“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.”
