Baker pulled a piece of paper and a pen and said enthusiastically, “After obtaining these results, we have to start the statistics phase. We are going to feed all these figures to the computer to see if they are statistically significant.”
Danana asked in annoyance, “After all the effort I exerted and the long hours I spent working, could the results be without statistical significance?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But it is possible that my hard work will be wasted and the results be statistically insignificant!”
“In that case I’d be responsible because I laid out the research plan. But let’s think positively. The results will be significant, I am sure.”
Danana stood up and it occurred to him, before leaving, to say something pithy. He said, “Professor Baker, despite everything, I am happy and proud to work with you.”
“Me too, Danana, and, once again, I am sorry,” said Baker and gave him a strong handshake. Then he sat down and laid out the results and started studying them. After half an hour, Danana was sitting in his office when Baker came in, rubbing his bald head with the finger of his right hand as he usually did when he was engaged in deep thought. Then he said slowly, his eyes gleaming, “Once again, congratulations, Danana. The results are logical and strong.”
“Thanks.”
“An idea has occurred to me that would support your results. Show me one of your slides.” Danana got up slowly and opened the cabinet next to the desk and gave Baker a slide. Baker held it carefully, put on his glasses, and exam ined it under the microscope. He soon raised his head and said, “The number of black spots on this slide is a hundred sixty-seven.”
Danana nodded and remained silent. Baker examined the results and said in surprise, “That’s strange. The number you recorded is greater than that.”
He looked at Danana as if he didn’t understand then went over to the cabinet himself and took two other slides that he put through a similar examination, and then looked at Danana, who bowed his head slowly. For a few moments, a silence, charged with an unknown energy, prevailed so quietly that the soft hum made by the lab’s fridge sounded like destiny. Suddenly Dr. Baker threw the slides on the floor and they broke into shiny shards. Then he roared with an angry resounding voice that no one had heard from him before. “What a scumbag! The results you submitted are fabricated. Where is your honor? I will revoke your dissertation and expel you from the department at once.”
Chapter 21
“Good morning. I’m calling about the job you advertised.”
“It’s taken,” the man replied tersely then hung up.
The dial tone rang in Carol’s ear and she felt bitter. Nothing new there. It was her daily routine: every morning after Graham went to the university and little Mark to school, she made herself a large cup of black coffee and sat in the living room, spreading the help wanted pages in the Chicago Tribune, the Sun-Times, and the Reader. Then she prepared for her calls. She concentrated on controlling the tone of her voice in such a way as if she were inquiring about the job with dignified interest. She was not an unemployed black woman on welfare; she was not starving or begging and didn’t need anyone’s pity.
She was just inquiring about a job that she liked, no more and no less, as if she were asking about tickets for a concert or the closing time of her favorite restaurant. If she found what she wanted she’d be happy, but if she didn’t, that would not be the end of the world. That was what she came up with to combat humiliation. Every time, she asked the same questions and received the same answers. By the end of the day she would have accumulated all kinds of lists, addresses, and numbers. Over the last few months she had been all over Chicago and had had interviews for various jobs: secretary, receptionist, babysitter, day-care supervisor. But she never got the job. The head of human resources at the Hyatt told her with an embarrassed smile, “You’ll find a job somewhere else. But be patient, unemployment is at its highest rate. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of people apply for one job. The competition is horrendous.”
Two months ago she applied for a job as a telephone operator for an elevator company. She passed the first interview and had to pass a voice test. The company executive told her, “You’ll get this job if you know how to make your voice smooth, feminine, and seductive but at the same time not vulgar. Your voice must carry a sense of humor and superiority. It should sound as if you were making ten times your salary. It’s your voice that introduces our company to the customers.”
Carol trained seriously. She recorded her voice dozens of times saying the same thing: “Hendrix Elevator Company. Good morning. How may I help you?” Every time she listened to the recording she discovered a new flaw: the voice was too soft, a little shaky, faltering, too fast, letters elided, she had to pronounce the name of the company better, and so on.
After days of training she settled on a good delivery and went to take the test. There were five other applicants. They all sat in the same room in front of the company executive, who was a fat white man, over fifty, completely bald with wide sideburns that made him look unpleasant. It seemed from his swollen eyelids, bloodshot eyes, and foul mood that he had drunk too much the night before and hadn’t had enough sleep. He began to signal to one applicant after another to deliver the sentence, looked at the ceiling as if evaluating the performance in his mind, and then bent over a sheet of paper and wrote something down. At the end of the day the result was announced. Carol didn’t get the job. She received the news coldly; she had got so used to being disappointed nothing shocked her anymore. What pained her the most was the way some white employers treated her. None of them came out and said they didn’t hire black people. That would be against the law. But as soon as one of them saw her, his face would have a cold, arrogant expression, and he would end the interview promising to give her a call that she knew very well would not come. These successive humiliating situations felt like slaps on her face. She sometimes cried on her way back home and some nights stayed awake imagining that she was taking revenge against the racist employer, teaching him a lesson, and assuring him that it was she who refused to work with a despicable racist like him. The drama reached its peak when she had an interview for a job as a dog walker for twelve dollars an hour. The job was so menial that it took her three days just to convince herself to go. She needed the money badly. She couldn’t stand the suffering she was putting Graham through. What had he done to deserve living through this hardship to support her and her son? What pained her most was that he was bearing the hardship without grumbling. If he complained or treated her in an unfriendly way she would have been somewhat relieved. But on the contrary he was treating her very nicely, amusing her, and always laughing merrily. He was unbearably tender. She was going to get that job for his sake. Wasn’t dog walking a job like any other in the final analysis? Even if she didn’t like it, did she have any other choice? She would tend dogs for the time being until she found something better.
The interview was at a luxurious mansion in a northern suburb of Chicago. It was so elegant and extravagant that she imagined it to be part of a movie set. She was met by a dignified butler in a formal black suit and led to a large room. She sat on a comfortable Louis Seize-style chair and began to look at the large oil paintings on the wall. After a little while an old lady came in and welcomed her tepidly. She sat in front of her and began a disconnected conversation about the weather and public transit in Chicago. This vacuous dialogue went on until Carol interrupted it by asking in an affected, miserable merriment, “Where’s the dog I’ll walk? I looove dogs.”
The old lady fell silent. She had been taken aback a little and avoided looking at her face. “Well, I am going to be frank with you. I don’t think the job suits you. Leave your telephone number and I’ll find another job for you as soon as possible.”
Carol’s sad days continued. She became so frustrated that she totally lost her enthusiasm. She no longer read the newspapers looking for jobs. She spent the morning sprawled on t
he bed, drinking several cups of coffee and looking at the ceiling, thinking about her life. She was thirty-six years old, but she had never lived life as she had wanted to. No one treated her fairly. She recalled the faces that had shaped her destiny: her kind, peaceful mother; her drunken stepfather, who beat her up cruelly, and when she grew up, wanted to sleep with her (she sought her mother’s help several times, but her mother was so sexually dependent on him that she was not much help); her boyfriend Thomas, with whom she lived for ten years and with whom she had little Mark and who ran off, leaving her to shoulder everything alone. She also recalled the face of good old Graham, whom she loved, but instead of making him happy, she’d brought him hardship. She had always been treated harshly, that was a fact. She had always been hardworking, organized, and ambitious, and what had been the result? Total misery. She had lost her job at the mall because she was black and now she couldn’t find another job. The old lady even thought dog walking was too good for her; maybe she didn’t want her beloved dog to be exposed to a black face.
That morning Carol was lying in bed drowned in her sorrows when the telephone rang. She was surprised that anyone would call at such an hour. She turned over and decided to ignore the call, but the ringing continued. She finally got up to answer and it was the voice of her friend Emily, a black friend from her high school days who finished college because her father, a lawyer, could afford to pay the tuition. Carol had not seen her friend in months, so she was happy she called and welcomed her invitation to grab a bite at the French restaurant Lafayette in downtown Chicago. From her high school days Emily loved fancy restaurants and had taken Carol along. Carol was always happy to go because she couldn’t afford to go on her own. The Lafayette was truly magnificent, with elegant tables and Vivaldi playing in the background, adding to the luxurious ambience. Carol ordered a spinach croissant and pate and cafe au lait. She looked at her friend’s face for a while then teased her, “I can tell from your rosy complexion that your love life is going very well.”
They laughed from the heart and Emily told her about her new love. Carol tried to keep up with her in her happiness but something heavy was weighing on her. Emily noticed that, and as soon as she asked her, Carol started sobbing and told her everything. She needed to vent with an old friend like Emily. Looking far into the distance, Emily said, “If there were any jobs available in Dad’s office I could’ve got you one. But I’ll try somewhere else.”
It was a beautiful outing and Carol came back ready to resume the struggle. The following morning she started looking for a job again. For a week it was the same old story: the telephone calls, interviews, apologies, and a few brazen racist remarks. It was getting close to one in the afternoon when she received an unexpected call from Emily. As soon as she said hello, Emily asked her in an earnest voice, “What are you doing now?”
“I’m cooking.”
“Leave everything and come right away.”
“I can’t. John and Mark will come and find nothing to eat.”
“Leave them a message.”
“Can I come later on?”
“It can’t wait.”
She asked persistently, but Emily would not tell her why. Carol guessed it had to do with a job. She wrote a few words and posted them on the refrigerator door, put on her clothes in a hurry, and went out. Emily lived half an hour away by train. She opened the door immediately as though she had been waiting behind it. She permitted Carol to say hello to her mother, then pulled her by the hand to her room and locked the door from the inside.
“Emily, what’s come over you?” Carol asked, still panting. Emily smiled mysteriously then gave her a strange, scrutinizing look and said, “Show me your chest.”
“What?”
“Take off your shirt so I can see your chest.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Do what I tell you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain to you after you take this off.”
She reached for the buttons on Carol’s blouse, but Carol restrained her hand and said somewhat angrily, “No, you won’t.”
Emily sighed hard, as if her patience had run out. Then she looked at her for a long time and said, “Listen. I didn’t ask you to come here to play. I have to see your chest.”
Chapter 22
After Dr. Salah told his wife that he wanted a separation, he felt relief and said to himself that it was a step that he should have taken a long time ago. From now on he wouldn’t have to face her chasing him, her physical demands, the humiliating, exhausting moments of his impotence, the expectations and disappointments. He was done with that fierce tension, which was always lying in wait just beneath their quiet conversations and their living together under the same roof while avoiding looking at each other. After today he wouldn’t have to pretend or lie. Their relationship was over. That was the truth. There was no doubt that he had loved her at a certain time in his life. She had helped him a lot. He was grateful to her and felt toward her that deep, calm appreciation that one has for a colleague that one has worked with for years. They would separate quietly and he was willing to meet all her demands. He would pay her any sum she wanted. She could have the furniture and the car, even the house if she wanted it. He would rent a small place for himself. All he wanted was to be alone, to enjoy a calm, comfortable old age, to be able to relive his life over and over, nonstop. Oh God, how did he get to be sixty? How quickly the years had passed! His whole life had passed before he realized it, before he began. He hadn’t lived. What had he done in his life? What had he achieved? Could he measure his happy times? How much? How many? Several days, a few months at best? It was not fair to advance in years without realizing the value of time, not fair that no one drew our attention to the time that was slipping through our fingers by the moment. It was a clever trick: to realize the value of life only just before it ended.
Salah went out, leaving his wife alone in the bedroom. He closed the door gently and thought that, from now on, he would live in the living room until the separation was complete. He had no desire to sleep. He said to himself that he was going to have a quiet drink and read a little of Isabelle Allende’s new novel. He strode to the door as he did every night, but as soon as he crossed the hallway, exactly before he entered the short corridor leading to the living room, he stopped suddenly, bent over, and looked at the floor as if looking for one thing or another. He was overcome by a strange sensation, quick and sharp like a blade: a distant, mysterious vision as if it were a dream that had been revealed to him. No one would believe him if he were to relate it, but it was quite real. He was possessed by a feeling such as that which overcomes us when we enter a place or see a person for the first time and know, in no uncertain terms, that we have been there before, that what we are living now is something that we had lived before in an earlier time. He found himself turning to the left and going toward the door to the basement. He descended the stairs as if hypnotized, as if he were being carried, as if it were someone else moving his feet while he contented himself with looking at them as they carried him forward. He opened the door and entered the basement and was immediately greeted by the dampness. The air was heavy and stagnant and he had difficulty breathing. He felt for the light switch and turned on the light. The basement was empty except for a few things that Chris had stored to dispose of later: an old television set, a dishwasher that didn’t work, and a few chairs that had been used in the garden for years before she bought a new set that previous summer. Salah stood examining the place with a distant look. What brought him here? What did he want? What were those vague feelings raging inside him? The questions kept droning in his ears without an answer until he found himself moving again. He was now certain that he was being driven by an overpowering force that he couldn’t resist. He headed directly for the corner and opened the closet and with both hands pulled out the old blue suitcase. He found it to be heavier than he had expected, so he paused for a moment to catch his breath, then pulled it a
gain and placed it under the light. He bent down and began to undo the straps surrounding it. As soon as he opened it, his nostrils were filled with the overpowering smell of mothballs. He felt nauseated for about a minute, then he got a hold of himself and began to take out the contents of the suitcase: there were the clothes he had brought with him from Egypt, thirty years ago. He thought at the time they were elegant but discovered immediately that they were not suitable for America; wearing them he looked as if he had come from another planet or as if he were a character who had stepped out of a period play. He’d bought American clothes but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of his Egyptian clothes. He packed them into this suitcase and hid them in the basement, as if he knew that one day he’d go back to them. He emptied the suitcase on the floor in front of him: elevator black patent leather shoes with pointed tips in the style of the 1960s, a gray English woolen suit that he used to wear at Qasr al-Aini hospital, a number of narrow neckties of the same time period. These were the clothes he was wearing the last time he met Zeinab: the white shirt with red pinstripes, the dark blue pants, and the black leather jacket he bought with her at the La Boursa Nova store on Suleiman Pasha Street in Cairo. Oh, God, why was he remembering everything so clearly? He extended his hand and felt the clothes. He was overcome by an overpowering, burning desire that made him pant and sweat profusely. He tried to resist that desire, but it swept over him like a hurricane. He stood where he was, took off his house robe then his pajamas, and stood in the middle of the basement in his underwear. It occurred to him that he had actually gone crazy. What was he doing? It was madness itself. Couldn’t he control that perverse desire? What would Chris say if she opened the door and saw him?
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