Читать книгу Chicago - Farouk Abdel Wahab - Страница 11

Tariq stood on the alert, staring at Shaymaa as if he were a goalkeeper expecting the ball to strike from any direction, ready to catch it or deflect it in an instant. He was waiting for any word from her to refute and to mock. But she did something he did not expect: her features suddenly contracted, then she started to sob like a lost child, her whole body shaking. He looked at her not knowing what to do, and then said in a voice that sounded strange to his ears, “Enough, Doctor. It all ended well, thank God.”

“I am tired. I can't take it anymore. Tomorrow I'll withdraw from the scholarship and go back to Egypt.”

“Don't be hasty.”

“I've made up my mind. It's settled.”

“Remember that you'd be getting a doctorate from Illinois. Think how hard you've worked for this scholarship and how many of your colleagues in Tanta wish to be in your place.”

Shaymaa bowed her head, and it seemed to him that she'd calmed down a little, so he added, “Don't give in to bad thoughts.”

“What should I do?”

“Get accustomed to your new life.”

“I tried and I failed.”

“Do you have any problems at school?”

“No, thank God.”

“What's the problem then?”

She spoke in a soft voice, as if talking to herself, “I am completely alone here, Dr. Tariq. I have no friends or acquaintances. I don't know how to deal with the Americans. I don't understand them. All my life I had a perfect score in my English language classes, but here they speak another kind of English. They speak so fast and they swallow some of the letters so I don't understand what they say.”

Tariq interrupted her, “You're feeling homesick, and being out of place here is quite natural. As for the language problem, we've all faced it at the beginning. I advise you to watch television a lot so you'll get used to the American accent.”

“Even if my language improves, that won't change anything. I feel I am an outcast in this country. Americans shy away from me because I am Arab and because I am veiled. At the airport they interrogated me as if I were a criminal. At school the students make fun of me when they see me. Did you see how that policeman treated me?”

“That's not your problem alone. We all face unpleasant situations. The image of Muslims here suffered a lot after 9/11.”

“What have I done wrong?”

“Put yourself in their place. Ordinary Americans know almost nothing about Islam. In their minds Islam is associated with terrorism and killing.”

They both were silent for a moment, then she said, “Before coming to America, I complained about how difficult it was to live in Egypt. Now, my dream is to go back.”

“We all feel homesick like you. I myself, even though I've spent two years here, miss Egypt a lot and I go through hard times, but I say to myself that the degree I'll get is worth all this hardship. I pray to God to give me patience. Do you perform your prayers regularly?”

“Yes, thank God,” she whispered and bowed her head.

He found himself saying, “By the way, Chicago is a beautiful city. Have you been out and about?”

“I only know this campus.”

“I am going out to do my shopping for the week. Why don't you come with me?”

Her eyes grew wider; it seemed she was surprised by the offer, and then she looked at her flannel gallabiya and stuck out her foot and jokingly asked him, “In my slippers?”

They both laughed for the first time. Then she asked him, as if she were reluctant, “Are we going to be late? I've a lot of studying to do.”

“Me too. I have a long assignment in statistics. We'll be back soon.”

He sat waiting for her in the lobby until she changed her clothes. She returned a short while later wearing a loose-fitting blue dress that he thought was elegant. He noticed that she had got over her dejection and seemed almost cheerful. They spent the evening together: they took the L downtown and he showed her the Sears Tower and Water Tower Place and she seemed as happy as a child standing next to him in the glass elevator at the famous Marshall Field's store. Then they went back to the mall and bought what they needed. Finally they took the university bus back to the dorm. They talked the whole time: she told him how she cherished the memory of her father and of her love for her mother and two sisters. She said that despite her missing them she called them only once a week because she had to be careful how she spent every dollar of the meager scholarship. She asked him about himself and he told her that his father was a police officer who was promoted to assistant director of Cairo Security before he died. He told her how his father raised him strictly and beat him hard when he misbehaved. Once, while in preparatory school, his father forced him to eat in the kitchen with the servants for a whole week because he had dared to announce at the table that he didn't like spinach. Tariq laughed as he remembered then added fondly, “My father, God have mercy on his soul, was a school unto himself. He meant this punishment to give me a lesson in manliness. From that day I've learned to eat whatever is placed before me without objection. You know, my father's strictness has done me a world of good. All my life I've excelled in school, and had it not been for nepotism, by now I would have been a great surgeon. Thank God anyway; I've done very well in school. Do you know how high my GPA is? It's three point nine nine out of four.”

“Ma sha'Allah!”

“American students often seek me out to help them understand the lessons, which makes me feel proud because I am Egyptian and better than them.”

Then he leaned back in his seat and looked in the distance, as if remembering, and went on. “Last year in biology class I had an American classmate named Smith, known throughout the university because he's a genius who has maintained excellence all his years as a student. Smith tried to challenge me academically but I taught him a lesson in manners.”

“Really?”

“I floored him. I placed first three times. Now, when he sees me anywhere, he salutes me in deference.”

He insisted on carrying her bags and accompanied her to her apartment on the seventh floor. He stood there, saying good-bye; her voice shook as she thanked him. “I don't know what to say, Dr. Tariq. May God recompense you well for what you've done for me.”

“Can you call me Tariq, without titles?”

“On condition that you call me Shaymaa.”

Her whispering voice almost made him tremble. As he shook her hand he thought how soft it was. He returned to his apartment and found the lights on, the statistics book open, the cup of tea where he had left it, and his pajamas lying on the bed. Everything was as he had left it, but he himself was no longer what he used to be; new feelings were raging inside him. He got so worked up that he took off his clothes and kept pacing the apartment up and down in his underwear, and then he threw himself on the bed and began to stare at the ceiling. What had happened seemed strange to him. Why had he acted that way with her? Where did he get the courage? For the first time in his life he had gone out with a girl. He felt that the person sitting next to her on the L was somebody else, not himself. And even now, he believed that his meeting her was a delusion, that if he looked for her now, he wouldn't find her. O God. Why was he attracted to her like that? She's just a country girl of mediocre beauty like dozens of girls he used to see every day in Cairo. What made her stand out? Did she arouse him sexually? True, she has two full, delicious lips, good for fantastic uses. Besides, her loose-fitting dress sometimes clung to her body, against her will, pronouncing two well-formed breasts, but she could not be compared at all to the American coeds at Illinois or the Egyptian brides-to-be whose hands he had sought in marriage. It was also impossible to mention her in the same breath as the naked beauties who stoked his desire in the porn movies. Why then did she appeal to him? Was it her fragility and vulnerability? Was it her crying that won his sympathy? Or did she make him nostalgic for Egypt? Yes, indeed. Everything about her was Egyptian: the flannel gallabiya with the little flowers, her beautiful snow-white neck and delicate ears with the rustic gold earrings in the shape of bunches of grapes, the khadduga slippers that revealed her small, clean feet with their well-trimmed nails left without nail polish (so her ablution would be complete), and that subtle clean smell emanating from her body as he sat next to her. What attracted him to her was something that he felt but couldn't describe, something purely Egyptian like ful, taamiya, bisara, the ringing laugh, belly dancing, Sheikh Muhammad Rifaat's voice in Ramadan, and his mother's supplications after dawn prayers. She represented all that he missed after two years away from home. He got lost in thought until the stroke of the living room clock sounded, whereupon he jumped out of bed and remembering his statistics assignment shouted, “What a disaster!” He sat at his desk, placed his head between his palms, concentrated to get out of his dreamy state, and gradually started working. He finished the first problem correctly then the second and the third. When he finished number five, he was entitled, according to his revered tradition, to eat a small piece of basbusa. But, to his surprise and for the first time, he had no appetite for basbusa. The point of the lesson had become quite clear to him, so he finished several other problems in about half an hour. It occurred to him to rest a little but he was afraid he might lose his enthusiasm, so he kept working until he heard the doorbell ring. He got up lazily, his mind still filled with numbers. He opened the door, and there she was in front of him. She was still in her street outfit and her face, in the soft blue light that lit the hallway, seemed more beautiful than ever before. Shyly she said as she extended her hand with a plate covered with aluminum foil, “You're undoubtedly hungry and won't have time to prepare dinner. I made you two sandwiches. Please, enjoy.”

Not in a million years could I have imagined what happened. I opened the door, ecstatic from the wine and the desire, and I was awakened by the blow. As if I had been soaring among the clouds and I fell suddenly, my head hitting the hard ground. For a few moments I was in shock, unable to think. I saw before me an old woman, over forty, maybe over fifty, black, fat, and clearly crosseyed in her left eye. She was wearing an old blue dress, worn out at the elbows and quite clearly showing the contours of her fat-laden body. She smiled, showing her crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. She asked merrily, “Are you Nagi?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?” I asked, hanging on to the last thread of hope that there was some mistake, that she was not the woman I was waiting for. But she gently pushed me aside and came in, deliberately jiggling her body to appear seductive.

“I thought your heart would recognize me. I'm Donna, darling. Oh, your apartment is really nice. Where's the bedroom?”

When she sat on the bed her face appeared in the light of the room more ugly than before. It occurred to me that I was dreaming, that it was all unreal. I said to myself that it might be useful to give myself an opportunity to think. I sat on the opposite chair and poured myself a new drink. She said as she looked closely at me, smiling, “You really are handsome but you don't look like Anwar Sadat. You lied to me on the telephone to seduce me, right?”

I swallowed the wine in silence then said, “Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you. I only have wine with a meal. Do you have any whiskey?”

“No, unfortunately not.”

“Okay then, do you have any food? I'm hungry.”

“It's in the fridge.”

I avoided looking at her. She got up, opened the fridge, then shouted in dismay, “Cheese, eggs, and vegetables? Is that all you have? This is rabbit food. I'd like a hot dinner. You're generous, my love, and you'll invite me to a fancy restaurant, right?”

I didn't say a word. I gulped down my drink, feeling a dejection that made my heart heavy, and poured myself another drink. I kept my head bowed and when I raised it I found that she had taken off her dress and stood in the middle of the room in her slip. Her black body with its many curves and folds appeared in the soft light as if it were a huge sea creature just captured from the ocean. She got so close to me I could feel her chest on my face. She was panting, a result of smoking, no doubt. She placed her hand on my thigh and whispered, “Come on, love. I'll take you to paradise.”

She smelled of rotten sweat and cheap, loud perfume. I got up and away from her then gathered up my courage and said, “I am very sorry, Donna. Actually I am not feeling well.”

She came close again and whispered, “I know how to make you feel better.”

This time I blocked her with my hand to keep her away, saying, as I got bolder and more specific, “I am happy to have met you but actually I am tired and won't be able to …”

She looked at me, as if trying to understand, then got down on her knees and placed her hand between my thighs and said in a hissing voice, “How about a blow job? I'm really good at it. You'll like it a lot.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just as you like.”

She got up slowly then said calmly as she looked for her dress, “But you'll pay my fee.”

“What?”

“Listen, I am not here to play games with you. We agreed on a hundred fifty dollars that you'll pay, so long as I've come to you, whether you slept with me or not.”

“But I—”

“You'll pay me a hundred fifty dollars!” she shouted angrily and began to stare at me with her good eye while her astigmatic eye gave a different impression.

“I won't pay,” I said firmly.

“You will.”

“I won't pay a single dollar,” I shouted, feeling very exasperated. She seemed to have suddenly gone mad. She grabbed the sleeve of my robe and began to shake me hard. “You have to learn how to treat women in America; do you understand what I am saying, darling? Women here are respectable citizens, and not creatures without dignity as you treat them in the desert you came from.”

“I respect women but I don't respect whores.”

She stared at me for a moment then suddenly tried to slap me on the face. I backed up my head quickly and her hand missed but hit my right ear. I felt dizzy and felt a knot in my stomach and lost control because of the assault, the wine, and the disappointment. So I pushed her shoulder hard, shouting, “Get out!”

She retreated before me and I pushed her even harder. She staggered then lost her balance and fell to the floor.

“Get out now. I am going to call the police to come and get you, whore.”

She remained seated in the same position: her legs parted in front of her, her hands lying on the floor, and her head tilted back, as if she were watching something on the ceiling. I began to call her names. I used all the English insults that I knew. She glanced at me resentfully then extended her hand toward me, pointing her finger, as if threatening me. She opened her mouth to say something and suddenly her face convulsed and she broke into tears. I was overcome with a feeling of sorrow that soon turned into regret, so I said in a soft voice, “Donna, I'm sorry. Actually, I'm quite drunk.”

She remained silent and I thought she hadn't heard me. Then her voice came hoarsely while her head was still bowed. “You don't know how much I need the money. I'm raising three kids doing this job.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Their father ran away with a woman twenty years younger and left them to me. I don't have any legal rights because we weren't married. And even if I had any rights, I couldn't get them because I don't know where he is. I can't give the children up. They've done nothing wrong in this drama. I have to pay for everything all on my own: school expenses and food and clothing and the gas and electric bills. I don't like to be a whore but I couldn't find another job. I tried hard but I couldn't.”

While she was talking I got up from where I was sitting. I knelt on my knees beside her then got closer and kissed her on the forehead. “Forgive me, Donna.”

“It's okay.”

“Have you really forgiven me?”

She raised her head slowly toward me and smiled sadly. “I've forgiven you.”

We remained silent, totally exhausted, as if we were two boxers who had just finished a grueling match. She looked at me and said tenderly, “Can you pay me half?

I didn't answer. She placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Pay me half the amount, please. I really need the money. The evening is gone and I won't find another customer.”

I still didn't answer, so she whispered in a last attempt, “Consider it a loan to a friend. I'll return it when I can.”

I went to the closet and came back with a hundred-dollar bill. Donna took it quickly, embraced me, and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Thank you, Nagi. You really are generous.”

After a short while she had put on her clothes and asked me as she regained her gaiety, “I'm going. Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.”

She headed for the door of the apartment, opened it, then turned around, as if she had remembered something and said in an affected, optimistic, enticing tone like that used by publicists, “If you want twenty-year-old women, you can call me. They're really gorgeous, blondes and brunettes, whatever you like. I'll give you the same rate and I'll consider the hundred dollars part of the payment. I have to be generous with you like you were with me.”

I observed her in silence until she went out and closed the door.