Free Cockroach by Rawi Hage Page A

owner. We can talk.
    Thank you, I said, and retreated by walking backwards, my face to his
     highness, my turban bowing repeatedly, until I reached the royal gates, and opened them
     from behind my back with an awkward twist of the wrist of my left hand, in the process
     fumbling against the glass with its Visa card stickers that reminded me of the world
     outside and the cruelty of the cold.
    Outside, Reza was silent and brooding and nervously smoking, and smoke
     shot out of him like straight arrows, splitting their exit between his nostrils and his
     tight lips. Finally he couldn’t hold in his words any longer. As soon as the last
     of the smoke had left his chest he ground his voice at me: How could you do that? First
     you come in just like that, to this respectable place, dressed like a bum. And just look
     at your shoes. And then, and then — he stuttered with anger — and then you
     ask the man for a job and you tell him to check with me as a reference. Well, if he had
     asked me, I would have told him what a deranged, psychotic, spaced-out case of a petty,
     unsuccessful thief you are.
    Give me back my money! I shouted at him. You are the only thief here. How
     many meals did you get from those Canadian women with your sad stories?
    Reza took off his gloves, biting them with his teeth,
     and dug his fingers into his tight pants and pulled a few dollars from his pocket. He
     counted his money and gave me a twenty-dollar bill.
    Forty, I said, and I was ready to kill for it. You owe me forty. And I was
     about to pull out my curved dagger, poison his drink, make sure he was dead, and then
     escape towards the sun on a rug woven by flying camels.
    Ah, right. Forty. Relax, here is your money, said Reza. Now I am meeting
     Shohreh in the Crescent Bar. Are you coming? And by the way, I shouldn’t pay you
     after what you did to that innocent girl.
    Who? Who? I said.
    You know who. Shohreh! he shouted. You took advantage of her.
    Hypocrite! I shouted back. You always wanted her for yourself. Well, too
     late, musician of doom. She is mine now.
    Mine, Reza laughed. No one would keep you, deranged man.
    Carpet musician, I retorted.
    Fridge thief. Are you coming or not? he asked and walked away.
    Yes, I am coming, I said. Because I am sure she wants to see
me
tonight.
    WE ENTERED THE BAR and I saw Shohreh sitting at a table with
     a man, an older man with a moustache and grey hair. Reza looked around for his drug
     dealer. When he found him, hebought some “baby powder,”
     as he put it, and then he came back my way. Do you want a line? Just to show you what a
     nice guy I am.
    I will consider it interest on my money, I said.
    Ungrateful bitch, Reza said, and wobbled his way to the bathroom. I
     followed him. He pulled out his credit card, sprinkled the powder on top of the
     counter’s white ceramic, and cut it into vertical lines. He pulled out a brand new
     five-dollar bill, rolled it up tight, and gave it to me. I stuck the money in my nose,
     and like a rhino I charged and snorted a line before the elephant beside me could change
     his mind. As I moved to the tip of the second line, Reza leaned his big body over my
     shoulder, pushed me against the wall, and dove like a kamikaze towards the shiny white
     counter. He vacuumed up the rest of the white stuff, opened the door, pinched his
     nostrils, and swayed his way out of the bathroom onto the dance floor.
    I walked towards Shohreh’s table, very awake, with a numb upper lip
     that felt as solid and stretched out as an elephant’s trunk. As I passed the bar,
     I picked up a few peanuts and clapped my hands, and continued through the crowd to my
     love. Before I reached her table, however, Shohreh got up and met me. She took my hand
     and we started to dance. I danced with confidence, my forehead lifted high towards the
     sparkling mirror ball that beamed over us with its happy light.
    Who is the guy? I asked Shohreh.
    A friend.
    He looks