Chicago

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 usually 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 didn’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.”

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.”