Chicago

by Alaa Al Aswany

  He said to himself: let her say what she wants to. There’s nothing for me to fear anymore. She’ll say I’ve gone crazy? So be it. Even if what I am doing is crazy, I’ll do it. It is time for me to do all I want to do. He began to put on his old clothes, one piece at a time. His body had filled out and they no longer fit him. He couldn’t fasten the belt on his belly; the shirt stuck to his body in a way that almost hurt. As for the jacket, he was able to insert his arms into the sleeves with difficulty but he couldn’t move them. Despite the strangeness of the situation a comfortable feeling came over him. He was filled with wonderful serenity and felt contained in dark, moist security, as if he were once again at his mother’s bosom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror in the corner of the basement and burst out laughing. He remembered the concave mirrors before which he had played in amusement parks as a child. Then a thought occurred to him and he went back quickly to the open suitcase, whose innards had spilled on the floor. He was moving with difficulty, limping as if his feet were injured due to the tight clothes. He squatted before the suitcase and reached for the inner pocket, and then he found it, exactly where he expected to, exactly as he had put it there thirty years ago. He brought it slowly out into the light — a broad green address book that he used to carry in his medical bag and which Zeinab often made fun of because of its large size. She would shout in childlike mirth, “This, dear, is not an address book. It is the Cairo telephone directory. When I have the time, I’ll explain to you the difference.”

  He smiled when he remembered and opened the book gently. The pages had yellowed and the letters were slightly faded with age, but the names and numbers were still clear.

  * * *I saw a strange sight, as though in a dream: the sky grew dark in the middle of the day. A strong wind blew which I imagined would uproot the trees. Then thousands of soft white particles like pieces of cotton flew into the air and fell down softly until they covered everything: houses, roads, and cars.

  I stood dazzled, watching what was happening outside the closed window, wearing my robe on my naked body. The central heating was so high I felt hot. There were ice drops accumulating like beads of sweat on the window glass on the inside as a result of the difference between the cold outside and the warmth inside. I sipped my drink slowly and put my arms around Wendy, who was naked. We had just finished a spell of fantastic lovemaking that, together with the heat and the wine, made her face even more like a rose in full bloom. She whispered in my ear, “Do you like to watch the snow?”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  “Unfortunately it no longer excites me because I’ve seen it since I was a child.”

  After a short while, Wendy prepared dinner. She turned off the lights then lit two candles in a candelabra she had brought with her. We began to eat in an enchanting atmosphere.

  “This is Jewish chicken soup. Do you like it?” she said. “It’s delicious.” She looked at me, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. Her beautiful face changed expression sometimes in a mysterious way: it would cloud over and its muscles would contract, as if she had remembered something that gave her pain, as if she had inherited an ancient sorrow that remained hidden inside her then appeared suddenly, crossing her face then disappearing.

  “Nagi, you’re an exceptional event in my life. I expected our relationship to be casual, just having a good time. I never imagined loving you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re an Arab.”

  “What’s the problem there?”

  “You’re the only Arab who doesn’t dream of exterminating the Jews,” she said, laughing. “That’s not true. The Arabs hate Israel not because it is a state for the Jews but because it stole Palestine and committed dozens of massacres against the Palestinians. If the Israelis were Hindus or Buddhists, it wouldn’t have changed anything for us. Our conflict with Israel is political and not religious.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Read the history. Jews lived under Arab rule for many centuries without problems or persecution. They even enjoyed the trust of the Arabs, as evidenced by the fact that, for a period of a thousand years, an Arab sultan’s personal physician was most likely to be a Jew. In the midst of the endless conspiracies and schemes surrounding the throne, the sultan trusted his Jewish private physician perhaps more than he did his wife and children. In Muslim Spain, Jews lived as citizens with full rights, and when Andalusia fell into the hands of the Christian Spaniards, they persecuted both Muslims and Jews. They gave them the choice between Christianity and death. Then they went as far as coming up with the Inquisition for the first time in history, to get rid of Jews and Muslims who had recently converted to Christianity. The priests would ask them theological questions, and when they failed to answer, they gave them the choice between being burned or drowned.”

  Wendy closed her eyes in pain, so I said in an attempt to reintroduce some gaiety, “And thus, my dear, your ancestors and mine were persecuted together. It is quite possible that you and I are the descendants of a Muslim man and a Jewish woman who fell in love with each other in Andalusia.”

  “You have a very fertile imagination.”

  “It is the truth. I feel I have known you in another life, otherwise how would you explain our mutual attraction from the first moment?”

  I bent over and kissed her hands, then a thought occurred to me. I got up quickly and looked for the Andalusian song tape until I found it. Before long Fairouz’s voice was all over the place. “Return, O thousand nights, the mist of perfume/Love slakes its thirst on the dew of dawn.” I said, “This is Andalusian music.”

  “I don’t understand the words but the music speaks to my heart.”

  I started translating for her as much as I could of the meaning. Everything around me was captivating: the snow, the warmth, the love, the candles, the wine, and the music, and my beloved Wendy. I was so transported with happiness I got up, held Wendy by her shoulders, and pulled her gently. I stood her in the middle of the room and said as I returned to my place, “This bed on which I am sitting is the throne of Andalusia. I am the prince. I am now sitting to run the affairs of the principality. When I clap once, you start dancing. You are the most talented and most beautiful dancer in Andalusia, therefore the prince has chosen you to dance for him alone.”

  Wendy let out a shout of joy and stood ready with a mirthful expression on her face, as if she were a child yearning to start playing. Fairouz was singing to a dancing tune:

  O luscious branch crowned with gold

  I ransom you from death with my mother and my father.

  If I have overstepped the bounds in my love for you,

  Only prophets are infallible.

  I clapped and Wendy began to dance. She moved according to her notions of belly dancing. She kept shaking her arms and chest nervously as if trembling. She looked like a child mimicking adults, eliciting laughter and affection. She looked at me as she was dancing and sent me an air kiss that made her charm irresistible. I got up, embraced her, and showered her with kisses. We made love while Fairouz’s voice filled the whole place with ecstasy as if blessing us. When we were done, we lay down, naked in each other’s arms. I kissed her nose and whispered, “I’ll always be in your debt.”

  “If you don’t go easy on the tenderness I’ll cry from compassion.”

  “I’m really grateful. You’ve brought poetry back to me after a whole year of loss. This morning I started a new poem.”

  “Wonderful. What’s your new poem about?”

  “You.”

  She hugged me hard and I whispered in her ear, “Wendy, you’ve saved me from feeling miserable. You made a beautiful dream for me.”

  We remained embraced and I felt her breath warming my face. Then she backed off gently and said as she got up, “Even beautiful dreams come to an end. I must go.”

  She planted a quick kiss on my forehead as if in apology, then went to the bathroom and came out fully dressed. I had got lost in contemplation so I jumped up,
saying, “Wait. I’ll accompany you to the L station.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Why do you always refuse to let me walk with you?”

  She looked ill at ease and hesitated for a while then said, “Do you remember Henry, my old boyfriend I told you about? He is a receptionist here at the dorm. I don’t like him to see us together.”

  “Why do you care, if your relationship is over?”

  “Please don’t get angry. If I still loved him, I couldn’t love you.”

  “So why are you afraid that he would see us together?”

  “I’ll tell you frankly. Henry is Jewish and the fact that you’re an Arab will give him an opportunity to cause us problems.”

  “What’s he got to do with us?”

  “I know him well. He won’t tolerate that at all.”

  “I can’t believe that in America we have to keep love hidden.” She walked over to me, kissed me, and said, “All I want you to be sure of is that I love you.”

  ~~~~~~~~~

  I didn’t insist on escorting her so as not to cause her any trouble. I knew her ex-boyfriend and had had dealings with him more than once in the receptionist’s office. He used to treat me in a normal, one could say affable, way. But since Wendy started visiting me in my apartment, I noticed that he looked at me in a hostile manner. I asked him once if there was any mail for me, but he didn’t answer. When I repeated the question he said rudely without lifting his head from the papers he was reading, “When mail comes we will send it to you. There is no need to ask me a hundred times every day.”

  I left in silence. I did not wish to get into a fight nor was I ready for one. I asked myself: How did Henry find out about my relationship with Wendy? I remembered that in his office there was a monitor showing the whole building from inside. That was it then. Wendy was his ex-girlfriend and it was natural for him to keep her under surveillance to find out which apartment she was going to. I made a point of avoiding him and confined my dealings to the kind black woman receptionist who had the morning shift.

  Matters, however, did not stop at Henry’s door. It seemed he spread news of my relationship with Wendy in Jewish circles at the university. Some second-year students began harassing me. I was attending the general course on histology with them. I was the oldest student, and in the past they had treated me with respect, but they suddenly turned. Whenever I passed by them they would whisper and laugh. I ignored them at the beginning, telling myself that perhaps they were laughing for reasons of their own and that I should resist negative thinking so that my relationship with Wendy might not give me a persecution complex. But their harassment grew worse: whenever they saw me, they followed me and repeated provocative words. The most insolent among them was a tall, skinny young man with red hair and slightly protruding upper teeth who wore a small black skullcap on his head. He played the clown for the benefit of his friends. Whenever he saw me he would shout loudly “Assalamu alaikum,” then they would all burst out laughing. I kept ignoring them until he surprised me after class on Friday, surrounded by his friends, stopping me with his hand, acting in an unbelievable childish manner. He asked me derisively, “Where are you from?”

  “I am Egyptian.”

  “Why are you studying histology? You think it is useful in breeding camels?”

  They all burst out laughing. That time I couldn’t control myself. I held him by his collar and shouted, “Speak politely or I’ll break your head.”

  I was holding him with my left hand while my right hand was free. That was to my good fortune because he punched me in the stomach, but I jumped backward, which softened the blow. I pulled him toward me then aimed a punch at his face with my right hand. My fist was fast and the punch was strong; it made a muffled thudding sound and his nose began to bleed profusely. His defeat was now certain, so he started wailing, “You’re a barbarian. I’ll get you kicked out of the university for this.”

  His friends split into two groups; some spoke with him and others looked askance at me. I don’t know how the university police appeared on the scene. They took us all to the security office. In front of the old, completely white-haired policeman, my adversary said that I had been following him and harassing him for some time and that he insisted on his right before the law because I had assaulted him. I kept silent until the officer questioned me. I told him what had happened and said calmly, “Yes, I actually hit him because he insulted my country and made fun of it.”

  “What did he say about your country? Try to remember the exact words.”

  He bent and wrote down everything I said. Then he looked pensive and said in a calm voice, “Listen, both of you, according to university regulations you have committed two violations: you (and he pointed at him) used racist language to denigrate your colleagues, and you assaulted one of your colleagues. If I finish the report against you, both of you would have a disciplinary hearing.”

  A profound silence prevailed. I started imagining myself going back on the plane after being expelled from the university. I came to as the officer, who smiled and looked kind for the first time, was saying, “It’s possible, of course, if you both wanted, for the matter to end amicably, if you both exchanged apologies now. In that case it would be enough if you both pledge not to do it again.”

  The other did not give me an opportunity to think. He came over to me and said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry.”

  His apology was devoid of any remorse. He just uttered the words, as if playing a role in a play, as if he wanted me to understand that in reality he was not sorry for what he had done, but that he had to apologize for fear of the disciplinary board. I looked at him for a moment and said, “I’m sorry too.”

  The harassment bothered me, but I didn’t let it take up too much of my time. I had gotten used to my new life and my morale improved. I took up my studies regularly and seriously and almost finished my new poem. My dates with Wendy washed away my sorrows. More important, I found a great friend. I will always be indebted to Dr. Karam Doss for the wonderful times we spent together. We met on weekends at Graham’s house, and during the week he would often call me to have a drink together in Rush Street. I discovered that he was a wonderful human being, extremely modest and sensitive, a true artist. We listened together to Umm Kulthum, about whom he was quite an expert: he knew the story of every song and when it was broadcast for the first time. He loved Egypt so much that he followed everything going on there with the utmost interest. We spent long hours discussing conditions in Egypt. He spoke enthusiastically, which made me share ideas with him as soon as they occurred to me. On Sunday evening we were, as usual, drinking at Dr. Graham’s house. I waited until we had a few drinks to get us going, then asked Karam, “Have you heard about the demonstrations in Cairo?”

  “I saw them yesterday on al-Jazeera.”

  “What do you think?”

  “You think a few hundred demonstrators can change the regime?”

  “Had it not been for the central security cordon around the demonstrators, all Egyptians would have joined them.”

  “It seems you’re an optimist.”

  “Of course. The fact that Egyptians go out on the street to demand that the president of the republic step down is a sure sign that something has changed and will never be the same again.”

  “Those who demonstrate are members of the elite. The masses are not concerned with the issue of democracy.”

  “All revolutions in the history of Egypt have started with the elite.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “We can’t just wait and see.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We can do a lot. But much depends on you.”

  “Me?”

  “Are you willing to take a stand on what’s happening in Egypt?”

  “Are you planning for a coup d’etat?”

  “I am not kidding.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Listen, the president will visit Chicago in a few weeks. That
’s an opportunity we should not waste.”

  Graham was following the conversation. Laughing as he poured himself a new drink, he shouted, “Uh-oh, anything but that! I won’t be a witness to a criminal conspiracy. Are you planning to kill the Egyptian president? How about if we start by killing George W. Bush instead?”

  I waited until the laughter died down and continued seriously. “The president will meet with the Egyptian students in Chicago. I’ve thought of preparing a statement that we would deliver in front of him.”

  “A statement?”

  “Yes, we’ll demand that he step down, abrogate the emergency laws, and adopt democracy.”

  “You think he’ll listen?”

  “I am not that naive. It’s just a step but it will be effective. There are demonstrations all over Egypt for freedom. Demonstrators are being beaten and arrested; women demonstrators are being violated by the police. Isn’t it our duty to do something for those demonstrators? If we wrote the statement and Egyptians in Chicago signed it then delivered it in the presence of the president before journalists and television cameras, we’d be aiming a hard blow to the face of the Egyptian regime.”

  “You think Egyptians here will sign the statement with you?”

  “I don’t know, of course, but I’ll try.” He stayed silent. I said, “I see that you’re reluctant.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Haven’t you always tried to do something for your country?”

  “In the field of surgery, not politics.”

  “The corrupt regime is the main reason for our backwardness.

  The dean of Ain Shams Medical School who turned down your proposal was appointed to his post because he’s loyal to the regime, regardless of his administrative or medical efficiency. Most likely he’s a corrupt and hypocritical person who spies on his colleagues for state security. If deans were elected, a better and more qualified person would have been chosen. Such a person would undoubtedly have been happy to cooperate with you. If we love Egypt, we have to do our utmost to change this regime. Anything else is a waste of time.”