I DRAGGED MYSELF to see Genevieve again. I did not feel like seeing her. Talking about your mother when she is gone is not a decent thing to do.
I entered the health centre and informed the elderly lady at the desk of my presence. I picked up a magazine and looked around at the posters on the wall. One good thing about waiting in these health-care places is watching the nurses, therapists, psychopaths, cleaners, and secretaries that pass by. They all look equally preoccupied, some rushing, some even brooding. I could never figure out who was who. Who was hearing voices and who was making them, who was trying to stop them and who was suppressing them? But when you sit and wait, everyone knows what you are here for. Everyone knows that you are going to confess something — something evil that was done to you, something evil that you did. Still, the past is all in the past. If you sit, wait, behave, confess, and show maybe some forgiveness and remorse, you, my boy, you could be saved. Jesus shall appear from behind one of those office doors in a skirt and stockings, holding a file of lives in his hand. Jesus will lead you, walk in front of you, swinging his ass up the hallway. And you, my boy, you must not even dare to wonder how Jesus will look naked on top of the desk. Do not wonder what he thinks of you. Jesus is very sensitive to men’s looks. He can detect your innermost thoughts by the twitch in your eye, by the slightest wink and stare. And Jesus will tell you straight up, Son, if your right eye is causing your downfall, pluck it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell. Jesus, unlike working-class waitresses, does not need a shield. Jesus knows every thought in your head; he knows well that you, my boy, want to make him confess as well. But Jesus is strong-willed and is on his way towards you, smiling at you, leading you to that familiar chair, that small table, and he will be asking you how your days were, and your nights, starting with the bad weather and finishing with your cold mother.
Have we met any more giant insects? Genevieve asked me. What was it again — a spider?
No, no visits from the cockroach.
That is good. No? Don’t you think it is good?
What is good?
That you did not have any more visitors, Genevieve said, and made quotation marks with her fingers. Let’s go back to your family.
Where did we stop last time?
You were plotting to extract money from the old man who was involved with your sister.
Yes, Joseph Khoury.
Yes, go on.
Well, I visited my sister at the store. It was the lunch hour and I asked her if I could take her for a falafel sandwich at the corner. She was very happy. She rushed to the back and got her purse, fixed her hair in the mirror; she even pulled out some lipstick and covered her lips with red. She held my arm and we walked to the store at the corner. She talked to me about work. When I asked her if the old man was treating her well, she nodded and said that he had a big heart. Then she said that the two other girls who worked at the store were nice to her as well. She was in charge of making coffee in the back room. We offer coffee to all the good customers, she told me. In the afternoon, there are these older men who come and sit around Joseph’s desk and talk and smoke cigars. One of them does not take sugar, because he has diabetes, the other likes it sweet, and Joseph and the girls like it medium. I make three different kinds, she smiled.
When we sat down, I said to her, Have you thought about leaving your husband?
He is the father of my child, she answered, and her smile disappeared. Her bubbly face changed.
You should leave him, I said to her.
She shook her head, slapped her hand on the table, and said, To go where? To live where? I can’t stay in our parents’ house. It is too small. . with the baby. And I can’t stand our mother and father fighting all the time. Our father, the other day when I was staying there for the night, he came back at one in the morning. I had to pick him up off the floor and throw him on the sofa, he was so drunk. If I left Tony, where would I go?
If he hits you one more time, I said, I am going to kill him.
Would you kill the father of my child? My sister raised her voice. Would you? Great. And when my daughter Mona grows up and asks me where her father is, I will tell her, Your uncle put a bullet in his head. Is that why you invited me to lunch?
She was about to stand up, so I grabbed her arm and asked her to stay. She sat still. She cried. Then her hand reached across to touch my arm.
My little brother, you are my little brother, she said.
I stood up and got the food. I put the tray on the table and put her share in front of her.
We ate, then she smiled and said: Rima, one of the girls at the store, asked about you.
Which one?
The one with the long dress.
I did not notice her.
Come back with me. I will show her to you.
And what am I supposed to do with her?
Do whatever you like.
Right, and then what will you do when she starts crying and blaming you?
You are planning on making all the girls cry for the rest of your life?
Only those that like me.
Yes, only those that like you, she said, and she pulled a Kleenex from her purse and blew her nose. Maybe there are no good men in this world, and us women have to endure it.
If he touches you, I said, I will beat him up. Do you understand?
You can’t beat him up. He is too strong for you. He will hurt you. You do not even know what he is capable of.
What does he do all day, anyway? Just tell me. You do not even know what your husband does.
He works for the militia, my sister said. That is all I have to know. He brings food.
You are working now. You do not need him. I will give you money, I said.
Let it go, please. Let it go.
You love that brute.
Look, you are not so different, my father is not so different. I am surrounded by men that come from the same mould. Look around. The only decent man I know is Joseph Khoury.
Marry him, then.
What? You little cockroach, how could you say that?
I walked my sister back to the store. Are you working tomorrow? I asked her.
Yes. But don’t visit me. Look, come now and I will show Rima to you. Just look through the window. She is the one with the red long dress. She is nice, a very nice girl.
What is her name?
I told you: Rima. You know what? She is too nice for you. Go, my little brother, go away. She kissed me on the cheek and I walked away from the store. I passed the pharmacy, the church, and the parking lot, and arrived at Abou-Roro’s back alley.
The man was in his yard, surrounded by his junk — old stereos and machinery. His radio was playing loud. Come on in, he said to me. Come on in. When are we cashing in on the old man?
We aren’t.
Changed your mind? he said.
Yes, forget it. I am not killing the father of my niece.
Abou-Roro had a smirk on his face. He stood up, went back inside, and brought out some fresh almonds and two bottles of Almaza beer. You know where you can find Tony every morning, right? he asked me.
No, I do not know much about that man.
Every day he is in Abou-Fares’s joint. He spends hours on those gambling machines. The man must be making money somehow.
You followed him, I said.
I know everything.
What else do you know?
He works for the Special Forces. The man is connected. The man is dangerous.
If he hits my sister one more time I will break his bones, I said. I do not care how dangerous or connected he is.
There is some action coming, Abou-Roro said. Are you in?
Talk.
Wait. He turned up the volume on the radio and the entire neighbourhood was now listening to the hourly news. You know the Armenian who does money exchanges on the corner, not too far from the Jesuit garden?