his body on the beach. What made matters worse was the fact that white policemen persistently refused to arrest the killers or interrogate them. During the six days that followed Chicago witnessed horrific racial clashes between white and black people, which left thirty-eight people dead and hundreds of others injured or homeless. The memory of Eugene Williams remained for a long time as a strong lesson for anyone who thought of breaking the barrier. In the year 1966, at the height of the civil rights movement against racism and the Vietnam War, the famous black American leader Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Chicago and led a procession of tens of thousands of predominantly black marchers through white neighborhoods. King wanted to send a Christian message of love and brotherhood and to declare, at the same time, that the race situation was no longer tolerable. But the result was violent and frustrating. White people attacked the march viciously, throwing stones and rotten eggs and tomatoes on the marchers. They attacked them with clubs and gunfire, and many black people were injured. It wasn’t long afterward that King himself was shot by a white racist fanatic. In 1984, a black couple made a fortune and bought a house in a rich white neighborhood. The answer came right away: their white neighbors harassed them and threw stones at them, which resulted in serious injuries. Then the angry neighbors went further, burning first the garage and then the whole house. The couple fled. A similar thing happened to another black couple the same year, and the result was even more tragic.
And thus, throughout Chicago’s history, the racial barrier remained as solid as a rock that could not be ignored or transcended: the north of the city and its suburbs were made up of upscale communities inhabited by a white elite in the highest income brackets in the country, while in the black South Side poverty reached levels hard to imagine in America. Unemployment there was rampant, as were drugs, murders, rapes, and robberies. Education and health services were substandard, and everything was distorted, even the concept of family. Many black children were raised by their mothers alone because the fathers left, were killed, or were in jail. It was this glaring contrast between those two worlds that made the famous sociologist Gregory Squires resort to the language of literature when he prefaced his research on Chicago with the following: “It’s not the many contradictions that Chicago embodies that distinguish it. What makes it a unique city is that it always takes its contradictions to the utmost.”
AS SOON AS RA’FAT THABIT drove into Oakland, he was horrified: many of the redbrick homes were in ruins; backyards were filled with old junk and garbage; gang slogans were sprayed in black and red on the walls; groups of young black people were standing on street corners smoking marijuana; loud music and noise came from some open bars. Ra’fat’s anguish increased as he asked himself: How does my daughter live in such a dump? He was determined to see her by any means. He had not thought about what he would tell her when he knocked on her door and awakened her at two o’clock in the morning. He was going to see her now and let come what may. That was what he told himself as he slowed down and looked at the house numbers. He knew Jeff ’s address by heart. When he got close to the house he went into the parking lot across the street. He locked the car using his remote and hurried to get to the street. It was pitch-dark, and he was suddenly overcome by an uncomfortable feeling. As soon as he passed the first row of cars, he sensed that someone was following him. He tried to dispel the thought but heard, clearly this time, something moving in the dark next to him. He stopped and turned around and little by little was able to make out a large body approaching.
“Why hasn’t the old man gone to bed yet?”
The surprise paralyzed Ra’fat, so he fell silent. The man laughed loudly and it seemed from his soft, languorous voice that he was stoned.
“Why’d you come to Oakland, old man? Are you looking for a woman or do you want a fix?”
“I came to visit my daughter.”
“What’s your daughter doing in Oakland?”
“She’s living with her boyfriend.”
“Her boyfriend must be a real man. Only men are born in Oakland. What do you want from your daughter, pops?”
“I just came to check in on her.”
“What a loving father! Listen, pops. I’m Max, a man from Oakland, and I need a fix now, pops.”
There was silence for a moment, then Max’s voice changed into a deeper and more serious tone, “I want fifty bucks, pops, to buy some herb and get high.”
Ra’fat did not reply; Max extended his big hand and placed it on his shoulders, saying, “Give me fifty bucks. Don’t be a coldhearted miser. Come on, come on.”
With lightning speed, Max took out of his pocket a switchblade and snapped it open, revealing its long blade that shone in the dark. “Come on, pops. I don’t have time to waste. Are you going to pay or would you like me to save you from the cruelty of this world?”
Ra’fat slowly reached into his pocket and took out his wallet then realized that he wouldn’t be able to see anything in the pitch-dark. It seemed Max had realized that too, so he shone a small flashlight.
“There, see? I’m helping you see the money you have. I only want fifty bucks, pops. You’re lucky, man. You met good ol’ Max. If I was evil I would’ve took the whole wallet. But I ain’t no thief, pops. I’m an honest man who can’t find a job in all of goddamn Chicago, a penniless honest man who needs to get high, that’s all.”
Ra’fat took out a fifty-dollar bill. Max snatched it and backed off a step, still brandishing the switchblade, and said, “Okay, you can go to your daughter now. But a piece of advice, pops: don’t hang out in Oakland at night. Not everybody here is as good-hearted as Max.”
Ra’fat, during his long residence in Chicago, had been through and told about similar incidents and knew the right way to deal with them: don’t ignore your assailant or resist him. The person mugging you most likely is not sober: he’s either drunk or high. He might kill you at any moment. Give him what he wants. Don’t argue. Don’t carry a lot of money with you because he will take it all and don’t walk without money, because if you disappoint him he might kill you.
Ra’fat hurried away and heard Max behind him talking to someone else whom he guessed was hiding in the dark. Jeff ’s house was about a hundred yards away from the parking lot. Ra’fat walked quickly, getting angrier and thinking: Why did Sarah leave the upscale neighborhood where she grew up and come to live among criminals? Her life is in real danger because of her attachment to this bum. My duty as a father is to save her as fast as I can. And this is what I’m going to do right now. He kicked the gate in the iron fence and it made a dull squeaking sound. He crossed the small garden in the pitch-dark quickly and went up three stairs and stood in front of the door of the house. He was panting from effort and agitation. He reached out to ring the bell but let his arm drop to his side right away: What was he going to say to her? Would he wake her up at two o’clock in the morning to ask her to go back home with him? Would she agree so simply?
He stood for a few moments reluctantly in front of the door then decided to give himself a chance to think. So he turned around and began to walk slowly around the house. The side walkway was narrow, and he saw at the end of it a small window through which some light came. So, they’re still awake, he said to himself. He was gripped by a strange desire, so he sneaked carefully until he reached the window. There was a faded curtain blocking the view inside, but he found a small gap between the edge of the curtain and the windowpane that made it possible for him to look in from a narrow side angle. He glued his face to the glass of the window, feeling its cold on his ear. He looked and saw a sofa on which Jeff was sitting in his jeans, his chest bare. He looked emaciated and pale, and there were black rings around his beautiful eyes. He was laughing and waving his hand, speaking to someone whom Ra’fat couldn’t see but guessed to be Sarah. The conversation lasted for several minutes and Ra’fat gave in to his voyeuristic desire, so he stuck to his place. Soon Sarah appeared. She was wearing a very short blue nightgown that completely revealed her breasts and thighs. She threw herself next to Jeff, who suddenly bent down and was out of sight. Ra’fat stood on tiptoe to follow the scene.
He saw before the lovers a small table on which was a white plate filled with something resembling soft white sand. Jeff rolled a piece of paper into the shape of a straw, raised it, and inserted it into his nostril and took several successive hits on it. He raised his eyes slowly and looked at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes, his features contracting, as if he were overcome with sudden pain. Then he gave the funnel to Sarah and she took one hit and sank back into the sofa, seemingly relaxed. They snorted once again and suddenly Jeff turned to Sarah and hugged her hard. They began to kiss slowly and lustfully. He began to lick her ear then moved down to her neck, kissing it voraciously. She opened her mouth, as if moaning. He put his hand inside her gown, in exciting, pleasurable slow motion, and then took out her breasts and began to squeeze them with his hands. Then he began to speak to them while smiling, as if he were rocking a child while she screamed from sheer pleasure. The two
