What are you looking at, kid? Tony finally shouted. Go back home and bring your sister here. Tell her to come before I have to go drag her back by the hair. He said this not even looking me in the face. Move, he said.
I stood there exhaling my hate, my fists closed, my eyes projecting bullets, flying cigarettes, body holes. And then a kind of elation came over me, I remember.
You still here? Tony said.
And it was as if I was transformed. Maybe I even flew a little. And when I spoke, my voice vibrated loudly.
Tony stood up, grabbed the gun from the table, and walked towards me. One of his men stepped behind me. Tony put the gun in my face and said, You look like a killer. He laughed. The killer is dead, he said. I heard a gunshot. I jerked, thinking, This asshole just shot me! But I did not feel it, not yet. Then Tony and his friends all started to laugh. I can still hear them laugh. Tony’s friend had walked behind me and pulled the trigger in the air.
Scared hen. Is that what you want? Tony waved his gun in my face. Is that what you want, kid? He stuck the gun in my stomach. The two other men were amused by it all. They smiled, sat down, and tipped their chairs onto back legs. Tony raised his palm and tapped it gently against my bare neck. He closed his palm on the back of my neck and said again, Go get your sister, pronto, before I drag her here. When I pushed his hand away, bent my body, and liberated my neck from his grip, he boxed me on my shoulder with the back of his gun. He cornered me in his hallway. I could hear the neighbours and their TV — the loud news, the shouts of the woman calling her kids, the clanging of dishes, the smell of warm food. And suddenly I could hear my own mother calling me to her room, telling me to get ice to lay on her black eye. You tell the neighbours that I fell off the stairs, if they ask, you hear? I felt as if I could slip from under Tony’s hand and disappear under the neighbour’s door. I was sure that I could, if only he would stop chasing me from one corner to another, poking me with the barrel of his gun. His close bad breath, his thick, droopy moustache encircled me, made me crawl against the walls. And, as if I fluttered somehow, I became lighter and more agile. I even slipped under his feet and jumped over his boots. I was so agile and slippery that I almost made him stumble on the stairs. He got mad and said to me: You want to be tough, hen? He slapped me on the head.
I climbed the walls, flew over the ramp, landed on the floor below, and escaped. At that moment, I decided to kill him.
And did you kill him? asked Genevieve.
I was silent.
You do not have to answer that, she said. Even if you do, everything is confidential here.
Is our time up? I asked.
No. Do you have to go?
I did not answer her.
Did you tell your sister what had happened?
What for?
Genevieve was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, Was your mother nice to your sister?
My mother become preoccupied with the baby. My sister cried all the time and lay down on my bed. She slept a great deal and did not want to leave the house.
Depression.
What?
Sleeping and fatigue is a form of depression, explained Genevieve. But we can talk about that later. Go on.
I went straight to Abou-Roro and told him that I needed a gun.
Who is Abou-Roro?
My mentor. A thief in the neighbourhood.
Genevieve nodded. She looked intrigued but held her composure. Her pen made its way inside her lips, and I could see her breathe in a steady, regular motion, in time to her heartbeat. The doctor, like sultans, is fond of stories, I thought.
Maybe we should stop now, you must have a second appointment, I said.
No, no, no. Go on, please.
Well, I said, Abou-Roro said he could do it, but I had to help him in a little operation, if you know what I mean.
Operation? Genevieve asked.
You know, something illegal.
Oh yes, like shoplifting.
Well, maybe a little more than that, I said.
Like what, then?
Well, I am trying to tell you.
Yes, yes, excuse me. I interrupted you. Go on.
Abou-Roro showed me a few blank bank cheques. He could not write or read. Whose cheques are those, I asked him?
The priest’s, he said.
A missionary lived across the street from Abou-Roro’s house, in the back of the Franciscan convent. One night when the bombing in the city intensified, Father Edmond’s room was hit by a bomb. Abou-Roro ran to the priest’s room. The priest was wounded but still alive. Abou-Roro took a shattered stone and bashed the priest’s head.
He killed the priest? Genevieve asked.
Yes, he made sure Father Edmond was dead, and then he stole what he could find, and ended up with a few blank cheques. He wanted me to fill in the cheques, backdated, so he could quickly cash them before the priest’s account was closed. He even had a sample of the man’s signature from one of the documents he’d collected.
I looked at the shrink and her eyes were wide open. Horrified. Half the pen was in her mouth. I could tell she didn’t believe what I was saying to her.
I said, Madam, if all this bothers you I could stop.
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.