Chicago

“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 cross-eyed 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