by Rawi Hage
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 wa
tched 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.
And Naim, no one knew about him? Genevieve asked.
No one knew of his involvement except the boy and Abou-Roro, and the boy never told. I saw Naim before I left my country. He told me the story of Abou-Roro’s death.
Genevieve sighed. Then she asked: What is your mother’s name?
My mother’s name? I asked, surprised. You have it — it is in your file.
Well, yes, but I wanted to hear how it is pronounced.
Manduza.
Do you call Manduza now and then?
She is dead.
Genevieve was silent for a minute. Then she asked, How?
She got sick.
When?
Lately.
You were here, in Canada?
Yes.
Tell me more.
I got a phone call.
From who?
My sister.
The one with the baby.
Yes.
Was she crying?
Of course.
What did you say?
Nothing.
Did you cry?
No, I did not.
Do you ever cry?
I can’t remember crying. But I must have when I was born and was pulled out of Manduza’s thighs.
Do you ever feel sad for other people?
I did not answer this. I did not know what to say. I thought we had gone past this level of intimacy. I noticed that the flowers I had brought Genevieve were dead already, dried out in the blue vase behind her.
What is your sister doing now? Genevieve asked finally.
She works at a store.
Where?
Back home.
What kind of store?
A clothing store. She sells clothes.
And where is Tony?
He left for Brazil.
So you did not manage to kill him?
No.
How did your sister get the job?
It is a long story.
Tell me. I love long stories.
If you insist, doctor.
Genevieve.
Yes, Genevieve. You see, Genevieve, Tony came by my parents’ house one Sunday when my father was away. It was summer, and all the neighbours were on their balconies. From our balcony I saw him park his car on the street. We all stood up, and my sister rushed to change her clothes. Tony was all dressed up, sober, and shaven. I ran to my room and got my gun. Then I walked through the living room and met him at the stairs. I let my gun hang low. I asked him where he thought he was going, but he did not answer and kept on marching up the stairs. By this time my sister and my mother had followed me to the door. Before he could cross the threshold, I extended my arm with the gun and put it in front of his face.
Go out of the way, kid, he said.
When the women saw the gun, they screamed, and their screams pealed off the walls and the old wooden doors and brought out the neighbours from down and up the stairs. They watched me curse the bastard, telling him that he couldn’t just come and take what he wanted and disgrace our house’s honour. He ignored me and told my sister to bring the kid and the suitcase and come back home. My sister was hysterical.
I cranked the gun and took a shot above Tony’s head, and all the women in the building shrieked and grabbed their children and ran. The sound of the shot echoed loudly, but Tony did not even blink. The men in the building told me to calm down, to put down the gun. And Tony backed off and said that I would regret what I had done. Then he left.
Joseph Khoury, an older man who had never married and who lived on the top floor, came down and talked to me. He said, This is not the right way to deal with things. Look what you are doing to your mother and sister, look at the children and women around you. They are all scared. Even if you are at war, you should have decency. These days, you young kids think you can do what you please.
And then, seeing that he was having an effect on me, my mother invited Joseph Khoury for a coffee. As the man entered our house, my sister came out of her room in tears. She came out and shouted, Shoot me! Here, shoot everyone! Shoot my baby as well! And she slapped my face.
I pushed her back into her room and slapped her in return, and the baby wailed.
Joseph Khoury separated us and tried to calm everyone down. My mother just stood there watching as the old man asked me for the gun. Give me the gun, my son, he said to me.
I gave it to him. I’m not sure why. He laid the gun on the table and put his arm around my shoulders. He took me to the balcony and said, Listen, you are a man now. I know that you feel you should protect your family, but violence is not the only way.
Did this man know your father? Genevieve asked me.
He knew about my father.
What about your father? What did he know? No, wait, forget it for now; we’ll talk about that another time. Tell me what happened.
My sister stayed at home. And Tony did not show up again for a while.
You scared him?
No, he just disappeared. No one knew where or why. Even when my sister still lived with him, in his house, he used to disappear every once in a while.
One night I came home late, and as I climbed the stairs I saw my sister coming from above our place down the stairs.
Where were you? I asked her.
Upstairs, she said. And I recognized in her face a look filled with dreams of naked men and desperate plans for liberation, for escape to something calmer, richer.
I went straight upstairs and knocked at Joseph’s door. He opened it with a big smile, expecting someone else, and then I knew. I knew what was going on because he was startled when he saw me. He looked happy, younger and beloved and bouncy, because that is what a caress can do to the old. I looked him in the eye, and I said, If you do not want to be alone, old man, you take care of those who keep you company.
He nodded. He understood.
A few days after that incident, my sister started to work for Joseph in his clothing store.
So, they slept together? Genevieve asked.
What do you think?
Right. And how did you feel about that?
Nothing. I felt nothing.
Nothing?
How are brothers supposed to feel?
Yes, how?
I am asking you, doctor . . . Genevieve. How are we supposed to feel?
It depends.
On what? I asked.
Well, what do you think?
I think it depends on class, I said.
Class? Yes, the poor are forced to compromise.
We compromise our loved ones.
Genevieve was silent for a moment. Then she said, You will keep me informed of any future break-ins you’re planning, won’t you?
Why?
Well, it’s something we should talk about.
But will this talk still be confidential?
Yes, it will still be confidential, but also something to assess.
Why?
Because talking about it is part of your treatment.
Because it is exciting, maybe? I said.
For whom?
For Genevieve.
You can leave now, the doctor said. I think we are done for today.
ALL WEEK MY APARTMENT was cold. On Wednesday I went downstairs and knocked at the door of my Indian neighbours. A man opened the door. I asked him if he had any heat.
Very low, very low, he said. This landlord is very cheap, very cheap.
Rather be in India? I ask
ed.
Pakistan, he protested. Pakistan.
I went back to my apartment. A little while later, I had an itch on my back. I hunched over and just reached the itch with a long arm. I scratched it, but it still itched. I went to the kitchen, picked up a wooden spoon, and pushed it down my shirt, parallel to my spine. The spoon was too round, too soft. So I laid it over the edge of the counter and pushed down on it. It broke, and now there was a rougher edge to it. I moved the broken spoon up and down my back until I hurt.
I looked out the window. It was still white outside. Patches of sporadic snow covered the mountain in the distance. It is too cold in this dump, I thought. Maybe if I take a walk outside and move my legs I’ll be able to heat my bones.
But what stressed me more than the cold was hunger. I went back downstairs and knocked again at my Pakistani neighbour’s door. He opened it, and said: May I help you?
I love the smell of your food, I said. I was wondering if you could give me some of your recipes or maybe a little of your food to taste?
Sure, the man said, and smiled. His wife peeked out from the back, covering her head with a silk scarf. And his kids sprang up from the floor and stared at me from behind their mother’s long robe.
You have to buy spices, many spices, the man said. But maybe you like it mild? His wife giggled from the back. His kids struggled to escape through the open door and down the stairs but they were caught by the woman and dragged back inside.
I said: Spices are good; they keep you warm.
My neighbour laughed.
I have not tasted your kind of food yet, I said, but the smell is very good.
The wife covered her teeth with her hand and laughed again.
Wait, the man said. He talked to his wife in another language. She disappeared and came back with a big bowl of food.
Oh, I said. All this for me? Very generous, much obliged, very generous. May the moon light your nights.
Yes. Taste it, and if you like it, you come back and I will tell you the names of the spices and how to make the food.
I went upstairs, sat at my table, and started to eat. Then I ran to fill a glass with water from the tap to extinguish my burning tongue. The food was very hot. It burnt in my nostrils, it made me cry. I felt like getting a little jar, collecting my tears, walking to Genevieve’s office, opening her door, and showing her the bottle. Here — is this what you want? Here — these are my tears. Does that make me sane, normal, cured?
