Chicago

by Alaa Al Aswany

  “How I wish for this end and await it impatiently!” she said, looking at his face, itching for a confrontation. He shouted at her, “That’s my mistake, marrying into an ignorant family.”

  “I won’t allow you to insult my family.”

  “That’s not an insult, it’s a fact.”

  “Don’t you dare— ”

  “Your father, Hagg Nofal: is he educated or ignorant?”

  “My father’s circumstances did not enable him to get an education, but he did his best and raised us and gave us the best education.”

  “But he’s still ignorant.”

  “My ignorant father, whom you don’t like, is the one spending his money on your house.”

  Danana raised his hand and slapped her so hard she staggered back. She pounced on him and grabbed his shirt screaming, “You hit me? I won’t live with you another single day. Divorce me now, at once.”

  Chapter 9

  Thirty years later he still remembers that night vividly.

  He had to abandon his shift at Qasr al-Ayni to go to her. Security forces were cordoning off the Cairo University campus completely, preventing entry or exit. Between University Bridge and the front gate several security checkpoints stopped him. They asked him the same questions and he gave them the same answers. At the last checkpoint there was a colonel who seemed to be the commander in charge. He looked tired and nervous and was smoking voraciously. He exhaled a thick cloud of his cigarette and said after inspecting his doctor’s identity card, “What do you want, Doctor?”

  “I have a relative in the sit-in. I’ve come to return her to her family.”

  “Her name?”

  “Zeinab Radwan, College of Economics.”

  The officer fixed him with an experienced glance and, as if he’d reassured himself that he was telling the truth, said, “I advise you to take her with you as soon as possible. We’ve given them an ultimatum to end the sit-in, but they seem bent on disobedience. Any moment now we are going to receive instructions to use force. When we do we will beat them without mercy and arrest them all.”

  “Please, sir, keep in mind that they are young and angry for their country.”

  “We also are patriotic Egyptians, but we don’t demonstrate and wreak havoc.”

  “I hope Your Excellency would treat them as a father.”

  “Not father nor mother. I am carrying out orders!” the officer shouted loudly as if resisting an internal sympathy. Then he moved back two steps and gave a signal whereupon the troops moved aside, letting him through. The campus was dark and the January cold was boring into his bones. He buttoned his overcoat tightly and put his hands in his pockets. Posters and wall newspapers covered the buildings. He couldn’t make out what was written on them in the dark, with the exception of a large picture of Sadat smoking a waterpipe. He saw hundreds of students sitting on the grass and on the steps. Many were asleep, some were smoking and talking, and some were singing Sheikh Imam songs. He looked for her for a while until he found her. She was standing in front of the large Assembly Hall arguing enthusiastically with several other students. He got close and called out to her. She went toward him and said in that warm way of hers that he couldn’t forget, “Hello.”

  He answered tersely, “You look tired.”

  “I am fine.”

  “I’d like you to come with me.”

  “Where to?”

  “To your house and your family.”

  “You came to take me by the hand to Mama’s bosom? You want me to wash my feet and drink my milk so that she will put me in bed, cover me, and tell me a bedtime story?”

  He realized from her sarcasm that his task was not going to be easy. He looked at her reproachfully and said in a firm tone of voice, “I am not going to let you hurt yourself.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “What exactly do you want?”

  “I and my colleagues have specific demands, and we will not end the sit-in until they are met.”

  “You think you’ll change the universe?”

  “We’ll change Egypt.”

  “Egypt will not be changed by a demonstration.”

  “We are speaking for all Egyptians.”

  “Stop these illusions. People outside the university don’t know anything about you. Please, Zeinab, come with me. The officer said they will arrest you.”

  “Let them do what they want.”

  “Would you like the soldiers to beat you and drag you on the ground?”

  “I am not leaving my colleagues, no matter what.”

  “I am afraid for you,” he whispered anxiously. She fixed him with a derisive glance and then turned around, going back to her colleagues. She started talking with them again and ignored him. For a while he stood where he was, looking at her. Then he left angrily and told himself that she was crazy and would never be good for him, and that if he married her their home would turn into a battlefield. He thought that she was conceited and obstinate; she had treated him insolently and scornfully. He had warned her, but she persisted in her foolishness. Let the soldiers beat her or drag her on the ground, let them violate her. From now on he would not feel any sympathy for her. It was she who chose her fate. He went to bed exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing and turning until he heard the call to the dawn prayers. He got up and bathed, put on his clothes, and went back to the university. He found out that the soldiers had stormed it and arrested the students. He made strenuous efforts to contact his acquaintances until he was able, finally, to visit her at the security directorate in the afternoon. She was quite pale, her lower lip swollen, and there were blue bruises around her left brow and on her forehead. He extended his hand and touched her face, saying sadly, “Does it hurt?”

  “The whole of Egypt is wounded,” she replied.

  After all this time he still remembered Zeinab Radwan. In fact, he had never stopped thinking about her for a single day. The old pictures were appearing in his mind with amazing clarity. The floodgates of memory opened, came over and swept him away, as if the past were a gigantic genie let out of the bottle. There she was, standing before him, with her petite figure, her beautiful face, and her long black hair that she gathered in a ponytail. Her eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm as she talked to him in that dreamy voice of hers, as if she were reciting a love poem, “Our country is great, Salah, but it has been oppressed for a long time. Our people have tremendous abilities. If we have democracy, Egypt will become a strong, advanced country in less than ten years.”

  He would listen to her, hiding his indifference with a neutral smile. How she tried to win him over to her side! But he was in a different world. For his birthday she gave him Abd al-Rahman al-Jabarti’s complete history book, saying, “Happy birthday. Read this book to understand me better.”

  He read a few pages then got bored. So he lied and told her he’d finished it. He didn’t like to lie and rarely did, but he didn’t want her to get angry with him. He wanted to keep her at her best and most beautiful. When she was in a good mood her smile shone and her face lit up. During their splendid moments of harmony they would sit next to each other in the Orman Garden. She would put her books aside on the round white marble bench. They would sit there oblivious to the passing of hours, talking and dreaming of the future, whispering. As he got closer to her he would smell her perfume, which he was now recalling vividly. He would hold her hand and bend and steal a kiss on her cheek and she would fix him with a glance of reproach and tenderness. But the dreams would soon come to an end. He would recall that final scene a thousand times, pausing and dwelling on every word, every glance, and every moment of silence. They were at their favorite spot in the garden when he told her of his decision to emigrate. He tried to be calm, to have a logical discussion, but she told him right away, “You are running away.”

  “I am saving myself.”

  “You are talking about yourself alone.”

  “I came to invite you to our new life.”

  “I�
��ll never leave my country.”

  “Stop these slogans, please.”

  “They are not slogans, but a sense of duty. And you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Zeinab.”

  “You’ve received an education at the expense of the poor Egyptian people and now you are a doctor. There were a thousand young Egyptians who would’ve loved to take your place in the College of Medicine. Now you want to leave Egypt and go to America, which does not need you; America that has caused all of our catastrophes. What would you call someone who lets his country down at its dire moment of need and places himself at the disposal of its enemies?”

  “I’ve learned medicine and earned my place at the university with my own work and because of my excellence. Besides, learning has no nationality. Learning is neutral.”

  “The learning that gave Israel napalm bombs to burn the faces of our children in Bahr al-Baqar cannot be neutral.”

  “I think, Zeinab, that we should see reality as it is rather than as how we wish it to be.”

  “Speak, philosopher.”

  “We’ve been defeated. It is over. They are much stronger than us and can crush us at any moment.”

  “We will never be victorious if we think like you.” The insult provoked him, and he shouted in a voice that made other visitors to the garden turn toward them. “When will you wake up from your delusions? Our victory is impossible because of backwardness, poverty, and despotism. How can we triumph over them when we are incapable of manufacturing the simplest microscope? We are begging everything from abroad, even the weapons we use to defend ourselves. The problem is not with the likes of me but with the likes of you. Abdel Nasser, like you, lived in dreams until he ruined us.”

  They got into a violent argument. Her face turned ashen with anger and she got up and gathered her books, which had fallen accidentally and scattered on the ground. At that moment her soft black hair came cascading down her face and she looked suddenly irresistible. He wished he could pull her to his chest and kiss her. He actually tried to get closer, but she kept him at arm’s length with a movement of her hand and said to him in a fateful tone of voice, “You won’t see me again.”

  “Zeinab. ”

  “I regret to say that you are a coward.”

  WHAT A KILLER HEADACHE! It began at the top of his head then crept like an army of ants devouring him. Was he dreaming or was what was happening real? A flash restored his consciousness: he found himself stretched out on a couch in the psychiatrist’s office. There was soft music and soft lighting behind him and the doctor was sitting next to him, carefully writing down everything he said. What was he doing? What brought him here? Was this the doctor who would fix his life? How absurd! He knew this type of youth quite well, children of the upper middle class who got an education compliments of their parents’ money, and when they graduated they found their places reserved for them at the top of American society. They were always the worst kind of students that he taught: ignorant, lazy, and arrogant. And here was one of them: athletic build, radiant face, and carefree look. What did this boy know about life? The utmost pain that he had experienced was what he felt after a game of squash. The psychiatrist smiled in an artificial, professional way, saying as he held a pen as if playing a role in the movies, “Tell me more about your beloved Zeinab.”

  “I don’t have any more to tell.”

  “Please help me so I can help you.”

  “I am doing all I can.”

  Looking at the papers in front of him, the doctor said, “How did you meet your American wife, Chris?”

  “By chance.”

  “Where?”

  “In a bar.”

  “What kind of bar?”

  “Is that important?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I met her in a singles bar.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She worked in a store.”

  “Please do not be angry at what I am going to say. Candor is at the basis of your therapy. Did you marry Chris to get citizenship?”

  “No, I fell in love with her.”

  “Was she married?”

  “She was divorced.”

  The psychiatrist fell silent, wrote down a few words, then fixed him with a strange glance and said, “Salah, this is how I read your history: you wanted to get American citizenship, so you went to a singles bar, picked up a poor store clerk, divorced and lonely, preyed on her sexual vulnerability until she married you and gave you citizenship.”

  “I won’t allow this!” Dr. Salah shouted.

  But the psychiatrist continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “It’s a reasonable and fair deal. The colored Arab doctor gives his house and name to the poor white American store clerk in return for an American passport.”

  Dr. Salah got up and said, panting angrily, “If you are going to use this impudent language with me, I don’t want your therapy.”

  The psychiatrist smiled, as if he had gone back to his nature and said apologetically, “I am sorry. Please forgive me. I just wanted to make sure of something.”

  He began writing again then asked, “You said you have been impotent with your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Three months; maybe a little longer.”

  “Did you lose your sexual ability gradually or all at once?”

  “All at once.”

  “Describe to me in detail what you feel before you have sex with your wife.”

  “Everything proceeds naturally then I lose desire suddenly.”

  “Why does that happen?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

  “Tell me how your feeling changes.”

  “Desire hides details. Once you see the details you lose the desire.”

  “I don’t understand. Give me examples.”

  “If you were hungry, you would never notice the little shreds of onion on the edge of the plate. You’d notice them only after you’d become full. If you noticed them before eating, you’d lose your appetite. Do you understand?”

  The psychiatrist nodded and made a gesture for him to continue, so he went on. “When you desire a woman, you don’t see her minute details. You do that only after you make love to her. You will notice, for instance, that her fingernails are not quite clean or that one of her fingers is too short or that her back is covered with dark spots. If you notice that before you sleep with her, you’ll lose the desire. And this is exactly what happens with my wife. When I get close to her, her details show clearly and take hold of my thinking so that I lose desire toward her.”

  “This will help us a lot,” the psychiatrist muttered, then went back to his professional smile and opened a nearby drawer and said confidently, as he handed him a bottle of medication, “One tablet with breakfast for a week.”

  Then he picked up another drug in front of him and said, “And this pill half an hour before sex.”

  Salah thought to himself: Do these tablets and pills treat the sorrows of sixty years? How silly it all seems! Why is this boy so self-confident? To hell with you and your pills! What do you know about real life? There he is, getting up to see him off at the door, so affectionately and respectfully. He is applying everything he’s learned in medical school under the heading of “How to Deal with Your Patients.”

  The psychiatrist kept Salah’s hand in his for a while and said slowly, “Dr. Salah, in conditions like yours, the patient usually tries to run away from therapy by projecting his hatred on the doctor. I think you are smarter than that. Rest assured that I want to help you and I am sorry if I upset you by what I said. See you in a week, same time.”

  * * *

  They gave me a small office in the histology department and asked me to print a sign with my name to hang outside my door. I went to the ground floor, where I found the person in charge of signs, an old American man who received me in a friendly way and asked me to write my name on a piece of paper. Then, without taking his eyes off the sign
he was working on, he said, “Come after lunch to get your sign.”

  I was surprised because lunch was only an hour away. I went back to him at the appointed time and he pointed with his hand saying, “You’ll find it in there.”

  I found my name elegantly embossed on the new sign. I picked it up and stood reluctantly then asked him, “What should I do now?”

  “Take it.”

  “Shouldn’t I sign a receipt that I have received it?”

  “Isn’t this your sign?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would anyone else come to take it?”

  I shook my head and thanked him. In the elevator I laughed at myself. I must get rid of the Egyptian bureaucratic legacy I was carrying in my blood. This simple American worker has given me a lesson: why should I sign for receiving a sign that bears my name?

  The day passed uneventfully. After lunch, I was reading the departmental class schedule when Ahmad Danana appeared. He stormed into the room and said loudly, “Thank God for your safe arrival, Nagi.”

  I got up and shook his hand. I remembered Dr. Salah’s advice and tried to look friendly. We exchanged a few words about nothing in particular when he suddenly nudged me in the shoulder and said in a commanding tone of voice, “Come with me.”

  He accompanied me through the corridors of the department until we got to a room lined with shelves chock-full of reams of paper and notebooks of different shapes and colors. Then he said to me, “Take all the notebooks, paper, and pens you want.”

  I took some notebooks and colored pens, and he said, laughing, “These supplies are for the researchers in the department, all free, at the expense of the store owner.”

  “Thank you. I took what I needed.”

  We crossed a corridor on our way back, then he said, out of the blue, “All the Egyptians who came to Chicago, I have done all of them all kinds of favors; I have stood by them and helped them but they have rarely been grateful.”

  I didn’t like the way he spoke, but I kept my peace. When we got to the door of my office he shook my hand to say good-bye and said affectionately, “I wish you success, Nagi.”