A strange idea occurred to him as he studied her picture: Did a human being have his fate etched on his features from childhood? Could we, with some concentration or strong foresight, read children’s futures on their faces? To know from the beginning that this little girl would die an untimely death or be unhappy in her life? Or that little boy who looked ordinary and lazy would achieve illustrious professional eminence or make a huge fortune? In the pictures Sarah was laughing and had a sunny face filled with joy. But he could somehow see what was happening to her now, imprinted on her little face; there was a darkish cloud hovering between her smile and her innocent, astonished look. There was an almost imperceptible look of defeat in her glance, a premonition of a sad destiny that she couldn’t avoid. He put the album aside and got up, as he did every night when sorrows ganged up on him so much that he couldn’t look at any more pictures. He would have another drink in front of the window until the sleeping pill worked in conjunction with the whiskey, plunging him in a dark, heavy, deathlike sleep.
Ra’fat suddenly imagined that he was hearing sounds coming from another part of the house, a door opening and closing, steps squeaking on the wooden floor. He listened carefully. Oh, God, was the doctor’s warning coming true? Was the mixture of alcohol and sleeping pill making him hallucinate? There, he was hearing the sound again. It wasn’t hallucination. He was certain this time. Someone was moving around. Had Michelle woken up and come downstairs to do something? He put the drink on the table and hurried to the bedroom. He opened the door as gently as he was able and in the dark could make out that Michelle was still asleep. He was now fully alert. His sense of danger brought back his concentration. The sound persisted; it was defying him. The person who had broken in did not even try to conceal his movements. He was not moving stealthily like a thief; perhaps he was drunk or high or perhaps he was carrying a weapon that made him sure that he could handle the situation at any moment. Who said it was one person? Most likely it was a group of armed men. What did they want with him? Unfortunately he didn’t have a gun like Salah. He had always refused to own a gun. The idea of shooting somebody, no matter what the circumstances, seemed strange and frightening to him. He opened his cell phone and readied it to dial the police emergency number. He was going to go to the first floor, confront the intruders, and at the right moment call the police. He held on to the wooden banister very carefully, and then stopped. It took him a few moments to absorb what he saw. The door of the room was wide open. In the soft light of the corridor he saw a person from the back. He knew that figure very well.
“Sarah?” he shouted as he rushed toward her. He turned on the light and he could see the details of the scene. She turned around for a moment, stared vacantly at him, then turned around again as if she did not see him. She was looking for something, anxiously opening the desk drawers and slamming them closed, one after the other. Ra’fat moved toward her and looked at her. She looked strange: she had lost a lot of weight and her face was extremely pale. There were black rings around her eyes and sweat was pouring from her. Her hair was disheveled and dusty and her clothes dirty, as though she had spent the night on the sidewalk.
“Sarah? Where’ve you been?” he exclaimed, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t even turn, as if she were not aware of his presence. She went on opening the drawers then slamming them shut. Then she turned to the closet, pulling the door hard, and began to throw the contents on the bed: folded shirts, underwear, and towels of several colors. Ra’fat held her by the arm and asked her, “What are you looking for?”
She pushed him away and said in a raspy voice, “Let me go.”
“What’s wrong, Sarah?”
“That’s none of your business.”
She kept looking at the closet, which was now empty. Then she threw herself onto the bed and put her hands on her head and said, as if talking to herself, “Goddammit! Where’d the money go? I’m sure I left it here.”
“Sarah.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I know you’re mad at me. Forgive me. I’ve treated you cruelly. Believe me, I’m the one who loves you the most in this world.”
“Stop this emotional blackmail. You’ve ruined my life.”
Her voice was hoarse and her glances strange. Her face began to contract and sweat poured from it and she began to gasp, as if she were having difficulty breathing. He came closer to her and extended his arms to embrace her, but she got up, moved two steps away, then turned around and confronted him with a hostile glare. He said in a soft voice, “I want to talk with you for a little bit.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Where do you live now?”
“In a place a thousand times better than your house.”
“Why are you treating me this way? You have a big problem. You must quit doing drugs.”
She looked at him in anger and shouted, “What do you know about drugs? You don’t know anything in the world except your damn slides.”
“Please, Sarah. I’ll take you to a counselor.”
“This is stupid. I don’t need a counselor. If I have problems in my life, you’re responsible for them.”
“Me?”
“As usual you don’t see the horrible things you’re doing.”
“Sarah!”
“Enough with the lies. You’ve made me miserable. There’s not a single thing that’s genuine in this house: my mother doesn’t love you, she never has. And you don’t love her. Yet you go on pretending to be such a wonderful couple. It’s about time you heard what I think of you: you’re phony. You’re a bad actor playing a silly role that doesn’t convince anyone. Who are you? Are you Egyptian or American? You’ve lived all your life wanting to be an American. And you failed.”
“All these catastrophes are because of that lowlife Jeff!” Ra’fat shouted suddenly, but she screamed, “Don’t call him names. He’s better than you. He’s poor and unemployed but he’s genuine. He loves me and I love him. We’re not phony like you.”
She turned around suddenly and headed for the door, but he followed her to keep her from leaving. She pushed him away from her, but he stepped forward quickly and embraced her from behind, saying in a loud voice, “I won’t allow you to destroy yourself.”
“Let me go,” she shouted as she pushed him with all her strength, but he clung to her, putting up with her blows on his body. She exerted a strenuous effort to struggle free, and suddenly her muscles convulsed violently and she began to cry. He held her tightly. She calmed down in his embrace. They clung to each other in total silence. After a few moments she said in a different voice, calm and deep, as if she had awakened from a dream or come back to consciousness after an attack of nerves, “I have to go now.”
“Do you want some money?” She looked hesitant then said in a soft voice, “Give me a hundred dollars and I’ll repay it in a week.”
He took out his wallet and gave her a bill that she took quickly and put nonchalantly in her pants pocket. He smiled and said, “Do you want more money?”
“We’re doing okay. In a few days Jeff will start his new work. He’s found an excellent job at a brokerage firm.”
He was sure she was lying. He looked at her affectionately and said, “Can you tell me your new address?”
“I can’t.”
“I just want to know that you’re all right. I won’t bother you. I won’t visit you unless you ask me.”
“I will get in touch with you. I promise.”
She seemed as if she had regained her old tenderness suddenly. He hugged her again and kept showering her with kisses on her face and hair until she gently pushed him away. She looked at him with a faint smile then planted a quick kiss on his cheek and hurried out.
Chapter 34
Dr. Friedman sat behind his desk and asked Tariq to sit down. He bowed his head and looked at his hands, which he had clasped in front of him, then blushed a little as he u
sually did when he started to speak and said, “Ever since I’ve become chairman, I’ve always been enthusiastic to admit Egyptian students because they’re intelligent and hardworking. Of course from time to time there might be a bad student, but that’s the exception, not the rule. You, for instance, are an excellent student: you’ve obtained early and good results in your research and you got straight As in all your courses.”
“Thank you,” Tariq murmured gratefully. Dr. Friedman cleared his throat, opened his desk drawer, and took out some papers, which he spread in front of him then went on, still avoiding looking at Tariq. “Your outstanding practical work makes it my duty to talk to you frankly: your standards have suffered greatly over the last few months. This is the fourth test in which you got a poor grade after previously always having a perfect score.”
Turning pale and seeming to have lost his powers of speech, Tariq kept looking at him. Friedman held the answer sheets and said in an angry tone, “I was shocked when I saw your recent performance. You’re making elementary mistakes that don’t seem to have come from a student of your diligence. Doesn’t that make you wonder why your grades are suffering?”
Tariq remained silent, his face growing paler. Friedman smiled and said in a sympathetic voice, “Listen, Tariq. You have a great opportunity to make your future. Life in America has drawbacks, but its big advantage is that it gives everyone a chance: if you work hard, you’ll achieve your goals. This is what makes this country so great. What you can accomplish here you cannot accomplish anywhere else in the world. My advice to you is to not let your private life distract you from your work.”
“But. ”
“I don’t want to pry; I just want to convey to you my own experience. I think you understand me well. I used to be a young man like you, and during my academic career I’ve suffered emotional jolts: happy and unhappy relationships that often affected my performance. But I learned how to keep my emotions in check and go back to work. Nothing is harder than work, but it is the only value that remains.”
Friedman got up and shook Tariq’s hand warmly.“Take care of your work, Tariq, and think of me like a father. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to ask. Even if you just need to talk about your problems, I’ll always have time for you.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Tariq said gratefully.
Friedman placed his hand on Tariq’s shoulder and said as he saw him to the door, “Unfortunately the decline in your grades makes it mandatory for the department to give you a warning. That’s spelled out in the rules. You’ll receive the warning within two days. That’s bad, of course, but it is not the end of the world. If you work hard and regain your standing we can annul the warning as if it were never issued.”
Tariq looked in silence at Dr. Friedman. He couldn’t speak and was unable to concentrate on his surroundings. Distraught, he walked down the corridor with heavy steps, staggering as if he had received a violent blow to the head. Dark and misty pictures kept appearing and vanishing in his mind. He kept walking, so lost in thought that he passed the dorm without realizing it. He knew that his performance had suffered recently, but he hadn’t made much of it. Whenever he got a bad grade he’d say, “I didn’t do well in this test, but I’ll do better next time.”
Dr. Friedman had made him look in the mirror and see reality. He was falling to the bottom. His academic future was threatened. Today they had issued him a warning; tomorrow they’d expel him like Danana. The difference was: Danana was supported by the Egyptian government. As for him, if they dismissed him he would be lost forever. What had happened to him? How did Tariq Haseeb, the genius, the legend of academic superiority, come to fear failure and expect expulsion?
Tariq closed the apartment door calmly then threw himself onto the bed with all his clothes on; he didn’t even take off his shoes. He stared at the ceiling in silence for about half an hour then got up, left his apartment, and took the elevator to the seventh floor. He stood in front of Shaymaa’s apartment hesitantly, and then rang the bell two consecutive times: that was the code that Shaymaa knew, and she would hurry to him, opening the door as if she had been waiting behind it. This time she didn’t open up. He thought she had gone out for one reason or another. He called her and found the telephone turned off. He rang the bell again. A long time passed, and he thought of leaving. Finally she opened the door. She was wearing her house clothes and had a scarf on her hair. She had not preened herself as usual for their meeting. She didn’t say a word but turned and made room for him, so he could enter, and then she sat in front of him on the sofa in the living room. In the light he saw that her eyes were bloodshot and her face wet from tears.
“What has happened?”
She remained silent, avoiding looking at him, which added to his apprehension. He went over and placed his hand on her shoulder. She pushed it harshly.
“What’s wrong, Shaymaa?” She bowed her head for a while then started sobbing, saying in a breaking voice, “A catastrophe, Tariq.”
“What happened?”
“I’m pregnant.”
He stood there looking at her as if he didn’t understand, as if frozen in place. He was no longer able to think. His consciousness was scattered, broken into thousands of little pieces. He began to notice things around him as separate sights unconnected by anything: the lamp on the side table, the fridge with its humming sound, the floor covered with thick dark brown carpeting. Shaymaa suddenly got up and began to slap her face with her hands and scream, “Now do you know the catastrophe, Tariq? I am pregnant in sin, Tariq. In sin!”
He rushed to her and held her hands and after some effort was able to stop her from slapping herself, but she threw herself on the chair and began to sob with such despair that she broke his heart. He spoke for the first time and his voice came out deep, as if coming from a well, “You’re mistaken.”
“What do you mean?”
“You couldn’t be pregnant.”
“I did the test twice.”
“I assure you it is impossible.”
She looked at him shrewishly and said, “You are a doctor and you know very well that what happened is possible.” It seemed the red line had been compromised.
A deep silence fell and she began to cry again, then she said in a shaking voice, “This morning I thought of committing suicide, but I fear God Almighty.”
She got up suddenly, got close to him, held his hand, and whispered in a hoarse voice: “Please protect me, Tariq. I implore you.”
He kept staring at her in silence. She said in a supplicating voice, “I’ve asked about the procedures. We can get married here in the consulate.”
“Marry here?”
“Our families will be upset because we didn’t ask them, but we have no choice. I’ve asked at the consulate. It’s a simple procedure that would take less than half an hour. After that a copy of the marriage document would be sent to the civil registry in Cairo.”
She said the last sentence in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he had agreed to the marriage and only the procedure remained. A heavy silence settled between them. He turned his face away so as not to look at her and said in a soft voice, as if talking to himself, “I also have a big problem. I’ve received an official warning from the university: my GPA has plunged.”
“We have to resolve our situation first. When do we go to the consulate?”
“Why?”
“To get married.”
“My circumstances would not permit marriage now.” Silence prevailed again. She began to breathe unsteadily. He went on in a pleading voice, “Please, Shaymaa. Understand me. I will never let you down. I will do all I can to help you, but I cannot marry this way.”
She stared at his face. She tried to say something but finally she half sighed, half sobbed, then pushed him with her hands as she shouted, “Get out of here! Go. I don’t want to see your face.”
* * *
I spent one of the worst nights in my life. I didn’t sleep at all. I called Wendy several times, but she d
idn’t answer then turned off her telephone. Early in the morning I put on my clothes and took the train to the Chicago Stock Exchange, where I had accompanied her several times. I stood waiting for her at the intersection. The snow that had fallen overnight had covered everything. I tightened the heavy coat around my body and covered my head and wrapped the scarf around my face. I remembered how Wendy had chosen these clothes for me. I had, due to my lack of experience with Chicago winters, bought a raincoat thinking it could ward off the cold of winter. When Wendy saw it she had laughed and then controlled herself and said in a low voice as if apologizing, “This coat is too light. Winter in Chicago requires heavy coats lined with fur.”
She took me to the Marshall Field’s department store and told me as the glass elevator took us upstairs, “Here they sell fancy fashions from the biggest names in design all over the world, but thank God they haven’t forgotten poor people like us, so on the last floor they sell slightly irregular or older-model merchandise at affordable prices.”
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