The grandson arrives and heads straight to the kitchen. He takes a pear and bites great chunks from it. Then he puts it down. It is not like him to stop in mid-pear.
Minutes later he slumps onto the couch, where he lies, squirming from time to time. He rises, approaches and says:Saba, my stomach feels awful.
Is it sore, darling?
No, just awful*. It feels like a washing machine.
He clutches his belly and groans: It feels like when you’ve been sent to the Headmaster’s office and you’re waiting there, expecting something bad… My stomach is in turmoil.
Nice word selection, thinks I, pretty good for a 14-year old.
He leaps to his feet and runs to the toilet.
Not long after, he returns. I did a monster poo* – all water. What’s wrong with me, Saba?
I examine his abdomen. I say he probably has a stomach bug.
He races away again, returns and repeats his earlier announcement. Shortly after he runs, returns and describes his work.
Do you feel better, after you’ve been to the toilet, darling?
There is no answer. I look over to the couch, where he sits, slouching, head bent towards his lap.
I turn to attend to kitchen tasks, when a strangled sound disturbs me. The boy’s voice crosses the room, indistinct: Saba…
I turn, seeing nothing new.
More gargling, then: Saba, I vomited.
Between the boy’s feet, atop the Persian rug, a heap of hot vegetal matter lies steaming.
I’m sorry Saba. I’m…
More gargling, and the heap is larger.
The boy looks stricken. I give him a bowl to catch any third helping, clean him and take him to bed. I lay a towel at his lap and the bowl before him. His face creases as he searches for words as strong as his feeling: Thank you Saba. I love you Saba.
The Persian rug lies there and stares at me. What do you do when your Isfahan rug has suffered such a colourful assault?
I lug it to the bathroom and give it a shower. The rug lies drenched on the floor and stares at me. What do you do when your rug has been for a swim?
I lug it to the wall-mounted heated towel rail and manage to fold and hang it in place.
I look into the shower recess. A vegan’s banquet stares back at me. I wonder what my wife will say when she enters to take her shower in the morning.
How do you remove freshly laundered gastric contents from a shower recess? I squat and stare. Everything seems so rich in texture. My fingers recoil. Kleenex tissues are not squeamish. They do not suffer aesthetic stress. I mop and aggregate. Then I stop. What is that black lump? Has the boy eaten eggplant? Black olive?
I look closer. The black bit assumes a familiar shape. It looks like a cockroach.
I call the boy’s name: Come! Come quickly. Bring your phone.
Why Saba? I’m in bed. I feel terrible.
Please come. Bring your phone.
He comes. He sees and he turns away. I don’t want to see that, Saba.
I take his phone and photograph the black matter.
The boy says, That’s gross Saba. You don’t photograph vomit.
I say, Look at the black thing.
The boy looks and turns quickly away.
I say, It’s a cockroach.
This is not a time for joking, Saba.
I show him the photo.
His face falls open: No! That didn’t come out of me, Saba!
I say, That vomit isn’t mine.
The boy gulps. He looks horrified. He says, is that the bug I had inside my stomach? I had a cockerroach** inside me?
I say to him, Darling, next time you eat an insect, make sure it’s cooked properly.
I wouldn’t eat a cockerroach, Saba. They disgust me.
Well you did eat it darling. After all, you do eat boogers. It might have been an accident…
A thought occurs to me: Have you eaten any food your eldest brother prepared for you in the last twenty-four hours?
What are you talking about, Saba?
Darling, twice in the last month you’ve drunk a cup of tea he brought you. Twice he piddled into it and twice you drank it.
A worried look settles on the boy’s face. He thinks for a few moments: No, Saba, I definitely didn’t eat anything he gave me. He slept out last night and I haven’t seen him today.
And there the matter lies. The child has no knowledge of ingesting an arthropod. But he has, by accident, solved a question as old as human-cockroach cohabitation. The small black beasts have lived among us since we arrived on the planet. And we know they’d survive a nuclear war that would wipe out us human hosts. The question, how do you kill a cockroach, has been answered at last by my grandson.
* This is not a verbatim quote: the boy used a vulgar expression.
** The boy is an Hispanophone. Here his father’s Spanish, (cucaracha) collides with his mother’s English. Disgusting in any language.