Cockroach (5 page)

Shaking my head to dispel the memories of the night before, I lifted the
phone to call Shohreh. There was no dial tone. I hadn't paid the bills in a few
months and finally the phone company must have kept its promise and cut me off. When
they cut the line, I wondered, do they send big guys in overalls down underground to
locate it and slash it like an
open wrist? Does it wiggle for a
while like a lizard's tail? Does the last word of a conversation escape and bounce
along those long tunnels and transform into the echo of a curse, or just fall into
silence? But really, it doesn't matter. Except for Shohreh and a few newcomers to
this land, I don't care to talk to many people. Besides, in this city there is a
public phone on every corner. In the cold they stand like vertical, transparent coffins
for people to recite their lives in.

Hungry, I walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboards. A miracle
indeed! A forgotten can of tuna was floating at the back of the shelves. I captured it,
opened it, watched it quiver against the stillness of the oil, waited for the rice to
boil, and ate sitting at the window, looking down at the white seagulls gliding above
the blue French snow.

After my meal I wanted to do the dishes, but then I thought that maybe I
should take a shower first. I feared that the hot water might run out if I wasted it on
the dishes. I would have to go down and visit the janitor, like I had many times before,
and knock at his door with only a towel around my waist, and complain to his Russian
wife about the pipes that gurgle with thirst and hollowness. I would give her my lecture
about her absent-minded husband who is always hiding in basements, always entangled in
extension cords and mumbling to the sound of menacing drills. When he sees me, that
brooder, that chain-smoker, he always manages to erect a ladder and, before saying a
word to me, climb the metal steps and talk to me from above, through a dead light bulb
or an endless line of fluorescent tubes that will eventually, if you look at it long
enough, lead
you to your dead forefathers, who as soon as the doctor
declares you dead and the line on the monitor goes flat with that long green beep, will
show up to greet you in long robes, and just before you ask them for the meaning of
life, just before you are introduced to the illuminated gods and an orgy of spirits,
just before you dip your toes in a peaceful pool, you will get sucked in reverse through
the long tunnel and land on the hospital bed and hear the nurses above you, welcoming
you back. So now, every time I see that janitor with his head just below the ceiling, I
talk to his shoes, addressing the pair by his family name. Mr. Markakis, I say. Your
highnesses, I say.

Talking about shoes, I once saw the janitor on the sidewalk walking the
dog of a neighbour, an old lady in our building. The janitor's wife would bring
the old lady food, and on summer days, when the branches of the neighbourhood trees were
full of maple leaves, she would drag the old lady out to the sidewalk to bathe in the
sun. She took care of the old lady, and also stole her china and the clothes from her
youth. When I saw the janitor that morning, he was scraping the ground with one of his
feet, rubbing his shoe along the edge of the sidewalk. He had stepped in another
dog's shit. He was cursing people who do not pick up after their dogs. And the old
lady's dog was barking, bewildered, its feelings hurt. It would bark and jump at
the janitor's feet, and sniff, growl, and pull on its leash in protest.

I laughed at them. And the janitor saw me laughing. He looked me in the
eye and cursed me in Macedonian, calling me a filthy Turk, or maybe a dog, or perhaps a
filthy Turkish
dog. And ever since, when he sees me in a hallway or
in the basement, he climbs the high steps on his ladder and dangles a wire towards my
neck like an executioner. I always remind him of his faux pas, and once I even told him
to watch his step because the world is filled with . . . but I paused and added . . .
Well, because you know how dangerous heights can be. And I laughed under the bright new
light of a fresh bulb.

I like the janitor's wife. I like how she is always hiding in her
basement apartment and trying on the old lady's clothing. Once when I knocked on
her door, she opened it wearing one of those large straw colonial hats.

Ready for afternoon tea? I asked her.

What do you want? she said in her thick Russian accent. My husband is not
here. You can leave him a message in the box outside if you need to fix something.

I heard classical music coming from behind the dark walls of her
apartment.

Stravinsky,
The Rite of Spring
, I said.

You know your music, she said.

And you know your hats.

Want do you want? She started to swing the door closed, but before she
could widen her arm and expose her smooth, sweaty armpit and fling the door in my face,
I bluffed and said that I knew the hat belonged to the old lady.

Yes, she said. The old lady gave it to me. What do you want?

And what else did she give you? I winked at her.

She almost smiled. You're very observant, she said. The lady is very
old and she does not have anybody, and she does
not need anything.
Her husband died a long time ago, in China during the war, so . . .

Oh, yes, yes, I interrupted. He must have died from the plague or the
typhoon, or maybe from carrying too much tea and antiques.

She barely smiled and said, I don't know. I do not care. Maybe he
was killed in the war. I read his letters to her. Very romantic. He was an officer in
the British government. A respected man. Handsome, too. I ask the old lady, but she does
not remember anything.

Talking about respected men, did your husband step outside to walk the
dog? I asked. And I giggled because I had given the word “step” a high, flat
note.

No, he went to buy paint. He will be back in an hour.

Ah, then maybe I can come in for music and tea, I said.

The janitor's wife did not answer me. Instead, she turned and went
inside and left the door open.

I stepped into the apartment. The janitor's wife was in the kitchen,
filling the kettle with water and smoking. As she moved, her large hat bumped against
the cabinets on both sides of the kitchen. The straw of her hat rustled, the water in
the kettle bubbled and boiled, the jars, the cups, the sugar came down, little spoons
made small triangle sounds, and then the pouring and stirring inside china cups lifted
my sprits. I was going to sit on the dog-walker's chair, converse with his wife,
and have a warm drink inside his house. What a triumph!

Do you want a drink, or just tea? the janitor's wife asked me.

Tea, please.

Tea, she repeated with irony and disappointment, and I
could hear the rustling straw of her hat again as she advanced with the tray and laid it
in front of me on a low coffee table that I immediately recognized. I had seen that
table once before, on the sidewalk outside our building. In the moving season, people
throw out what they do not need. I was hesitant to pick up the table at the time. Low
and round, chipped on one side to show its layers underneath, layers more orderly and
refined than all the rocks and stones below gardens and fields. Each metal leg branched
out into a triangle that fastened with screws to the bottom of the table's
surface. I had hovered around it for a while, had done a little dance, looked around for
tenants or trotting dogs, but then I changed my mind. The white surface was too shiny, I
decided, and if I let it sit in the middle of my room, light from the sun might strike
it, bounce off, and paste a luminous square on my wall. And I, like a moth, would be
drawn to it.

The janitor's wife took off her hat and leaned over the table. Her
eyes looked bigger now, lit by the table's reflection, shining like a lake (I had
been right not to take that piece of furniture). She turned, poured, and waved her spoon
at me like a conductor. And then the little china cup came shimmering above my lap, and
gold traces on the inner rim of the porcelain were lapped by golden tea, subtle,
austere, and expensive tea, now surrounded by a delicate saucer and the elaborate high
handle of a white cup that made my pinky tingle and stand erect, a nation's
pride.

Nice china, I said.

Okay! the janitor's wife exclaimed. The lady is
old and dying, okay? Just drink your tea. She poured the tea brusquely as if it were
hard liquor that would land in your stomach and make you happy to stand up, dance,
chant, and drink from a lady's shoes.

Those shoes look a bit small on your feet, I whispered with my mouth
inside the china cup.

These are mine, not hers, my companion answered, raising her voice. If you
want to speak like that, you can go outside now. Anyhow, the old lady's husband
stole everything from the Indians, or the Chinese. Maybe he paid nothing, or very
little.

Oh yes, I agree, I said. And what high culture did not steal, borrow,
claim, or pay very little?

Yes, she said. I have a master's degree in anthropology from the
best university in Russia, so I know. Do not talk about that. I know more than you.

Well, yes, I said. I am glad you are taking all these things and giving
them a new life.

A new life here in the basement, the janitor's wife added, and
surprised me with a loud laugh that made her sound like a pirate. She continued: The old
lady has a beautiful big trunk, maybe from China or Japan, but my husband is . . . he is
afraid. No, not afraid. He believes in the gods. He is Greek!

Oh, is he? I smiled. But he seems so fearless, always walking with his
eyes on the horizon, not looking at where his feet land.

Well . . . he is half Spartan and very proud. Anyway, it is none of your
business, but the trunk is heavy.

Well, I could help you transport it, I said. And you
don't think anyone would notice?

The old lady has a niece, but she never comes to visit.

But when the old lady dies, perhaps the niece will want to claim back the
family belongings?

No, she does not know anything about the house or the furniture, not to
worry. I will call you when my husband is away, and you can help me carry the trunk. I
told him that I wanted to bring the trunk here and we had a big fight. He wanted to
break all the china . . . Still, I told him I would bring the trunk here. He does not
believe me.

Well, yes, just knock at my door anytime you are ready, I said.

What do you want in payment?

Oh nothing, I said. I am just doing it for history's sake.

You mean to see things go from one culture to another?

No, to watch the loot of war buried, the stolen treasure put back where it
belongs, in the underground. I laughed loudly. The underground!

The basement! The janitor's wife laughed with me. History is coming
to the basement, she laughed. Okay, now you can go, she said, and chuckled, and then she
remembered my historical words again, and hysterically she laughed.

As I walked out of her apartment and past the sombre cement walls of the
basement, I heard the janitor's wife's locks and bolts closing the door on
the last movement of
The Rite of Spring
, and I hummed the symphony's
tune, graceful as Snow White.

DURING MY SHOWER
, I collected the small
pieces of soap that were stranded on my tub's edges and lathered myself. I am
fascinated by the flow of water. It never ceases to amaze me, how all is swept away, how
everything converges in the same stream, along the same trajectory. And what really
fascinates me is the bits of soap foam floating down the drain, swirling and
disappearing. Little things like this make me think. I start to assess my existence
based on these observations.

Soon I was clean and dressed. I even did the dishes — against the
roaches' will, depriving them of a wealth of crumbs. A rare feeling of
accomplishment, of self-esteem descended upon me. I assured myself that a good, clean,
hardworking man such as me could not possibly be left out to burn on that last day or be
subjected to the rule of cockroaches in the world to come.

A good day indeed! I proclaimed to the seagulls gliding like falling maple
leaves outside my window. Now all I need is to get myself a package of cigarettes and a
good cup of morning coffee. I remembered how on that day not so long ago, just before I
walked to the park and looked for the tree with a rope in my hand, I had a good cup of
coffee. I enjoyed that cup the most. Of course, you might think I enjoyed it because it
was my last and I made the effort to enjoy it, savour it slowly, wrap my palms around
it, brood over it a little, and pay more attention to it. But no, you are wrong; it
really was a good cup of coffee. When I had finished my coffee and decided on a tree, I
tried to throw my rope over the branch. But I found the task impossible and I realized I
lacked some basic cowboy skills. Then I tried to climb the tree, but it was a cold day
and my
exposed fingers became so frozen that I could not keep from
slipping. I changed trees, found a lower branch. I mean, everything was pathetic.

The plan did not work — the branch broke. I tried. I failed.

A FEW DAYS PASSED
, and then it was
time again to climb the stairs of the public health clinic and sit in my interrogation
chair.

This time, the therapist was interested in my mother.

My mother, I said, has kinky hair.

What else? she asked.

A long face and pointy teeth.

What does she do?

Well, I said, when she was not dangling clothing by the arms or the ankles
off the balcony she would stir her wooden spoon around a tin pot, in a counter-clockwise
motion, and if she was not busy doing that, she was chasing after us with curses and
promises that she would dig our graves.