Chicago

by Alaa Al Aswany

  He smiled and said, “Of course. And by the way, what’s happening in Egypt these days? What I read in the newspapers worries me.”

  “On the contrary, recent events make one optimistic. The Egyptians have awakened and started demanding their rights. The corrupt regime is shaking hard and I believe its days are numbered.”

  “Don’t you think the demonstrations and the strikes will lead the country to anarchy?”

  “We cannot obtain freedom without paying a price.”

  “You think Egyptians are ready for democracy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that half the Egyptians are illiterate. Wouldn’t we do better concentrating on teaching them how to read and write?”

  “Egypt has the oldest parliament in the East. Besides, illiteracy does not impede the practice of democracy, as witnessed by the success of democracy in India despite the high illiteracy rate. One doesn’t need a university diploma to realize that the ruler is oppressive and corrupt. On the other hand, to eradicate illiteracy requires that we elect a fair and efficient political regime.”

  For the second time I felt that he was upset with what I said. He turned once again onto a highway and said, “You must be quite tired. You’ve got to rest. We will have time to take a tour of Chicago later on. We’re now heading for the university, learn the route.”

  “I’ll try. I’m not good with directions.”

  “It’s impossible to get lost in Chicago because it is organized on regular north-south and east-west lines. It’s enough to know the number of a building to reach it easily.”

  We took a tour of the university shopping center, and he helped me buy groceries. Then he said kindly, “If you like ful medammis, there are cans in the back row.”

  “Do Americans eat ful and taamiya like us?”

  “Of course not, but a Palestinian immigrant produces them here in Chicago. Would you like to try?”

  “While in Egypt, I’ve eaten enough ful to last me till Judgment Day.”

  When he laughs his face looks quite friendly and affectionate. We arrived at the student dormitory. It’s a big building surrounded by a large garden. The black receptionist welcomed us, and it was clear that she and Dr. Salah were friends, for he inquired about her family. She typed my name and the information appeared on the monitor. “Apartment 407, fourth floor,” she said as she handed me the key with a smile. I said good-bye to Dr. Salah and thanked him anew. I took my suitcase, went up to my apartment, closed the door behind me, and took off my clothes. It was warm, so I stayed in my underwear. As soon as I saw the bed I fell upon it and slept very soundly, waking up in the afternoon. The apartment has one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen opening to a small living room big enough only for a table and two chairs. It’s a small but clean place, and because of the patterned wallpaper, the lush carpeting, and the indirect lighting it has the look of handsome Western homes that we see in foreign movies. I took a hot bath, made myself some coffee, then stretched out on the bed and lit a cigarette. At that point something strange happened. I was overcome by vivid sexual fantasies and a violent and persistent desire that was almost painful. I feel embarrassed as I write this down, but I was so greatly aroused for no reason I could think of. Was it my feeling of freedom beginning my new life in America? Was it the clean air I breathed on the shore of Lake Michigan? Or could it be the quiet atmosphere in the apartment and the indirect lighting and the lazy day off? Could all that have reminded me of Friday mornings in the Giza apartment that has witnessed my adventures? I don’t know. I tried to resist the desire and think of something else, but I couldn’t, so I got off the bed, picked up the telephone, and asked the receptionist whether I could entertain a girlfriend in my apartment. She laughed and said in a merry tone, “Of course you can. This is a free country. But the regulations here do not permit your friend to spend the night with you. She has to leave before ten p. m.”

  The receptionist’s words aroused me even more. I got up and fixed myself a tuna sandwich and opened the bottle of wine I had bought on the plane. I began to drink slowly and leaf through the huge telephone directory. I knew that prostitution was not legal in Chicago but I soon figured out that it existed under another name. I found in the telephone book ads for beautiful women expert in giving “special massage.” I said to myself that that was exactly what I wanted. I stayed away from the large ads, which I figured would be exorbitant in price. I chose the smallest ad and dialed the number. I held the receiver to my ear and I heard my heartbeats, strong and fast from sheer excitement. I heard a woman’s voice, soft and sleepy, as if she had just awakened.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I want a beautiful woman to massage me,” I blurted out.

  “That’ll cost you two hundred fifty dollars an hour.”

  “That’s too much. I am a student. I don’t have a lot of money.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Nagi. And you?”

  “Donna. Where are you from?”

  “Egypt.”

  She cried enthusiastically, “Egypt? I love Egypt. I dream of going one day to the Pyramids, riding a camel, and seeing the crocodiles in the Nile. Listen, Nagi, do you look like Anwar Sadat? He was very handsome.”

  “Actually I do; so much so that many people think I am his son.

  How did you know?”

  “Just a guess. What are you doing in America?”

  “I am studying at the University of Illinois. Listen, I’ll invite you next winter to spend your vacation in Egypt. What do you say?”

  “It’s my life’s dream.”

  “I promise you. But, my dear, I cannot pay two hundred fifty dollars for an hour of love.” She was silent for a moment then said in a soft voice, “I’ll help you out, Nagi. Hang up now and call me again in five minutes.”

  Donna hung up suddenly and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I was assailed by apprehensions: Why did she end the call in this manner? What’s she afraid of? Are the police after her? Did they get my telephone number? Will they arrest me on the charge of getting in touch with a prostitution ring? What an inauspicious beginning for my lucky scholarship. I was gripped with anxiety and began to regret the adventure, but I couldn’t go back. I rang up five minutes later. She told me, “Listen, I’ll make you an offer outside the company. Instead of two-fifty, I’ll come myself for only a hundred fifty an hour.”

  I hesitated a little as she said, laughing, “This is a special offer from Donna because you’re a handsome Egyptian like Sadat. If I were you, I’d accept it at once.”

  “Will you make me happy?”

  “I’ll take you to paradise.”

  “Okay then.” I gave her the address and we agreed that she’d come at seven o’clock. Before she ended the call, she whispered in a frightened voice, “Your number has been recorded by the company. Someone will contact you to ask you why you didn’t agree to have a woman come to you. Tell them you’ve changed your mind because you’re tired and that you’ll call again tomorrow. Please don’t tell them what we’ve agreed to. I don’t think you’d like me to get hurt.”

  And just as she said, a man called and asked me and I gave him the answer she told me to give. He didn’t sound convinced of what I said, but he said good-bye and hung up. Once again I began to worry, but my raging desire, now doubled by the wine, made me forget all other things, to the extent that I ignored the fact that $150 would make a big dent in my budget. There was nothing on my mind except Donna, the beautiful woman I’d make love to. I wondered what she looked like: was she going to be a buxom white woman with full round hips and breasts, like Monica, Clinton’s mistress, or one with a graceful Parisian figure and a dreamy, sparrowlike face like Julia Roberts? Even if she were just like Barbra Streisand, with a slightly long nose and an angular body, I’d be happy. I am not going to dwell on such minor shortcomings. Praise the Lord who created beauty in a hundred ways! I began to get ready for the date a whole hour early. I took another bath, during which I
went to extra lengths to clean my body. Then I put a silk robe on my naked body like a lady-killer in Egyptian movies. I am now writing this while gulping down wine. There are only a few minutes before the date. I am sitting, waiting for my beloved Donna, on pins and needles. There, the bell is ringing. My beloved is punctual. How beautiful! I’ll get up to open the door. Gentlemen, what bliss!

  Chapter 5

  As soon as the train stopped, its doors opened and out came the weekend passengers: young lovers embracing, beggars lugging musical instruments that they would soon play on the platforms, drunkards who have been barhopping since yesterday, European tourists carrying tourist guides and maps, young black men dancing to the music blaring from the huge boom boxes they carry, and traditional American families — a father, a mother, and their kids returning from a day in the park. In the corner of the station stood heavyset policemen in their distinctive uniform, with chests thrust forward bearing the badge chicago police, as though deriving their strength from it, with large trained dogs at their side, noses raised, sniffing for drugs. On some occasions, as soon as one of them barks at a passenger, the policemen rush him, immobilize him, and push him toward the wall, uncovering his chest, especially if black, to look for gang tattoos. Then they search him until they find the drugs and place him under arrest. In the midst of this purely American scene, Dr. Ahmad Danana looked totally out of place, as if he were a genie that had just come out of an enchanted bottle, or had disembarked from a time machine, or as if he were an actor who decided to go for a walk in costume. His features are rural Egyptian with a triangular prayer mark in the middle of his forehead, his kinky hair turning gray. He has a large head and very thick glasses, their bluish lenses reflecting his sly eyes in many intersecting circles that often disorient his interlocutors. The prayer beads never leave his hand. Summer or winter he wears full suits that he gets from Mahalla, Egypt, together with cartons of super-size Cleopatra cigarettes to save some money. Danana walks the streets of Chicago in the same manner he took walks for exercise in the late afternoon on the rural road in the village of Shuhada in the Minufiya Governorate, his birthplace. He moves slowly, no matter how much in a hurry he is, looking around with a glance in which suspicion is mixed with arrogance, confidently moving his right foot forward followed by his left, straightening his back, causing his huge potbelly, resulting from his fondness for big rich suppers every night, to stick out.

  That is how Ahmad Danana, president of the Egyptian Student Union in America, creates an aura of respectability around himself. The union was established during Gamal Abdel Nasser’s time; several students became presidents and returned afterward to Egypt to hold important state posts. Danana is the only one who became president three years in a row by acclamation. In addition he enjoys several exceptional privileges: he has been preparing for a PhD in histology for the last seven years, even though the law regulating scholarships limits the maximum time to five years. He had gone around that rule by spending two whole years learning English, then another two years studying industrial security at Loyola before beginning the doctoral program at Illinois. And even though the law prohibited work for Egyptian students in the United States, he was able to get a part-time job for a hefty wage that he receives in dollars and transfers to a special account that no one knows anything about at the National Bank in Egypt. He was able, thanks to his connections and the support of the Egyptian embassy, to organize a concert for the popular Egyptian singer Amr Diab that realized for him a fat profit that he added to his savings, amassing a considerable sum of money that enabled him last year to marry the daughter of a rich merchant who owned a big bathroom fixture store in Ruwai‘i, Cairo. All these privileges came on as a result of his close connections with different arms of the Egyptian state. The other students here treat him more like their boss at work than as a fellow student. His older age and his dignified demeanor make him more like a government director general than a student. Besides, he does have control over their affairs, beginning with the Egyptian newspapers and magazines that he distributes among them for free, including his extraordinary ability to help them overcome any obstacle that they confront, and finally his ability to punish and make examples of them. One report from him, confirmed by the Egyptian embassy at once, is enough to get Cairo to cancel the scholarship of the “offending” student.

  Danana came out of the station to the street and entered a nearby building. He greeted the old black security guard sitting behind a glass partition, then took the elevator to the fourth floor and opened the door to the apartment. A musty smell resulting from the apartment’s being closed all week long greeted his nose. The living room was small; it had a rectangular sofa and several leather chairs. On the wall was a large picture of the president of the Republic, under which the Throne Verse from the Qur’an in gilded letters was hung, then an Arabic poster whose letters were printed in a small blue font with the title written in the cursive ruq‘a style: egyptian student union in america: the bylaws.

  At the end of the corridor were two adjacent rooms, the smaller used by Danana as an office and the other as a meeting room with a rectangular table in the middle with chairs around it. The whole room and the furniture had that old wooden smell of university lecture halls and classrooms in Egyptian schools. Actually, even though the apartment was in Chicago, it had mysteriously acquired an Egyptian bureaucratic character that reminded one of the Mugamma building in Tahrir Square or the old court building in Bab al-Khalq. Danana sat at the head of the table, watching the students as they came into the meeting room. They greeted him with respect and took their places around the table while he took time, in a ponderously royal manner, before he returned their greetings in a hoarse voice and a tone somewhere between standoffish and welcoming, knitting his brow and assuming the pose of a high-ranking state official, busy with grave matters that couldn’t be postponed or divulged. Danana looked at the students sitting around the table, then he struck the table with his hand, whereupon all the whispering ended and a profound silence fell. He broke that silence by clearing his throat, an act that usually preceded his speaking and usually ended with a fit of coughing as a result of his excessive smoking. He extended his hand and turned on the tape recorder in front of him. Then his hoarse voice reverberated clearly and strongly in the room: “In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate, and prayers and peace on the noblest of creation, our master, the Messenger of God, the one chosen by God, peace be upon him. I welcome you to the Egyptian Student Union in America, Chicago Chapter. We are all present today with the exception of Shaymaa Muhammadi and Tariq Haseeb. Shaymaa had a big problem this morning.”

  The students looked at him inquisitively. He took a drag on his cigarette and said in obvious relish, “Sister Shaymaa was cooking and almost started a big fire had not God intervened, and our brother Tariq, may God recompense him well, is now standing behind her to console her.”

  He uttered that last part of the sentence in a tone full of insinuation, then laughed loudly. The others felt puzzled and awkward and fell silent.

  That was one of Danana’s various methods of exercising control over the students: to surprise them by finding out their innermost secrets then making sly comments that could have different interpretations. He extended his large head forward and clasped his arms on the table and said, “I have good news for you, news that will gladden you all, God willing. Yesterday the City of Chicago agreed to designate a four-story building in the fanciest part of town on Michigan Avenue as a mosque and Islamic center, God willing. His Excellency the ambassador has written to Egypt to send over an imam from al-Azhar. In two months at the most we will pray together, God permitting, in the new mosque.”

  There were murmurs of approval and appreciation and one student cried enthusiastically, “May God recompense you well, Doctor!”

  Danana totally ignored him and went on. “Approving the establishment of a mosque in this place was almost impossible, but God Almighty willed us to be successful.”

>   The same student shouted flatteringly, “Thank you, Dr. Danana, for this great effort you’re exerting for us!”

  Danana fixed him with a disapproving glance and said, feigning anger, “And who told you I am doing that for you? I only expect reward from God Almighty.”

  “Praise the Lord, sir!”

  The other students felt they had to take part in the praise, and murmurs of thanks filled the room, but Danana ignored them and bowed his head in silence, like an actor bowing before his audience and wishing the applause would never stop. Then he said, “Another very important subject: some students are not attending their classes regularly. Yesterday I reviewed rates of absenteeism and found them to be too high. I am not going to mention them by name so as not to embarrass them. They know themselves.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled hard and said, “Forgive me, folks. I am not going to cover for anyone or intercede for anyone. I’ve overworked myself a lot for you. If you don’t help yourselves, I cannot help you. Anyone exceeding acceptable absence rates I’ll report to the educational bureau and they’d take it from there in accordance with the rules.”

  A tense silence prevailed and Danana kept scrutinizing the students with his fierce stare. Then he announced moving on to the agenda, which, as usual, was filled with various requests from the students: facilitating travel to Egypt, getting discounted tickets or getting free transit cards, and other issues. One student was complaining that his adviser was biased against him; another had exceeded the upper limit for the scholarship; a female student wanted to change her housing arrangement because her American roommate was receiving her lover in the apartment they shared. Danana would listen attentively to each problem, ask for clarification of some details, take a drag on his cigarette and look pensive, then announce the solution simply and confidently. Thereupon the student would look grateful and thank Danana, who would ignore him as if he were not there. He liked, at such moments, to have a rough joke at the student’s expense or to insult him, this way tightening his psychological control over him, by saying for instance, “What matters is for you to study and pass, dummy.”