by Rawi Hage
Shohreh asked Shaheed to stand up. He hesitated, then stood up slowly. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth again, and then talked calmly to Shohreh. He extended his arm and took a little step towards her, asking her for the gun.
Shohreh moved back a few steps towards the kitchen door, shouted at him, and pressed the trigger on the gun. She missed. The bullet hit the wall and ricocheted onto the bar, breaking glasses. Everyone ducked except me and the bodyguard. Shohreh shook her head and screamed at the man. Shohreh! she shouted her own name, Shohreh Sherazy! She ordered the man to turn around and bend his upper body over the table, which he did.
I saw the bodyguard move towards the kitchen and slowly position himself closer to Shohreh. While Shaheed calmly talked to my lover, the bodyguard moved slowly into position behind her.
As I watched the bodyguard, I thought how he reminded me of a large man who once pushed me for no reason. I was in a bar drinking, and the man next to me wanted to talk about sports. When I told him that I did not give a damn about sports or chasing an invisible puck, he fell quiet. And then, for no apparent reason, he shoved me down from my stool. I fell on the floor and my drink spilled over me. The man looked back at the TV and continued watching his game. I left the bar and paced across the street. I hated the cold, and the wetness of the alcohol on my clothing made me feel even colder. When the man walked out of the bar and went down the street to his car, I picked up a large stone and flew at him with all four wings and hit him on the head. The man was so strong that it seemed as if he barely felt it. He turned and looked at me, smiling. I thought he was about to crush me, to step on me and twist his shoe sideways so that my cartilage would crack and pus would squeeze out of my entrails, but suddenly he collapsed. I took the stone again and threw it at the windshield of the man’s car. I thought: Now when the bastard goes on a long drive down the highway, he will have a taste of what the insect thrown at him by the wind can do.
My lover’s shots took too long and her aim missed, and her tears flooded onto the floor. Through the opening in the kitchen wall, I saw her kneeling with her arms extended, and I heard her voice changing. And I saw the man stand up straight and fix his tie. I saw him extend his hand again, and just when her gun took too long to fire, I watched as the bodyguard swiftly grabbed her hand and swung my lover across wooden tables and empty chairs. He swung her with ease, almost lifting her by the hands, and she dangled from his arms like a skinned animal on a loose rope. He swung her and she looked small and helpless, and her hair covered her face.
Shaheed came forward and touched her. He held her hands down by her thighs.
I watched all of this happen as if it were taking place somewhere far away. Everything was soundless. Everything was unreal, distant and slow. I walked back to the chef’s counter and picked up the cook’s knife.
The bodyguard had his back to me. I stuck the knife in his liver. He fell across two tables and crushed the candles with his body, and flying plates landed and shattered silently on the floor. The gun fell from his hand. I picked it up and aimed it at Shaheed. I shot him twice. I shot him right in the chest and he fell beneath his tablecloth.
I dropped the gun and walked back to the kitchen. I looked at the water that gathered and rushed towards the drain.
Then I crawled and swam above the water, and when I saw a leaf carried along by the stream of soap and water as if it were a gondola in Venice, I climbed onto it and shook like a dancing gypsy, and I steered it with my glittering wings towards the underground.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to Lynn Henry, the Canada Council for the Arts, and Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec.
About the Author
Rawi Hage was born in Beirut, Lebanon, and lived through nine years of the Lebanese civil war during the 1970s. He immigrated to Canada in 1992. He is a writer, a visual artist, and a curator. Hage’s first book, De Niro’s Game, was a finalist for numerous prestigious national and international awards, including the Scotiabank Giller Prize and the Governor General’s Literary Award, won the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and has been translated into several languages and published around the world. Rawi Hage lives in Montreal.
About the Publisher
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
