How she had loved me and has taken care of me! And I had treated her as harshly as she had treated me nicely. Yesterday she came to celebrate with me, bringing the dancing outfit that she had bought especially for me; she wanted to look like the Andalusian dancer that I had imagined. All this love I met with incredible cruelty. I accused her of spying, of treachery. I will apologize to her as soon as I see her. I’ll kiss her hands and beg her to forgive me. How could I have been so cruel? I was not myself. I was tense and miserable, so I took all my frustrations out on her: Safwat Shakir’s breaking into my apartment, his knowing all the details of my life, and his attempt to frighten me by threatening my mother and sister. All that made me a nervous wreck. My sister Noha, I can’t imagine that they’d actually arrest her. If they harm her I’ll kill this Safwat Shakir. Can they be humans like us? Were they at one time innocent children? How could a person’s job be simply to beat and torture people? How can a man who tortures another eat and sleep and make love to his wife and play with his children? Strangely enough, all State Security officers have the same features. The officer who tortured me when I was arrested at the university looked like Safwat Shakir: the same cold, sticky shine in his complexion, the same dead cruel eyes, and the same wooden, ashen face filled with bitterness.
A gust of icy wind blew, so I closed my eyes and started walking on the sidewalk in brisk steps so that blood would rush to my limbs. This method of coping with the cold I had also learned from Wendy. There are dozens of details and situations that we had shared that I couldn’t forget. I looked at my watch. It was seven-thirty. Why hadn’t she come? This is the route she took every day. Has she changed it to avoid me? I felt sadness weighing heavily on my heart. With the cold and exhaustion, I began to separate myself from my surroundings, as if I had suddenly moved to another, faraway realm, as if what I was seeing was happening to other people I was watching from behind glass. It was a trick that my mind involuntarily played to reduce my feeling of pain. Little by little mist covered the field of visibility before me, as if I were seeing the street and passersby through cloudy glasses. I don’t know how long I stayed in that condition but suddenly I saw her coming. There she was, walking with the measured, even gait that I like. She moved in accordance with a graceful, steady rhythm as if she were dancing. (I asked her once, “Why don’t you walk fast like other Americans?” She answered me, laughing, “Because I’m carrying the blood of my Andalusian grandmother who was in love with your grandfather.”) I rushed toward her as fast as I could. She stopped and looked at me. It seemed that, like me, she hadn’t had any sleep.
“Wendy.”
“I have to go to work.”
“Please. Just one minute.” A bitter wind blew and showered our faces with drifting snow.
I motioned to her and she hesitated for a while then followed me to the entryway of a nearby building. We were warmer there. I was breathing heavily with emotion. I held her by the shoulders and said, “Please forgive me. I don’t know why I said that. I was frustrated and drunk. I wasn’t myself.”
She bowed her head to avoid looking at me and said, “Our fight brought the truth out in the open.”
“I’ll do anything for you to forget what I said yesterday.”
“I can’t forget it. I can’t deceive myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our relationship is wonderful, but it has no future.”
“Why?”
“Because we belong to two different worlds.”
“Wendy, I made a mistake and I came to apologize.”
“There’s no mistake: ultimately I belong to the enemies of your country. No matter how much you love me, you’ll never forget that I’m Jewish. No matter how faithful I remain to you, your trust in me will always be fragile. I’ll be the first suspect in your view.”
“This isn’t true. I trust you and respect you.”
“We’re finished, Nagi.”
I was about to register one last desperate objection, but she smiled mysteriously and there came to her face that old sadness that would come over her. She moved toward me and hugged me and kissed me quickly on the cheek then said in a soft voice as she gave me my apartment key, “Please don’t call me. I’d like for our relationship to end as beautifully as it began. Thank you for the wonderful feelings I’ve shared with you.”
She turned around and left quietly. I kept watching her as she crossed the threshold of the glass door to the street then disappeared in the crowd.
Karam Doss looked worried. He sighed and said, “So, the war has started.”
“I don’t understand how Safwat Shakir found everything out about us.”
“Spying on people is his profession. Remember that we’ve met with many Egyptians to convince them to sign the statement. It’s only natural that one of them has informed on us.”
“How did he get the key to my apartment?”
“Collaboration between American and Egyptian intelligence services is tight and long-standing. They send suspects to Egypt, where State Security agents torture them and force them to confess then return them to America.”
“I thought human rights were protected here.”
“After 9/11 the American administration gave security agencies the right to do whatever they saw as necessary, beginning with spying on people up to arresting them for mere suspicion.”
“And what do we do now?”
“You still insist on the statement?”
“What are you saying?”
“I know that you are courageous and patriotic. But I also appre ciate that your fear for your family might make you reconsider.” I threw him a look that must have seemed decisive, for he raised his hand and said, “Don’t get angry. I had to ask you.”
We were sitting in the piano bar where I had met Wendy for the first time. I was struggling to stop the onslaught of memories. Wendy’s picture had not left my mind. There I was, losing one of the most beautiful experiences in my life. I recalled our last meeting. Was she right? Do we really belong to two different worlds? Our hostility, as Arabs, should be directed at the Zionist movement, not at Judaism. We should not be hostile to adherents of a certain religion. Such a fascist attitude is alien to Islam’s tolerance; besides, it gives others the right to treat us in a similarly racist manner. This is the opinion that I have stated and written dozens of times, but it seems I failed to apply it. If Wendy were not Jewish would I have accused her of treachery? Why was I so easily suspicious of her? But, on the other hand, wasn’t Wendy an exception? Don’t most Jews in the world support Israel with all their might? Doesn’t Israel commit all its massacres of the Arabs as the state of the Jews? Didn’t my relationship with Wendy anger the Jews in the university? Didn’t they harass me and insult me? How many Jews are like Wendy and how many like the student who made fun of me?
I gulped down the rest of the wine and ordered another drink. I looked at Karam’s face. He knit his brows and said seriously, “We have to analyze the situation correctly. So long as Safwat Shakir has found everything out, he will most definitely bar those who signed the statement from meeting with the president.”
“Does he have that right?”
“Of course. The president’s visit is supervised by Egyptian and American security. They have the right to prevent anyone from entering the hall.”
“Even if they prevented us from entering, we will demonstrate outside and read the statement to the media.”
“Demonstrations are important, of course, but what makes this a strong plan is for one Egyptian to surprise the president and deliver the statement to his face.”
“You are right. But how?”
“We still have two weeks. We have to find an Egyptian who hasn’t signed the statement and convince him to deliver it. We have to choose someone that Safwat Shakir doesn’t expect at all.”
“Do you know anyone who can do that?”
“I have some names we can review together.”
Chapter 35
W
hy did Marwa agree to work with Safwat Shakir? The answer could be gleaned from a few small details such as: her quizzical, suspicious look at her husband when he broached the subject; her tense, somewhat defiant smile as she preened in front of the mirror before going to the consulate; the tight blue dress that she chose in order to show the contours of her body; the strong perfume she applied behind her ears and between her breasts; the quick, surreptitious movement of her hand as she undid the top button of her dress before entering the office; and her slow movements, her sighs, and her melodious voice. She was driven by an overpowering inner desire to encourage Safwat Shakir, to give him a chance to show his true intentions. Marwa did that, not because she liked the man or because she was deviant or given to fooling around, but because she wanted to bring matters to a head, to push the story to an ending. She needed to find some certainty in her tumultuous life, which was draining her incessantly. She was tired of her hesitations and apprehensions, of her fear of divorce and her aversion to Danana. She couldn’t bear to go on living in that gray area. Her fears had either to materialize or be dispelled. No matter how cruel reality was, it was still more merciful than illusions. She realized from the first day that there was no real work for her in Safwat Shakir’s office, and that his secretary, Hasan, was handling the major tasks. It was clear that Safwat Shakir was burning with desire for her. More than once, during the day, he would call her to his office and ask her to close the door, inviting her to sit in front of him and then talking to her in an effort to win her affection, piercing her the whole time with his eyes, his voice blazing with passion that almost scorched her. At times his lust would overflow, filling the air between them, forcing him into a reluctant silence.
He wasn’t going to withstand it much longer, Marwa thought. Before long now, he was going to show his face. What was he going to do? Grab her hand? Cling to her and try to kiss her forcibly? The first and second days passed. At the end of the third, Safwat asked her to stay after hours. He went up to the small bar behind the folding screen, poured himself a drink and an orange juice for her, then went back to his chair and sat back, his eyes getting a little misty.
“I want to talk to you about myself.”
“That’s an honor.”
“I am now at the peak of my professional life. I might be asked to join the cabinet as a minister at any time.”
“Congratulations,” she said in a cheerful voice, and then her inner plan sprang into action; she moved a little, then crossed her legs, and her dress revealed a few more details of her body. He went on in a serious tone. “I have gone as far as any security man can go. Perhaps you don’t know what security means in our country. It is security and no other entity that is ruling Egypt. With one word I can move the president of the Republic any way I want. I can make him change his route from one place to another or leave his palace and sleep in some other palace that I designate. One report from me can destroy the future of any official in the state.”
“I am beginning to feel afraid of you.”
“On the contrary. I want you to depend on me.”
“Thank you.”
“Your husband came to me in Washington and cried and begged me to save his future.”
“I know.”
“I am going to save him for your sake.”
“Thank you very much.”
“I want you to thank me in another way.”
“What is it?”
“I am older and I have more experience than you. Life has taught me that an opportunity comes only once. We either seize it or lose it forever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You understand quite well.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you.”
He got up from behind the desk, walked slowly over to her, held her hand, and pulled her. She got up. He extended his arm and put it around her waist. She fidgeted but did not move away. As his cologne filled her nose he whispered, “You’re beautiful.”
She moved slightly, as if objecting, which aroused him even more. He tightened his grip on her arm and said in a hoarse voice, “I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t refuse.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re intelligent.”
“I need to think.”
Safwat looked at her, frowning and beginning to breathe heavily with desire for her. But he pulled himself together and said as he moved away: “You have until tomorrow.”
MARWA WAS NOT SHOCKED OR confused. She felt neither resentment nor anger. On the contrary, she felt some relief, as if she were an investigator who had finally found uncontestable evidence to get a conviction. There she was: absolutely certain of the truth; no more doubts and no hesitation from now on. Safwat Shakir wanted her to be his mistress: he had said it explicitly. She went home and sat in the living room waiting for Danana, who as soon as he saw her realized that something had happened. He greeted her and then said with an exaggerated yawn in preparation for an escape, “I spent the whole day working very hard.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Let’s postpone it until tomorrow.”
“It cannot be postponed.”
She told him what had happened, taking her time, clearly enunciating Safwat Shakir’s words. She fixed him with a strong glance as she said, “Can you imagine how low! The one you considered your friend wants to sully your honor.”
Danana was sitting in front of her, still in his street clothes. He kept staring at her through his glasses then threw his hands up in the air and said, “There is no power or strength save in God. What an indecorous man!”
Marwa was not convinced by what she understood to be a feigned expression of disgust, so she asked Danana in a loud voice,“So what are you going to do?”
“I will hold him to account, of course, and I’ll be tough on him.”
Moments of silence passed. He suddenly got up and sat next to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said, “I’ll make him pay the price for his ignominy. I will get word of what happened to his superiors. But we have to be a little patient because the president’s visit is taking place in a few days and Safwat promised to get me enrolled at DePaul.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t want him to create difficulties.”
“He said to me explicitly that he wanted to have a relationship with me. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand. I will teach him a lesson that he won’t forget. You’ll see for yourself. All I am asking is that we wait just one month, no more. If I anger him now, he can destroy me with the stroke of a pen. I’ll just give him time until the president’s visit is over and he enrolls me in the other university. Then we settle the account.”
She fixed him with a slow, probing look, as if recording what was happening, etching it deep into her consciousness once and for all. She didn’t say anything but got up slowly, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.
Chapter 36
That morning the Egyptian consulate building looked different, as if it had acquired a mythical dimension, as if a magician’s wand had changed it from a merely elegant building overlooking Lake Michigan into a stage for major events that would be recorded by history. Security preparations started early: the building was examined by high-tech equipment that X-rayed the walls to make sure no foreign substances were embedded within them. Shortly after that ten large police dogs toured the building sniffing everywhere for any hidden explosives. In the meantime, a group of Egyptian sharpshooters, carrying their long-barreled rifles fitted with telescopes, climbed onto the roof, accompanied by another group of Republican Guard officers armed with automatic rifles. They took their positions in different places, covering the area surrounding the consulate from all directions. After a short while, four metal detector gates were set up, two in front of each of the entrances in such a way that every person coming in would be checked twic
e. About ten meters before these gates, checkpoints manned by FBI agents together with Egyptian intelligence and State Security were also set up.
As invitees began to arrive, they were checked very thoroughly: Americans’ invitations were checked by a laser machine to make sure they were not forged. Egyptians, of course, were subjected to additional measures: their passports were scanned on a special laptop to make sure they did not have security files. After that the Egyptian security officer would ask them, with a formal smile and a scrutinizing gaze, about details of their lives. If he noticed the slightest confusion or contradiction in their answers they would be escorted to an office for more elaborate cross-examination. The security procedures were strict and, like justice, blind, and were imposed on everyone regardless of profession or social standing, so much so that the man in charge of the cafeteria at the consulate, an old black American named Jack Mahoney, was not allowed to enter because he had forgotten his special pass. For a whole half hour the officers turned a deaf ear to his pleas to prove his identity despite his colleagues vouching for him. In the end he had to go back home — quite a distance away — to collect his pass.
Egyptian security men were profoundly aware of the serious and lofty nature of their task: ensuring the personal safety of the revered president. They loved him with all their hearts and pronounced his name reverently and prayerfully. Had it not been for their closeness to him, they wouldn’t have enjoyed their cushy lives and tremendous influence on all departments of the state. They were so linked to him that what happened to him determined their future. If something bad, God forbid, were to happen to him, if he were assassinated like his predecessor, they’d be lost. They’d be pensioned off or cashiered. They might be put on trial and sent to jail if power passed on to the president’s enemies, who were quite numerous. All these apprehensions would prick them like needles if they felt any relaxation or boredom, so they would immediately regain their enthusiasm. Absolute loyalty to the president was embodied in the person of General Mahmud al-Manawi, commander of the Republican Guard, who had spent a whole quarter century close to him and which made him one of the few who enjoyed the president’s full trust. It also made him entitled to be on the receiving end of the president’s sometimes obscene jokes. Sometimes when the president was in a good mood, he would pat the general’s protruding paunch and say in a loud, laughing voice, “Stop eating, Manawi boy! You look like Apis, the bull!”
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