One thing only, Natasha repeated.
Two things, I said. Or shoes and socks count as one thing.
Okay, you take them and go. Before my husband comes home.
I took my loot and crawled back upstairs. On the landing between two floors I sat and took off my shoes and my socks, and wiggled my toes. Making sure that my bare feet didn’t touch the cement, I slipped on the new thick wool socks and the boots. Then I ran down the stairs and out of the building and walked above the earth and its cold white crust, feeling warm and stable.
VI
I WALKED TO Genevieve’s office. The grip of my boots’ soles anchored me more firmly than ever in the soil hidden beneath the street’s white surface.
Genevieve and I sat as usual, facing each other. There were a few seconds of silence between us. I put each of my hands on a chair arm. I crossed my legs and moved my feet in my boots, bending them forwards, backwards, and twirling them a bit, thinking of the old lady’s husband marching to confront his enemies beyond the trenches and muddy battlefields. Now that I had laced my feet into boots, blood, and mud, this health clinic had started to feel homier. The door was open to the hallway and Genevieve sat across from me, looking into my eyes. She always started with an assessment: you look tired, happy, sad, or good. And I knew her words had no relevance, no connection to how I looked; they were always just an excuse to start the conversation. I usually nodded and I always agreed, but I also knew I could look like all of the above at the same time, as if I were a cocktail of emotion that was not defined, that had no scientific term, that needed a new space to exist in, a kind of a purgatory that no medical paper had ever described.
Do you lie to me? Genevieve asked.
Why do you think I lie to you?
You told me that you talked to your sister on the phone once, when your mother died, and now you tell me that she was dead long before then.
She is dead.
So you lied.
Maybe. I imagine things.
You imagined that she was alive?
You know that I imagine things. I even imagine you sometimes.
Stop that. It is predictable, what you are trying to do. I am not even curious about what you imagine about me.
I got up to leave.
Do not leave, Genevieve said. Sit down. Listen to me. Sit down. Listen. Dealing with death is a hard thing. You have anger, you have guilt, and you have to deal with your loss. Are you willing to work with me? Good. Fine. Let’s go back to your sister’s death. Perhaps you think by committing suicide you can rectify what you did.
You do not understand anything, I said.
Well, help me to understand. Is that why you wanted to hang yourself?
No.
I think it is.
No.
What did you do after your sister’s death? Why did you leave your country? You do not want to talk? All right, you can leave if you like.
I will.
Good, go. Here is the door.
I will.
What are you waiting for?
I stood up, took my jacket from the back of the chair, and walked towards the door. I am not coming back, I said.
Fine. Quit. Go.
I left. I took the fire exit. On the way down, I buttoned my inner jacket and zipped my outer jacket. I searched for my woollen hat. I couldn’t find it.
I went back upstairs. Genevieve was standing at the door of her office with my hat in her hand.
I walked up to her, snatched it, and turned away.
Somehow I knew you would be back, she said.
For the last time, I said. For the last time. Now, doctor, go home and relax, sleep on your silk sheets, turn on your giant TV, open your fridge and put your slippers on, if you ever find them.
Stop, Genevieve said. What did you say?
I said slippers. You lost your slippers. You can’t find your old slippers.
It is grave, very grave, if you are implying what I think you are implying. Very grave.
There is nothing wrong with offering some hospitality, I said.
I never invited you into my personal life.
No, but I went anyway.
This therapy is over, she said. She looked deeply sad and alarmed.
You tolerated me breaking into other people’s places, I said, but now that it is your own place. .
Genevieve turned and went back into her office, and before she closed the door she said, I can’t help you anymore.
I WENT OUT onto the street and I walked fast, disoriented and alone. I stopped a man and asked him for a cigarette, but he didn’t answer me; he kept on walking, ignoring me. I cursed him and called him cheap. I went to the Artista Café and walked straight up to the professor. I looked him in the eyes and said, I want back the cigarette I gave you. He was startled. He must have seen how my eyes shone. He put his hand in a pocket and started to search. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and handed it to me. I took the whole thing and started to walk away. When one of the guys sitting at the table protested, I walked back to him and asked him if he had a problem. If he did, I said, he could step outside. On my way out I heard the professor saying, Il est fou, il est fou.
I had no fire. I stopped people and asked for a light, but none of them wanted to light my cigarette for me. Even before they heard what I had to say they sped up their steps, protected their change, their hidden wealth. To get a fire you have to have a suit and tie these days. Filth! They are all filth, these people, walking above the earth. I entered a restaurant and walked to the counter, grabbed a bunch of toothpicks and three packs of matches, and walked out. I went around the corner, and at the side of an old building I surrounded a match with my palms and tried to light my cigarette. Filthy wind, it wouldn’t let me have my fire. Every time I tried to light a single match, the wind stood right beside me, blew on my face, laughed and mocked me. I threw the cigarette on the ground and started to crush it, cursing it, threatening it, and reminding it that there was no fresh air anymore, there was no pure breeze, there was only filthy gas filled with smog and diseased coughs. I walked away from the cigarette, but it chased me; I could feel it breathing down my neck. Then I remembered the Russian restaurant nearby, and its basement entrance. I found it and dodged below the surface of the street. I lit my cigarette and walked up again in triumph, laughing at the wind, showing off my burning tobacco leaves to every passerby, every human with a dog and a leash. I felt no shame parading my triumph. I blew my smoke with the air of an aristocrat. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk with a sardonic smile on my face, my neck outstretched beside citizens’ hats, and I blew thick, dark clouds in their faces.
AT THE RESTAURANT the next evening, I broke three plates. The owner came squeaking over to me like a mouse. He stood above me while I picked up the shattered pieces and gathered the crumbs and scooped up the stew from the floor. Then I fetched the mop and pushed the dirty water towards the hole in the floor. When I was finished, the owner asked me to warm up his car. He left the kitchen without saying a word.
After I came back from heating the car, the owner’s daughter snapped her fingers at me. I moved my feet towards her.
Who is the lady that was here last week? Sehar asked me.
Her name is Shohreh, I said. Why?
I ask you a question and you answer. That’s all. Is she coming back here?
If I ask her to, she will.
Is she your girlfriend?
Maybe, I said. Do you like her?
She is very pretty, Sehar said.
Yes, I said. I only know pretty girls. Would you like to meet her?