue his stories about simultaneous escape from the Algerian government and the religious “fundies.” He claims that both militant groups wanted his death because he exposed the Algerian dictatorship for what it was, and also exposed the plan of the bearded ones for a theocratic state. He would pull articles from old Algerian newspapers and read them aloud to those naive souls, dipping his finger inside his lip as he flipped through the pages.
