Chicago

Chapter 16

The reverence with which Professor Dennis Baker is regarded could be attributed to various reasons: his strong personality, his integrity, his devotion to science, the way he treats his students and colleagues lovingly and fairly, his simple austere appearance, and his constant silence, which he only breaks to say something necessary and useful. But more important than all of that: his scientific achievements. Baker presents himself as a “photographer of cells,” words that encapsulate the hard work and effort that he has exerted over the past forty years to transform the photographing of cells from a mere ancillary method in scientific research into an established independent science that had its own tools and rules. Baker invented methods and techniques in photographing cells that were patented in his name. He published so many papers over the years that including his CV in the program of scientific conferences posed a real problem because it required several times as much space as any other professor’s CV. It has become impossible for any book on histology to be published in any university in the world without using Baker’s cell photograph collections. Professor Baker approached his work in the spirit of an artist. First, a mysterious thought would come to him; then it would persist and give him sleepless nights; then it would disappear, leaving behind an amazing, but fragile, idea. He would examine that idea and scrutinize it until it took hold in his mind. Then he would spend weeks testing the cells in different light settings and different levels of microscope strength. Finally, inspiration would come, revealing for him what he should do, whereupon he would enthusiastically rush to photograph, record, and print.

In addition to his scientific achievement, Baker is considered one of the greatest lecturers that the University of Illinois has known throughout its history. His lectures about bodily tissues were as simple as they were profound. This led the university administration to market them on CDs that sold thousands of copies. Despite the magnificence of his achievement, Baker, like many great creative minds, was not immune to fears of failure and apprehensions of falling short. There were dark thoughts that sometimes made him wonder about the value of what he did. Those who worked with him were quite familiar with the anxiety that came over him before his lectures, like stage fright. As soon as the lecture ended he would ask one of his assistants, “Don’t you think that my explanation was somewhat vague?”

If the assistant did not hurry to refute the accusation enthusiastically, Baker’s imagined shortcoming would be confirmed for him and he would shake his head and say sadly, “Next time I’ll try to do better.”

In Chicago’s bitter cold and snowy winter, old Professor Baker often got up at four o’clock in the morning, washed up, put on heavy clothes and gloves, and covered his head and ears well, as if he were a soldier going to the battlefield. He would take the 5:00 a.m. train with cleaning crews and drunkards from the previous night. He would go through this trouble gladly to be able to check the cell samples at the exact time that he had set to the minute. That was how Baker accomplished his glorious achievements day after day, with the perseverance of an ant and the devotion of a monk, until he became a legend. There was a lot of talk at Illinois for years about the likelihood of his getting a Nobel Prize at any moment.

John Graham, during one of his outspoken moments, commented on Baker’s achievement by saying, “The great Western civilization was made by unique and devoted scientists like Dennis Baker, but the capitalist system has turned their creative endeavor into production machines and commercial enterprises from which millions of dollars pour in to stupid and corrupt men like George Bush and Dick Cheney.”

Baker supervised dozens of MSs and PhDs, and among his students were many Egyptians who achieved dazzling results. He kept in his lab thank-you letters from them, which he always asked them to write in Arabic because he liked the shape of the letters. His positive experience with Egyptians made him curious about their country, so he borrowed several books about Egypt from the university library. One time he was invited with some professors to a reception at De Paul University. There he drank two glasses of whiskey (the limit that he allowed himself). The liquor loosened his tongue and released inside him a torrent of sympathy. He looked at Dr. Salah, who was standing next to him, and asked him in his usual, direct manner, “Dr. Salah, I have a question: all the Egyptians who’ve worked with me were talented and exceptionally hardworking and yet Egypt, as a country, is still scientifically backward. Do you have an explanation for that?”

Salah answered quickly, as if he had prepared the answer. “Egypt is backward because of the lack of democracy, no more and no less. Talented Egyptians achieve great results when they emigrate to the West; but in Egypt, unfortunately, the despotic regime usually persecutes them and passes them over.”

Baker looked at him for a moment then nodded and said, “I get it.”

This deep appreciation by the great scientist for Egyptians made him always amenable to being the advisor for their theses and dissertations. It must be mentioned here that Baker, the pious, observant Protestant Christian, did not see any differences among the races and ethnic groups. In his creed humans were all children of God, equally blessed with His sacred spirit. Thus we are able to understand his tolerant, liberal positions in departmental meetings: he evaluated each student according to his or her effort and abilities only, in total disregard for their nationality or the color of their skin (unlike George Roberts). These great ideals in which Dr. Baker believed were recently put to a difficult test. He had welcomed supervising Ahmad Danana for the PhD, but from the first instant, he noticed that Danana was a type of Egyptian that he hadn’t seen before: he was older, looked formal, and wore a full suit and a necktie. Baker did not dwell on Danana’s appearance, but the problem started with the first course, in which Baker taught his students methods of research. It was an important course because it introduced students to the basic principles they had to follow in their theses. Passing that course depended on class participation rather than on a traditional final examination. So Baker assigned students certain papers that they had to read, summarize, and comment on every week. Then he would listen to them and engage them in discussion and give them grades based on their absorption of the material and the amount of work they had put into it. Since the first class meeting Baker noticed, somewhat anxiously, that Ahmad Danana spoke on matters not germane to the subject at hand. He attributed that, perhaps, to the possibility that he did not understand what was required of him. So he summoned him to his office after class and gave him a new research paper, saying gently, “Read this paper well. Next week, in class, I’ll ask you to summarize it and comment on it.”

The following class, when it was Danana’s turn, he stood up in his full suit, cleared his throat, coughed, and began a long spiel during which he waved his hands, speechifying in his broken English, modulating his voice to influence the listeners as if he were delivering an oration in the National Party. The students followed him in bafflement as he said, “Dear colleagues, believe me. The question is not methods of research. Methods of research, praise the Lord, are copiously abundant. What I’d like for us to discuss today is the idea behind the methods of research. Within each of us there is a certain idea about method. We must, let me repeat here, must, come clean to each other, for the sake of the future of science, for our children and our grandchildren.”

Baker, as usual, was recording everything said in class so he could accurately evaluate each student. He was so extremely perplexed by what Danana said that for a moment he thought he was an imbecile. But on second thought he deemed that unlikely and had to interrupt him decisively. “Mr. Danana, I’d like to draw your attention to the fact that what you are saying has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of this session.”

That sentence would have silenced any student instantly, but Danana, well trained in arguing and polemics in political gatherings, did not bat an eyelash and said loudly, “Professor Baker, please. I am calling upon my colleagues to come clean, to exchange the ideas that each of us has about methods of research.”

Baker’s face turned red with anger and he shouted: “Listen, you’ve got to stop talking like that. I won’t allow you to confuse your colleagues. You either speak to the subject or stop talking, or get out of here.”

Danana fell silent and sighed. His face acquired the features of a great man who has received a cruel insult but, for noble considerations that he alone was aware of, decided to transcend the insult and forget it. The class went on as usual, and when it was over, Baker stared at Danana and asked him in disbelief mixed with exasperation, “Do you have psychological problems?”

“Of course not,” answered Danana with a nonchalant smile.

“Then why didn’t you read the paper?”

“I read it.”

“But you didn’t refer to it at all. You wasted class time with meaningless words.”

Danana placed his hand on Baker’s shoulder as if he were an old friend and said as if counseling him, “I always prefer to present scientific data with a human touch that brings students closer to one another.”

Baker looked at him closely then said calmly, “It’s I who determines the way this class is taught, not you.” Then he opened a folder he was holding and took out a large stack of paper that he handed to Danana and said, “I am going to give you one last chance. Here, read this paper carefully. I want you to present me with a summary within two days at most.”

“I don’t have time this week.”

“How can you be a student and not find time for your studies?”

“I am not an ordinary student. I am the president of the Egyptian Student Union in all of America.”

“What does this have to do with research?”

“My time is not my own. It belongs to my colleagues who’ve given me the responsibility.” Baker fell silent, looking at him in true bewilderment: this was a type of human being that he hadn’t encountered before in his life. Danana went on to say in an official tone, “Professor Baker, I expect you to take my political post into consideration.”

It was then that Baker burst out, saying angrily, “What you’re saying is nonsense. Do you understand? Here you are a student, no more and no less. If you don’t have time for your studies, quit.”

Baker turned and left. Danana ran after him trying to pacify him, but he dismissed him with a wave of his hand. From that day on Danana became a heavy psychological burden on Baker, who, despite his long experience, didn’t know how to deal with him. He would attend regularly for a few days and then would miss several classes and neglect his lessons, coming back every time with a new story about a problem that one of the students had had that forced him to travel to Washington, or about a student suddenly falling ill that he had to check into a hospital. At this point we have to understand that the problem was much more serious than Danana’s preoccupations or his neglect of his lessons: the academic record that Danana had attained in Egypt was extremely mediocre, for it was his relationship with the secret State Security police— which had started when he was an undergraduate — that had earned him his promotions, and not his work. Every year the security apparatus exercised tremendous pressure on professors at the medical school in Cairo University to give Danana high grades that he didn’t deserve. Then the pressure continued to appoint him as an instructor, and then he got a master’s degree and finally got this scholarship. But his true level of competence was exposed in Illinois and he was not able to keep up with his studies. Professor Baker was shocked at Danana’s ignorance of some basics of medicine, so much so that he told him once in disbelief, “I can’t understand how you graduated with Tariq Haseeb and Shaymaa Muhammadi. Their academic knowledge is far superior to yours.”

Two full years passed and Danana covered only very little in his research. He was supposed to present his results this week but he missed class three days in a row. On the morning of the fourth day, Baker was working in his lab when there was a knock on the door, then it opened and Danana appeared. Baker ignored him and went on with his work. When Danana began the recital of his usual excuses, Baker interrupted him without turning toward him. He said calmly as he looked with one eye inside a glass test tube as if examining the barrel of a gun, “If you do not submit the results of the research this week, I will ask to be relieved of supervising your dissertation.”

Danana was about to speak but Baker silenced him with a gesture of his hand. Then he said as he withdrew inside the lab, “I have nothing to say to you. It’s your last chance.”

Karam Doss smiled and said, “Sorry to disturb you, Nagi.”

“Welcome.”

“Would you allow me to treat you to a cup of coffee some where?”

I saw his face in the soft corridor light. He looked tired and pale.

It seemed he hadn’t slept since yesterday and hadn’t changed his clothes, which looked wrinkled and a little dirty. I said to him, “If this has something to do with last night, I’ve forgotten it.”

“No, it’s bigger than that.”

I was tired and wasn’t ready for more arguments and problems. I said, “Can I accept your invitation some other time? I am still hung over.”

“Please, I won’t keep you long.”

“Okay, come on inside. I have to get dressed.”

“Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

After about a quarter of an hour, I was sitting next to him in his red Jaguar. I leaned back in the comfortable seat, feeling as if I were a leading man in a foreign film about car racing. I said, “Your car is wonderful. I imagine it’s very expensive.”

He smiled and replied calmly, “I make good money, thank God.”

The dashboard had so many meters it looked as if it were part of the cockpit of an airplane. The head of the gearshift was in the shape of a big metal fist. Karam grabbed it then moved. The engine roared loudly and the car dashed off at an enormous speed. I asked him, “Do you like car racing?”

“I am crazy about it. As a child I dreamed of becoming a race car driver and here I am, realizing some of my old dreams.”

Something deep down in the tone of his voice was different from what it had been yesterday. It was as if he had been performing a role onstage but now he was talking to a friend after the show. He asked me in a friendly voice, “Have you been to Rush Street?”

“No.”

“Rush Street is the young people’s favorite street in Chicago. It has the most popular bars, restaurants, and dance clubs. On weekends, young men and women come out to the street to dance and drink until dawn, a kind of communal celebration of the end of a week of work. Look.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw several policemen on horseback. They looked strange against the giant skyscrapers in the background. Karam said, laughing, “In the late hours of the night, when drunkenness and revelry reach their peak, Chicago police resort to the mounted detail to disperse the drunks. When I was young, an American friend taught me how to provoke a horse. We would drink and go out on the street, and when the mounted force came to disperse us, I would sneak behind the horse and prod it in such a way that it would neigh and get agitated and gallop away.”

He parked the car and locked it. I walked next to him, dazzled by the neon lights glittering on and off endlessly, making the whole street look more like a large nightclub. Suddenly we heard a voice behind us, “Just a moment, sir.”

I stopped to look at the source of the sound, but Karam grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “Keep walking. Don’t look behind and don’t talk to anyone.”

His tone was stern, so I acquiesced. He moved faster, with me in tow. Before long there appeared beside us a tall, thin young black man, his hair cascading down his shoulders in intersecting braids. He was wearing bracelets on his arms and chains on his chest that jangled as he moved. He said, “Hey, man. You want some pot?”

“No, thank you,” Karam answered quickly, but the young man persisted,“I have some excellent stuff that’ll make you see the world as it is.”

“Thank you. We don’t like pot.”

Karam stopped and so did I. We remained standing on the sidewalk as we were. The young man walked in front of us, jangling until he disappeared down a side street. It was then that Karam started walking again, saying, “You have to be careful with those guys. They’re usually under the influence and one of them might fool you with this pot business until you take out the money from your pocket, which he would then snatch and maybe hurt you.”

I remained silent and he asked me, “Are you tense because of what happened?”

“Of course.”

He laughed loudly and said, “What happened is quite ordinary. People face it here every day. You’re in Chicago, my friend. Here we are.”

We entered an elegant two-story building with a lighted electric sign saying piano bar. The place had soft lights throughout and there were tall round tables scattered all over. At the end of the room there was a black man wearing a tuxedo and playing the piano. We sat at a nearby table and Karam said, “I hope you like this place. I prefer quiet bars. I can no longer stand noisy dance clubs. It’s a sign of old age.”

A beautiful blond waitress came over, and when I ordered a glass of wine, he asked me in surprise, “You still want to drink? I haven’t recovered from last night’s drinking.”

“Me too, but one or two glasses will make me okay. This is a well-known way of getting over a hangover — to drink a little the following day. Abu Nuwas said, ‘Treat me with that which made me sick.’”

Dr. Karam picked up a piece of paper from the table and took out of his pocket a gold pen and said, “Wasn’t Abu Nuwas the poet famous for his poetry on wine during the Abbasid period?”

“Exactly.”

“Can you repeat that verse? I’d like to write it down.”

He wrote it down quickly then said as he put the pen in his pocket, “I’ll have a drink like you to get rid of the headache.”

We were avoiding looking at each other, as if we had suddenly remembered the quarrel. He took a large sip of whiskey and sighed, saying, “I am sorry, Nagi.”

“It was I who wronged you.”

“We were both drunk and we fought and it’s over. But I’ve come tonight for something else.” He was carrying a small valise in his hand. He placed it between us on the round marble table, then put on his gold-framed glasses and took out a sheaf of papers. “Here, please.”

“What’s this?”

“Something I want you to read.” The lights were dim and I had a headache, so I said, “With your permission, may I read it later?”

“No, now, please.” I moved a little to the right so I could get closer to the light.

The papers were written in Arabic. I began to read, “A proposal submitted by Dr. Karam Doss, professor of open heart surgery at Northwestern University, to the College of Medicine, Ain Shams University.”

He didn’t let me finish reading. He leaned his elbows on the table and said, “I submitted this proposal last year to Ain Shams University.”

He ordered another drink and continued enthusiastically, “I’m now a big name in heart surgery. My fees for each operation are very high. And yet I offered the officials at Ain Shams Medical School Hospital my services, to perform operations for free for a month every year. I wanted to help poor patients and transfer to Egypt advanced surgery techniques.”

“That’s great.”

“More than that. I submitted a proposal to establish a modern surgery unit that would have cost them next to nothing. I was going to secure funding for them through my connections with American universities and research centers.”

“Excellent idea!” I exclaimed, my sense of guilt increasing. “Do you know what their answer was?”

“Of course they welcomed it.” He laughed. “They didn’t reply and when I called the dean of Ain Shams Medical School, he said my idea was not feasible at this time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

He took another sip of his drink, and it seemed to me that he was having a hard time concentrating. I knew that drinking again after a hangover got rid of the headache, but it also made the liquor more potent.

“I haven’t told this story to anyone, but you should know it because yesterday you accused me of fleeing from Egypt.”

“I apologize again.”

He bowed his head and said in a soft voice, as if talking to himself, “Please stop apologizing. I just want you to know me as I really am. For the last thirty years that I’ve lived in America, I haven’t forgotten Egypt for a single day.”

“Aren’t you happy with your life here?”

He looked at me as if trying to find the right words, and then he smiled and said, “Have you had any American fruits?”

“Not yet.”

“Here they use genetic engineering to make the fruit much larger and yet it doesn’t taste so good. Life in America, Nagi, is like American fruit: shiny and appetizing on the outside, but tasteless.”

“You’re saying that after all you’ve achieved?”

“All success outside one’s homeland is deficient.”

“Why don’t you go back to Egypt?”

“It’s difficult to erase thirty years of your life. It’s a difficult decision, but I’ve thought about it. The proposal I submitted was my first step toward going back, but they turned it down.”

He said the last few words bitterly, and I said, “It’s really sad for Egypt to lose people like you.”

“Perhaps you find this hard to understand because you’re still young. It’s like when a man loves a woman and gets very attached to her and then discovers that she is cheating on him: do you understand this kind of agony? To curse the woman and at the same time to love her and never be able to forget her — that’s how I feel toward Egypt. I love her and I wish to offer her all I’ve got, but she rejects me.”

I saw that his eyes were welling up with tears, so I leaned over and put my arm around him and bent over to kiss his head, but he gently pushed me away, saying as he tried to smile, “How about ending this melodrama?”

He began to change the subject and asked me about my studies. We spent about half an hour talking about various subjects, and suddenly we heard a woman’s voice close to us: “Hi, sorry to interrupt. I have a question.”

“Go ahead,” I said quickly. She was a young woman in her twenties, blond and shapely. I had noticed her while we were talking, coming in from the bar and sitting at the table next to us.

“What language are you speaking?”

“Arabic.”

“Are you Arabs?”

“We’re from Egypt. Dr. Karam is a heart surgeon and I am study ing medicine at the University of Illinois at Chicago.”

“I’m Wendy Shore. I work at the Chicago Stock Exchange.”

“You’re lucky, then. You have lots of money.” She laughed. “I only handle the money. I don’t own it, unfortu nately.”

A jovial atmosphere filled the place. Suddenly Dr. Karam got up and patted me on the shoulder, saying, “I have to go now. I haven’t slept since yesterday and I have surgery at seven in the morning.”

Then he turned to Wendy, shook hands with her, and said, “Glad to meet you, Ms. Shore. I hope to see you again.”

I kept following him with my eyes until he disappeared through the bar door. I felt that I loved him and said to myself that I should take my time before judging people so as not to jump to the wrong conclusions as I had done. I came to when I heard Wendy’s merry voice saying, “Okay, tell me about Egypt.”

I carried my glass and moved to her table. She was beautiful; she had gathered her blond hair up and her gorgeous neck showed. There were light freckles on her cheeks that gave her a childlike appearance made all the more pronounced by her big blue eyes, which made her look as if she were in a state of constant astonishment. I remembered Graham’s advice, so I said, “I won’t tell you about Egypt until you let me buy you a drink.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“What would you like?”

“A gin and tonic, please.”