Chicago

Chapter 9

Thirty years later he still remembers that night vividly.

He had to abandon his shift at Qasr al-Ayni to go to her. Security forces were cordoning off the Cairo University campus completely, preventing entry or exit. Between University Bridge and the front gate several security checkpoints stopped him. They asked him the same questions and he gave them the same answers. At the last checkpoint there was a colonel who seemed to be the commander in charge. He looked tired and nervous and was smoking voraciously. He exhaled a thick cloud of his cigarette and said after inspecting his doctor’s identity card, “What do you want, Doctor?”

“I have a relative in the sit-in. I’ve come to return her to her family.”

“Her name?”

“Zeinab Radwan, College of Economics.”

The officer fixed him with an experienced glance and, as if he’d reassured himself that he was telling the truth, said, “I advise you to take her with you as soon as possible. We’ve given them an ultimatum to end the sit-in, but they seem bent on disobedience. Any moment now we are going to receive instructions to use force. When we do we will beat them without mercy and arrest them all.”

“Please, sir, keep in mind that they are young and angry for their country.”

“We also are patriotic Egyptians, but we don’t demonstrate and wreak havoc.”

“I hope Your Excellency would treat them as a father.”

“Not father nor mother. I am carrying out orders!” the officer shouted loudly as if resisting an internal sympathy. Then he moved back two steps and gave a signal whereupon the troops moved aside, letting him through. The campus was dark and the January cold was boring into his bones. He buttoned his overcoat tightly and put his hands in his pockets. Posters and wall newspapers covered the buildings. He couldn’t make out what was written on them in the dark, with the exception of a large picture of Sadat smoking a waterpipe. He saw hundreds of students sitting on the grass and on the steps. Many were asleep, some were smoking and talking, and some were singing Sheikh Imam songs. He looked for her for a while until he found her. She was standing in front of the large Assembly Hall arguing enthusiastically with several other students. He got close and called out to her. She went toward him and said in that warm way of hers that he couldn’t forget, “Hello.”

He answered tersely, “You look tired.”

“I am fine.”

“I’d like you to come with me.”

“Where to?”

“To your house and your family.”

“You came to take me by the hand to Mama’s bosom? You want me to wash my feet and drink my milk so that she will put me in bed, cover me, and tell me a bedtime story?”

He realized from her sarcasm that his task was not going to be easy. He looked at her reproachfully and said in a firm tone of voice, “I am not going to let you hurt yourself.”

“That’s my business.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“I and my colleagues have specific demands, and we will not end the sit-in until they are met.”

“You think you’ll change the universe?”

“We’ll change Egypt.”

“Egypt will not be changed by a demonstration.”

“We are speaking for all Egyptians.”

“Stop these illusions. People outside the university don’t know anything about you. Please, Zeinab, come with me. The officer said they will arrest you.”

“Let them do what they want.”

“Would you like the soldiers to beat you and drag you on the ground?”

“I am not leaving my colleagues, no matter what.”

“I am afraid for you,” he whispered anxiously. She fixed him with a derisive glance and then turned around, going back to her colleagues. She started talking with them again and ignored him. For a while he stood where he was, looking at her. Then he left angrily and told himself that she was crazy and would never be good for him, and that if he married her their home would turn into a battlefield. He thought that she was conceited and obstinate; she had treated him insolently and scornfully. He had warned her, but she persisted in her foolishness. Let the soldiers beat her or drag her on the ground, let them violate her. From now on he would not feel any sympathy for her. It was she who chose her fate. He went to bed exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing and turning until he heard the call to the dawn prayers. He got up and bathed, put on his clothes, and went back to the university. He found out that the soldiers had stormed it and arrested the students. He made strenuous efforts to contact his acquaintances until he was able, finally, to visit her at the security directorate in the afternoon. She was quite pale, her lower lip swollen, and there were blue bruises around her left brow and on her forehead. He extended his hand and touched her face, saying sadly, “Does it hurt?”

“The whole of Egypt is wounded,” she replied.

After all this time he still remembered Zeinab Radwan. In fact, he had never stopped thinking about her for a single day. The old pictures were appearing in his mind with amazing clarity. The floodgates of memory opened, came over and swept him away, as if the past were a gigantic genie let out of the bottle. There she was, standing before him, with her petite figure, her beautiful face, and her long black hair that she gathered in a ponytail. Her eyes were gleaming with enthusiasm as she talked to him in that dreamy voice of hers, as if she were reciting a love poem, “Our country is great, Salah, but it has been oppressed for a long time. Our people have tremendous abilities. If we have democracy, Egypt will become a strong, advanced country in less than ten years.”

He would listen to her, hiding his indifference with a neutral smile. How she tried to win him over to her side! But he was in a different world. For his birthday she gave him Abd al-Rahman al-Jabarti’s complete history book, saying, “Happy birthday. Read this book to understand me better.”

He read a few pages then got bored. So he lied and told her he’d finished it. He didn’t like to lie and rarely did, but he didn’t want her to get angry with him. He wanted to keep her at her best and most beautiful. When she was in a good mood her smile shone and her face lit up. During their splendid moments of harmony they would sit next to each other in the Orman Garden. She would put her books aside on the round white marble bench. They would sit there oblivious to the passing of hours, talking and dreaming of the future, whispering. As he got closer to her he would smell her perfume, which he was now recalling vividly. He would hold her hand and bend and steal a kiss on her cheek and she would fix him with a glance of reproach and tenderness. But the dreams would soon come to an end. He would recall that final scene a thousand times, pausing and dwelling on every word, every glance, and every moment of silence. They were at their favorite spot in the garden when he told her of his decision to emigrate. He tried to be calm, to have a logical discussion, but she told him right away, “You are running away.”

“I am saving myself.”

“You are talking about yourself alone.”

“I came to invite you to our new life.”

“I’ll never leave my country.”

“Stop these slogans, please.”

“They are not slogans, but a sense of duty. And you wouldn’t understand.”

“Zeinab.”

“You’ve received an education at the expense of the poor Egyptian people and now you are a doctor. There were a thousand young Egyptians who would’ve loved to take your place in the College of Medicine. Now you want to leave Egypt and go to America, which does not need you; America that has caused all of our catastrophes. What would you call someone who lets his country down at its dire moment of need and places himself at the disposal of its enemies?”

“I’ve learned medicine and earned my place at the university with my own work and because of my excellence. Besides, learning has no nationality. Learning is neutral.”

“The learning that gave Israel napalm bombs to burn the faces of our children in Bahr al-Baqar cannot be neutral.”

“I think, Zeinab, that we should see reality as it is rather than as how we wish it to be.”

“Speak, philosopher.”

“We’ve been defeated. It is over. They are much stronger than us and can crush us at any moment.”

“We will never be victorious if we think like you.” The insult provoked him, and he shouted in a voice that made other visitors to the garden turn toward them. “When will you wake up from your delusions? Our victory is impossible because of backwardness, poverty, and despotism. How can we triumph over them when we are incapable of manufacturing the simplest microscope? We are begging everything from abroad, even the weapons we use to defend ourselves. The problem is not with the likes of me but with the likes of you. Abdel Nasser, like you, lived in dreams until he ruined us.”

They got into a violent argument. Her face turned ashen with anger and she got up and gathered her books, which had fallen accidentally and scattered on the ground. At that moment her soft black hair came cascading down her face and she looked suddenly irresistible. He wished he could pull her to his chest and kiss her. He actually tried to get closer, but she kept him at arm’s length with a movement of her hand and said to him in a fateful tone of voice, “You won’t see me again.”

“Zeinab. ”

“I regret to say that you are a coward.”

WHAT A KILLER HEADACHE! It began at the top of his head then crept like an army of ants devouring him. Was he dreaming or was what was happening real? A flash restored his consciousness: he found himself stretched out on a couch in the psychiatrist’s office. There was soft music and soft lighting behind him and the doctor was sitting next to him, carefully writing down everything he said. What was he doing? What brought him here? Was this the doctor who would fix his life? How absurd! He knew this type of youth quite well, children of the upper middle class who got an education compliments of their parents’ money, and when they graduated they found their places reserved for them at the top of American society. They were always the worst kind of students that he taught: ignorant, lazy, and arrogant. And here was one of them: athletic build, radiant face, and carefree look. What did this boy know about life? The utmost pain that he had experienced was what he felt after a game of squash. The psychiatrist smiled in an artificial, professional way, saying as he held a pen as if playing a role in the movies, “Tell me more about your beloved Zeinab.”

“I don’t have any more to tell.”

“Please help me so I can help you.”

“I am doing all I can.”

Looking at the papers in front of him, the doctor said, “How did you meet your American wife, Chris?”

“By chance.”

“Where?”

“In a bar.”

“What kind of bar?”

“Is that important?”

“Very much so.”

“I met her in a singles bar.”

“What did she do?”

“She worked in a store.”

“Please do not be angry at what I am going to say. Candor is at the basis of your therapy. Did you marry Chris to get citizenship?”

“No, I fell in love with her.”

“Was she married?”

“She was divorced.”

The psychiatrist fell silent, wrote down a few words, then fixed him with a strange glance and said, “Salah, this is how I read your history: you wanted to get American citizenship, so you went to a singles bar, picked up a poor store clerk, divorced and lonely, preyed on her sexual vulnerability until she married you and gave you citizenship.”

“I won’t allow this!” Dr. Salah shouted.

But the psychiatrist continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “It’s a reasonable and fair deal. The colored Arab doctor gives his house and name to the poor white American store clerk in return for an American passport.”

Dr. Salah got up and said, panting angrily, “If you are going to use this impudent language with me, I don’t want your therapy.”

The psychiatrist smiled, as if he had gone back to his nature and said apologetically, “I am sorry. Please forgive me. I just wanted to make sure of something.”

He began writing again then asked, “You said you have been impotent with your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Three months; maybe a little longer.”

“Did you lose your sexual ability gradually or all at once?”

“All at once.”

“Describe to me in detail what you feel before you have sex with your wife.”

“Everything proceeds naturally then I lose desire suddenly.”

“Why does that happen?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Tell me how your feeling changes.”

“Desire hides details. Once you see the details you lose the desire.”

“I don’t understand. Give me examples.”

“If you were hungry, you would never notice the little shreds of onion on the edge of the plate. You’d notice them only after you’d become full. If you noticed them before eating, you’d lose your appetite. Do you understand?”

The psychiatrist nodded and made a gesture for him to continue, so he went on. “When you desire a woman, you don’t see her minute details. You do that only after you make love to her. You will notice, for instance, that her fingernails are not quite clean or that one of her fingers is too short or that her back is covered with dark spots. If you notice that before you sleep with her, you’ll lose the desire. And this is exactly what happens with my wife. When I get close to her, her details show clearly and take hold of my thinking so that I lose desire toward her.”

“This will help us a lot,” the psychiatrist muttered, then went back to his professional smile and opened a nearby drawer and said confidently, as he handed him a bottle of medication, “One tablet with breakfast for a week.”

Then he picked up another drug in front of him and said, “And this pill half an hour before sex.”

Salah thought to himself: Do these tablets and pills treat the sorrows of sixty years? How silly it all seems! Why is this boy so self-confident? To hell with you and your pills! What do you know about real life? There he is, getting up to see him off at the door, so affectionately and respectfully. He is applying everything he’s learned in medical school under the heading of “How to Deal with Your Patients.”

The psychiatrist kept Salah’s hand in his for a while and said slowly, “Dr. Salah, in conditions like yours, the patient usually tries to run away from therapy by projecting his hatred on the doctor. I think you are smarter than that. Rest assured that I want to help you and I am sorry if I upset you by what I said. See you in a week, same time.”

They gave me a small office in the histology department and asked me to print a sign with my name to hang outside my door. I went to the ground floor, where I found the person in charge of signs, an old American man who received me in a friendly way and asked me to write my name on a piece of paper. Then, without taking his eyes off the sign he was working on, he said, “Come after lunch to get your sign.”

I was surprised because lunch was only an hour away. I went back to him at the appointed time and he pointed with his hand saying, “You’ll find it in there.”

I found my name elegantly embossed on the new sign. I picked it up and stood reluctantly then asked him, “What should I do now?”

“Take it.”

“Shouldn’t I sign a receipt that I have received it?”

“Isn’t this your sign?”

“Yes.”

“Would anyone else come to take it?”

I shook my head and thanked him. In the elevator I laughed at myself. I must get rid of the Egyptian bureaucratic legacy I was carrying in my blood. This simple American worker has given me a lesson: why should I sign for receiving a sign that bears my name?

The day passed uneventfully. After lunch, I was reading the departmental class schedule when Ahmad Danana appeared. He stormed into the room and said loudly, “Thank God for your safe arrival, Nagi.”

I got up and shook his hand. I remembered Dr. Salah’s advice and tried to look friendly. We exchanged a few words about nothing in particular when he suddenly nudged me in the shoulder and said in a commanding tone of voice, “Come with me.”

He accompanied me through the corridors of the department until we got to a room lined with shelves chock-full of reams of paper and notebooks of different shapes and colors. Then he said to me, “Take all the notebooks, paper, and pens you want.”

I took some notebooks and colored pens, and he said, laughing, “These supplies are for the researchers in the department, all free, at the expense of the store owner.”

“Thank you. I took what I needed.”

We crossed a corridor on our way back, then he said, out of the blue, “All the Egyptians who came to Chicago, I have done all of them all kinds of favors; I have stood by them and helped them but they have rarely been grateful.”

I didn’t like the way he spoke, but I kept my peace. When we got to the door of my office he shook my hand to say good-bye and said affectionately, “I wish you success, Nagi.”

“Thank you.”

“Tonight we have a meeting at the Egyptian Student Union. Would you like to come so I can introduce you to our colleagues?”

I looked reluctant but he went on, “I’ll wait for you at six. Here’s the address.”

~~~~~~~~~

I went back to my apartment and sat, smoking and thinking: Ahmad Danana was an agent of the State Secret Security. No good would ever come from him. Why was he so friendly with me? There must be something behind it. Why did I get involved with him? I should’ve avoided him completely. I was about to call him to turn down the invitation, but I said to myself that the union belonged to all Egyptian students in Chicago and I had every right to participate and to get acquainted with them. I wouldn’t give up my right because of my fear of Danana. I bathed and put on my clothes and went to the meeting. The address was printed clearly with a detailed map, so I arrived at the union headquarters easily. There were twenty-three students, three of whom were veiled females. I shook hands with them and we introduced ourselves.

When the meeting began I started to look closely at them. They were all hardworking, highly successful young men and women like hundreds of junior faculty members in Egyptian universities. I didn’t think any of them cared about anything more than their academic achievement, their future, and improving their income. Most of them were religious and had prayer marks and some were bearded. Most likely they understood religion as nothing more than prayer, fasting, and veiling for the women. I noticed a tape recorder close to Danana, so I asked him, “Do you record what we say?”

“Of course. Do you have any objections?” he said gruffly and fixed me with a hostile stare. I was surprised at the sudden change of his tone with me. I remained silent and watched how he talked with the students. I was surprised by the complete authority he exercised over them. They addressed him in awe and flattered him, as if he were their boss or military commander and not just a colleague. After half an hour of small talk and boring details, Danana announced enthusiastically, “By the way, I have happy news for all of you: I have learned from reliable sources that our revered president will visit the United States soon and will come to Chicago.”

There were murmurs and he went on in a louder voice, “You are lucky. One of these days you will be able to tell your children that you have met the great leader face-to-face.”

Then, taking a drag on his cigarette he said, “I am asking you for your permission to send, in your names, a telegram to our revered president in which we renew our pledge of allegiance to him and express our happiness for his gracious visit.”

“I don’t agree,” I said quickly. Whispering around me died down,

and a heavy silence fell. Danana turned to me slowly and said in a cautionary tone of voice, “What exactly don’t you agree with?”

“I object to sending a telegram of allegiance to the president. This hypocrisy does not become us as students.”

“We are not hypocrites. We actually love our president. Are you denying his historic leadership? Are you denying that Egypt under him has witnessed gigantic, unprecedented achievements?”

“Do you call corruption, poverty, unemployment, and subservience ‘achievements’?”

“Are you still a communist, Nagi? I thought you’d grown up and got wise. Listen, in this union there is no room for communism.

We are all, thank God, committed Muslims.”

“I am not a communist, and if you understand what it means, it is not a crime to be one.”

“Our revered president, whom you don’t like, took over a coun try burdened with chronic problems and, thanks to his wisdom and leadership, was able to steer it to safety.”

“These are lies of the ruling party. Actually more than half of all Egyptians live below the poverty line. In Cairo alone about four million people live in unplanned communities and shantytowns—”

He interrupted me loudly. “Even if you think there are negative aspects in the way our revered president rules, your religious duty mandates that you obey him.”

“Who said that?”

“Islam, if you are a Muslim. Sunni jurisprudents have unanimously agreed that it is the duty of Muslims to obey their rulers even if they are oppressive, so long as that ruler professes his faith and performs the prayers on time, because sedition arising from opposing the ruler is much more harmful to the Muslim nation than putting up with oppression.”

“This has nothing to do with Islam. This was fabricated by the sultan’s jurists, who used religion to shore up despotic regimes.”

“If you disagree with what I said, you would be contradicting the consensus of religious scholars and, by extension, denying established religion. Do you know what the punishment for that is?”

“Shall I tell him, Doctor?” volunteered a bearded young man sarcastically. Danana, laughing, looked at him gratefully and said, “There’s no need for that. Arguing with communists never ends. They are experts in useless debates. We have no time to waste. I am putting the matter to a vote. Everybody, do you agree to send a telegram of allegiance to our revered president? Please do so by show of hands.”

They all raised their hands without hesitation. Danana laughed sarcastically as he shot me a disdainful glance. “What do you think now?”

I didn’t answer and remained silent until the meeting came to an end. I noticed that my colleagues ignored me. I left hurriedly, saying, “Peace be upon you,” but no one returned the greeting. The train was crowded and I had to stand. I said to myself that Danana had invited me to the meeting in order to tarnish my image among my fellow students so that I might not be able to convince them later on to take any patriotic stand. In their view I was an atheist communist: it was an old and hackneyed secret police tactic that still worked to discredit anyone. I felt a hand patting me on the shoulder; I turned around and saw that standing next to me was the bearded young man who had mocked me at the meeting. He smiled and said, “You are at Illinois Medical, right?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother Ma’mun Arafa. I am studying for a doctorate in civil engineering at Northwestern University. Do you live at the dorm?”

“Yes.”

“I lived in a dorm for some time then moved to a cheaper apartment with a Lebanese roommate.”

I remained silent. Something was telling me to avoid talking with him. He suddenly said, “You must be a serious politico. You attack the president of the republic, no less? Don’t you know that all the union meetings are recorded?”

I ignored him. I turned my face and began to look out of the nearby window. The train had gone through several stops and I had to get off, so I began to make my way with difficulty through the crowd. Suddenly he grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “Listen, don’t alienate Ahmad Danana. Everything here is in his hands. If he turns against you he can ruin you.”

As soon as I saw Dr. Salah in the morning he said with a smile on his face, “Nagi, your problems don’t seem to end.”

“Why?”

“Danana told me you had a quarrel with him.”

“He’s a liar. All that happened was that he wanted to send a hypocritical telegram to the president and I objected.”

He looked closely at me and said, “Of course I admire your enthusiasm, but is this an issue worth fighting over?”

“Do you want me to sign a document pledging allegiance like the hypocrites in the National Party?”

“Of course not. But don’t waste your energy in these matters. You have a great opportunity for education — don’t waste it.”

“Learning is worthless if I don’t take a stand on what is happening in my country.”

“Learn and get your degree then serve your country as much as you like.”

“Our colleagues at Cairo University who refused to take part in patriotic marches used the same logic. These are solutions that we resort to in order to deceive ourselves, to replace patriotic duty with professional excellence. No, sir. Egypt now needs direct patriotic action more than teachers and accountants. If we don’t demand the people’s right to justice and freedom, no learning will do us any good.”

I was speaking enthusiastically and it seemed I got carried away, because Dr. Salah suddenly looked angry and shouted at me, “Listen, you are here to learn only. If you want to declare a revolution, go back to Egypt.”

I was taken aback by his anger so I kept silent. He took a deep breath then said apologetically, “Please understand me, Nagi. All I want is to help you. You are in one of the biggest and greatest universities in America and this is the opportunity of a lifetime. You were admitted to the department after a battle.”

“A battle?”

“They were reluctant to admit you because you are not a university instructor. I was among those who supported your admission enthusiastically.”

“Thank you.”

“Please don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Dr. Salah sighed in relief then said in a serious tone as he handed me a sheet of paper, “These are my suggestions for the courses you should take.”

“And how about research?”

“Do you like math?”

“I used to get a perfect score in math.”

“Great. How about doing your research on the way calcium is formed in bones? You’d be working with radioactive calcium. A great portion of your research will be based on statistics.”

“Under your supervision?”

“That’s not my specialty. There are only two who work in this area: George Roberts and John Graham.”

“Would you please tell me which one is more appropriate for me?”

“You won’t get along with Dr. Roberts.”

“Please don’t form a bad opinion of me. I can work with any professor.”

“The problem is not you. Dr. Roberts doesn’t like to work with Arabs.”

“Why?”

“He’s just like that. In any case, this should not concern us. Go to Dr. Graham.”

“When?”

He looked at the clock on the wall and said, “You can meet with him now.”

I got up to leave. He smiled and said, “You’ll find him somewhat eccentric, but he is a great professor.”

At the end of the corridor I knocked on Dr. Graham’s office door. His gruff voice said, “Come in.”

I was met by a large cloud of scented pipe tobacco smoke. I looked around to see if there was a window. He said, “Does the smoke bother you?”

“I am a smoker myself.”

“This is the first point of agreement between us.”

He let out a resounding laugh as he exhaled thick smoke. He was reclining on the chair, propping up his feet on the desk in front of him in the American way. I noticed that there was a constant cynical look in his eyes, as if he were watching something amusing. But as soon as he started talking his face became wholly serious. “How can I help you?”

“I hope you’ll supervise my MS thesis,” I said, smiling politely, trying to create a good impression.

“I have a question.”

“Please go ahead.”

“Why bother getting a master’s in histology if you don’t work in a university?”

“Please don’t be surprised at my answer. Actually, I am a poet.”

“A poet?”

“Yes. I’ve published two collections of poetry in Cairo. Poetry is the most important thing in my life, but I have to have a profession to put food on the table. They refused to appoint me at Cairo University because of my political activity. I sued the university, but I don’t think it will go anywhere. Even if I won my lawsuit the university administration could pressure me to quit my job, as has happened with some colleagues. I’d like to get a master’s from Illinois to work for a few years in an Arab Gulf country and save some money, then go back to Egypt and devote myself to literature.”

Graham looked at me then exhaled another cloud of smoke and said, “So, you are studying histology for the sake of literature?”

“Exactly.”

“Strange, but interesting. Listen, I don’t agree to supervise any student before knowing, to some extent, how he thinks. A student’s character for me is more important than what he knows. What are you doing Saturday evening?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“How about having dinner with me?”

“I’d be delighted.”