Chicago

Chapter 29

It was an elegant three-story building surrounded by a beautiful garden. Dr. Thabit crossed the entryway in a hurry. The office of the counselor was to the right. He knocked on the door and went in. Then he smiled and said, “My name is Ra’fat Thabit. Sorry for being late. I had a hard time finding parking.”

“Don’t worry about it. Please have a seat.”

The counselor looked like a kindhearted grandmother. Her short gray hair covered the sides of her small head. Her smiling face conveyed a sense of familiarity and kindness. By way of introduction she said, “My name is Catherine. I am here to help you.”

“Have you been working here a long time?”

“Actually I don’t work. I am a volunteer, helping addicts and their families.”

“I salute you for your noble sentiment.”

Ra’fat was trying to steer the conversation away from the subject for which he came, perhaps until he decided how he should begin.

“Thank you, but what made me volunteer was not exactly a noble sentiment. My only son, Teddy, died of addiction,” Catherine said calmly, her smile disappearing. “I felt I was primarily responsible for his death. After separating from his father, I gave myself over completely to my work for twenty years. I wanted to prove to myself that I was a successful person. I owned a detergent sales company, to which I gave all my time until it became one of the most important companies in Chicago. Then I woke up when it was too late to save my son.”

Ra’fat listened in silence. She took a sip of water from a glass in front of her and added, “I think you, as a father, can fully feel my shock at his death. I was in therapy for a full year after he died. The first thing I did after coming out of the hospital was to liquidate my company. I began to hate it, as if it were the reason he died. Right now I am living off my bank savings and I spend my time helping addicts and their families. Whenever I help an addict with their recovery, I feel I am doing something for Teddy.”

The room was plunged into profound silence. Ra’fat stared at the wall to escape the gloom. There were many certificates of appreciation for Catherine from various organizations and pictures of her with young men and women whom he supposed were addicts that she had helped. Catherine sighed and smiled gently, as if turning over that page of sorrow, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m here to listen to you, not to talk about myself. Please go ahead. Tell me the story. I’m all ears.”

Ra’fat told her everything about Sarah, as if he were making a confession behind a curtain to a benevolent priest. He told her what he had seen and how he felt then, exerting extraordinary effort to control his features, and finished the story with the words “My life has stopped completely. I can hardly work. I want to do something for her.”

The counselor held a pen between her fingers and began to examine it closely, as if weighing what to say.

“The way you describe it, your daughter is most likely doing cocaine. Treating this kind of addiction is not easy. Young people are enticed to try it because early on it increases the levels of dopamine in the brain, which produces a heightened feeling of delight and comfort.”

“Have you treated such addicts before?” The words addicts sounded strange to his ears.

“I don’t treat. I am a counselor. I’ve taken courses on helping addicts. When we start the treatment we will have psychiatrists on our team. But I have taken part in helping cocaine addicts before.”

“What’s the success rate?”

“Fifty-fifty, it depends.”

“That’s a low rate.”

“I consider it high because half the addicts are in recovery. Remember, treating addiction is not easy. We have to lower our expectations so as not to be disappointed.”

Ra’fat bowed his head in silence. Catherine added, “Now to work. Listen, from my experience, in the case of your daughter Sarah, the love team might be an effective way to begin.”

He looked at her quizzically. She went on, “The love team is a method to motivate the addict to accept treatment. We bring together a group of people they love: relatives, neighbors, and colleagues at work or school. They begin to visit him or her regularly and help him admit he’s an addict and in need of help. If the love team is successful, the addict will be ready to begin a twelve-step treatment program. Allow me to ask you a question I don’t like to ask but I have to.”

“Please go ahead.”

“Concerning the costs of the program?”

“The insurance company will take care of that. I have requested that addiction be added in the policy.”

“Well, then. Please take this form and fill it in, and before you leave, drop it at the receptionist’s office.”

Ra’fat took the form, and for a few moments he didn’t know what to do with it as he continued to look at her. She said, “Your task now is to convince two or three of Sarah’s friends to come with us to visit her. This brochure explains the role of the love team in treating addiction.”

Ra’fat left her office carrying many brochures and flyers about addiction and the work of the society. At home he carefully started to read. Turning the situation into tasks, procedures, and data helped him run away from the tragedy that began to present itself to him gradually as a huge mountain. Sarah has turned into an addict. It wasn’t fair to blame her. She assured him that what had happened to Sarah could happen to anyone: to try once, and then try once more to recapture the pleasure. Eventually that person could become an addict. How could he blame her? She was not in full control of her faculties and was not responsible for her actions. It was not her fault. It was that criminal Jeff who had led her to addiction. What a poor girl! How he blamed himself for hitting her! He was so upset about it that he felt that his right hand was separate from his body. It was the hand that had hit Sarah. Why had he hit her? Why couldn’t he control himself? How cruel he was to her! He spent several days grappling with his thoughts before he was able to cope with his sorrow. He said to himself: there are two ways to deal with this tragedy. One is to be a backward Oriental father and disown and curse her; the other is to act like a civilized person and help her get over her ordeal.

He and Michelle went over the list of Sarah’s friends who could join the love team. When he contacted them he discovered that they all knew she had a problem. Her friend Sylvia told him, “Jeff is the reason she’s an addict. I’ve often warned her about him, but she loved him too much to listen to me.”

Sylvia agreed to join the love team and so did a young man named Jesse who used to sit next to her in class. The two of them started developing a plan: Sylvia said she’d buy Sarah an apple and banana pie, which she knew she just loved. Jesse, on the other hand, decided to get her a kitten or a puppy because she loved animals. Catherine, the counselor, got very enthusiastic and said, “These are very positive ideas; reminding her of her favorite dishes and raising a little animal would put her in a mood to help her combat addiction.”

Everything was ready, and the following Sunday, at about ten in the morning, the love team headed for Sarah’s house in Oakland. Michelle sat next to Ra’fat while Sylvia and Jesse sat in the Cadillac’s backseat. They talked about various things in short, disconnected spurts and laughed nervously for no reason in order to escape the gravity of the situation. Ra’fat was driving at an incredibly high speed, which prompted Michelle to ask him, “Are you trying to get a speeding ticket?”

But he was driven by a mysterious, resentful energy, so he didn’t reduce his speed until he got to Oakland, where he slowed down to remember the way. The neighborhood looked different during the day: the streets were empty, as if they had been abandoned. Graffiti in black and red was sprayed on the walls. Ra’fat parked the car in the parking lot where he had been robbed. As soon as they got out of the car they stood in front of Catherine, the counselor, as if they were players receiving the coach’s instructions before the game. Catherine, maintaining her calm smile, said, “Please, Ra’fat, wait in the car. Last time you saw Sarah, you had a fight. We don’t want to provoke her negative feelings. Unfortunately addicts tend to be irascible. Stay here, and after we talk with her for a little bit, we’ll ask her if she would like to see you.”

Ra’fat acquiesced. He bowed his head and moved one step away as Catherine resumed her instructions to the team. “The most important thing we should convey to Sarah is that we love her: no pity and no sermons. Remember that well. It’s quite possible that we’ll find her in a condition that we don’t like. She might receive us badly or be hostile. She might even kick us out. Prepare yourselves for the worst possibility. The young lady we will see in a few moments is not the Sarah that we know. Now she is an addict. This is the truth we should not forget.”

They listened to her in silence, but Sylvia suddenly cried in a hoarse voice that sounded strange, “Oh, Jesus, save poor Sarah,” then started to sob. Michelle hugged her. The counselor’s voice came calm and firm this time. “Sylvia, get a grip on yourself. We have to convey to her our positive feelings. If you cannot stop crying, it’d be best if you stayed in the car with Ra’fat.”

Ra’fat backed off slowly, opened the car, and sat behind the steering wheel while the rest of the team proceeded toward the house: Jesse holding the little puppy and Sylvia carrying the apple and banana pie. They walked slowly toward the house as if in a funeral procession. They found the garden gate open and the outside lights on even though it was daylight. They climbed the front stairs and Michelle rang the bell. A whole minute passed and no one opened. She rang again. After another minute the door opened and a large black man, wearing a blue workman’s suit, appeared. Michelle said, “Good morning. Is Sarah here?”

“Who?”

“Pardon me. Isn’t this Jeff Anderson and Sarah Thabit’s house?”

“I believe those are the names of the tenants who moved.”

“Did they move?”

“Yes, a few days ago. The landlord sent me over to paint the house. I think he’s renting it to a new tenant.”

They remained silent for a moment, then Michelle said, “I’m Sarah’s mom. I’ve come to check on her with these friends of hers. Do you have her new address?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t know it.”

“Even if you are an official at the Egyptian embassy, that doesn’t give you the right to break into my house,” I shouted. He looked at me defiantly and moved one step to the center of the living room,

taking his time as if affirming his control of the situation.

“I’ve invited myself to a cup of coffee with you. Listen, Nagi, you have a superior academic record, you’re intelligent, and you have a great future ahead of you.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“I want to help you.”

“What makes you want to do that?”

“My fear for you.”

“Fear of what?”

“Your stupidity.”

“Watch your words.”

“You’ve come to America to get an education, and instead of looking after your future, you’ve brought a catastrophe upon yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re collecting signatures on a statement against our revered president. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“I’m proud of what I’m doing.”

“The problem with intellectuals like you is that you are prison ers of books and theories. You don’t know anything about what really happens in your country. I’ve worked as a police officer for ten years in different governorates, in villages, hamlets, and alleys. I’ve come to know the lower depths of Egyptian society. I can assure you that Egyptians are not concerned with democracy at all. Besides, they are not cut out for it. Egyptians are concerned about three things only: their religion, their livelihood, and their children. And religion is the most important; the only thing that pushes Egyptians to revolt is when someone attacks their religion. When Napoleon came to Egypt and pretended to respect Islam, Egyptians supported him and forgot that he was an occupier.”

“It seems you haven’t read your history. Egyptians revolted against the French expedition twice within a three-year period and they killed the commander.”

He looked at me angrily. I felt some comfort in having insulted him. He went on in an arrogant tone of voice, “I don’t have time to waste with you. I wanted to help you but you insist on your stupidity. One thing you can be sure of is: that statement for which you are gathering signatures is just child’s play.”

“If it was just child’s play, then why did you take the trouble of coming here?”

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am just warning you. If you don’t give up on this statement, you cannot imagine what I’ll do to you.”

“Do your worst,” I shouted, having got over the surprise. For the first time, it occurred to me to kick him out. He moved, backing off a few steps toward the door, saying, “You are plowing the sea. Do you think you’ll embarrass the regime in front of the Americans? I assure you the regime is as solid as a mountain and organically connected to the American establishment. Everything you’ve written in the statement is well known to the Americans and they couldn’t care less, so long as the Egyptian regime is looking after their interests.”

“So, you admit that the Egyptian regime is just a servant of the Americans.”

“I warn you for the last time. You’re mistaken to think that being in America will protect you from punishment. Come back to your senses, Nagi, if not for your own future then for the sake of your mother, who has toiled for years for you, and for your sister Noha, the student in the College of Economics and Political Science. She is a tender girl and would not withstand one night of detention at State Security. The officers there are lowlifes and they love women.”

“Get out of here.”

“You will pay dearly. You’ll discover how we can teach you manners, but it will be too late.” He said the last few words as he opened the door, then he suddenly turned toward me and said, “By the way, greetings to your Jewish beloved, Wendy. I’ve received videos of the two of you having sex. Thank you. They are very enjoyable.”

He let out a loud laugh then closed the door and disappeared. I collapsed on the nearest chair. I couldn’t describe how I felt at that moment. It was a mixture of shock, anger, and humiliation. I opened a bottle of wine and lit a cigarette and began to smoke and drink. How did Safwat get a copy of the statement? How did he come to know everything about me? More seriously: How did he enter the apartment? I got up and opened the door and examined it carefully. I found no sign of forced entry. He had used a copy of the key. Where did he get it from? There must be some kind of cooperation between Egyptian intelligence and the university administration. I should change residence at the earliest opportunity. I could cut down on my expenses to afford off-campus housing. I was possessed by a strange desire, so I got up and went to the bedroom, turned on the lights, and began to examine the walls, as if I were going to find the secret camera that had filmed Wendy and me. In a short while I laughed at myself, turned off the lights, and went back to the living room. I soon heard the sound of a key turning in the door. I got up, ready for a confrontation, but I saw Wendy, who said, smiling as soon as she saw me, “Hello. How are you?”

I kissed her as usual. I tried to seem natural. She exclaimed cheerfully, “Listen, Nagi. I’m going to the bathroom. Please close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you.”

“Can we do this some other time?”

“No, we can’t,” she said good-naturedly and planted a quick kiss on my cheek then dashed off to the bathroom. I gulped down my glass of wine and poured myself another and began to chide myself anew. How did I allow Safwat Shakir to break into my house and threaten me? Why didn’t I call the police? What he had done was a crime in American law; even if he had diplomatic immunity, I would have caused a major scandal for him. Why didn’t I do that?

“Are your eyes closed?” Wendy’s voice came from the bathroom. I closed my eyes as I lost myself in thought then I came to when I heard her voice nearby: “Now open your eyes.”

It was a strange sight: Wendy was wearing a belly dancing outfit; her breasts bulging out of a tight, low bra, revealing most of her chest, her belly fully exposed with a star covering her belly button, and her waist tied by a scarf that accentuated her hips. From that girdle long tassels descended, barely covering her bare legs. She was excited and happy. She turned around several times and cried, “What do you think? I am now a dancer from Andalusia. Do I look like the picture in your imagination?”

“Of course.”

“I had a very hard time finding the store that sold belly dancing outfits. Do you know what I did?”

“What?”

“I went to a costume party last year and I saw a girl wearing an outfit like this one. I kept looking for her telephone number until I found it and she told me where the store was.”

My ability to keep up with her was limited and fragile. I kept following her with my eyes while my mind was wandering off. She soon realized that, and her face clouded over. She sat next to me and asked me in alarm, “What’s wrong?”

Her appearance as she sat next to me in the dance outfit was bizarre. It was as if she were an actress sitting in the wings in her costume. It occurred to me to conceal what had happened, to ask her to leave, or to leave myself, using any excuse. Suddenly, however, I found myself telling her everything. She looked lost in deep thought and then said in a soft voice, “I had no idea you lived in such a police state.”

“Without American support the Egyptian regime wouldn’t last a single day.”

She put her arms around me and got so close I could feel her breath. She whispered, “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll go on collecting signatures.”

“Aren’t you afraid to?”

“Yes, naturally, but I’ll overcome it.”

“But it is no longer just you. They’ll harm your mother and sister.”

The faces of Noha and my mother materialized in my mind. I could see the scene with the officers and plainclothesmen storming the house and arresting them. I said in a loud voice, “Let them do what they want to do. I am not backing off.”

“You are free to take a stand. But what have your mother and sister done to deserve this?”

“They are no better than the mothers and sisters of tens of thousands of detainees.”

“Nagi, I truly don’t understand you. Why do you go looking for trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you still care about Egypt’s problems now that you’re out of it?”

“It’s my country.”

“Egypt, like so many countries in the third world, is suffering from many deep-rooted problems that have accumulated over centuries. Your lifetime and my lifetime would not be enough to fix these problems.”

What she said was unexpected to me. I downed my drink, staring at her in disbelief. She got up and stood in front of me. Then she pulled my face toward her bare belly and whispered, “Our relationship is wonderful. With you I have feelings I’ve never known before. Please, think of our future.”

“I am not going to give up on my duty.”

“Why don’t you think in a different way? America was built on the shoulders of talented, ambitious young people like you. They came from all over the world looking for a better future. America is the land of opportunity. If you stay here, you’ll do great things.”

“You’re talking like Safwat Shakir.”

“What?”

“Yes. You even use his very words.”

My voice sounded strange to me and it occurred to me that I was drunk. I knew that alcohol had a greater influence on me when I was tense. I responded to a fateful, persistent, mysterious feeling and asked her, “Isn’t it strange that Safwat Shakir knew about our relationship? Even more strange, where did he get a copy of the apartment key? Wendy, who fed him all this information?”

She stared at me, her eyes growing wider in disbelief. She said in a voice shaking with uncontrollable agitation, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything specific. I am just wondering: How did he know the details of our relationship? And if he had videotapes of us, there must be a camera in the bedroom. Who put it here?”

She looked at me for a moment then turned and rushed to the bathroom. I stayed put. I had no ability or desire to do anything. I was hurtling down the abyss at breakneck speed and I couldn’t stop. I poured another drink and took a big gulp. After a short while Wendy appeared. She’d put on her clothes and put the dance outfit back in the bag she had brought. Her face was different. She avoided looking at me and hurried toward the door. I hurried after her.

“Wendy.”

She didn’t turn around. I held on to her, but she struggled loose and pushed me with her hand. I saw her face at that moment, wet with tears. I said in a pleading voice, “Please, listen to me.”

But she left and slammed the door.