Chicago

dinner in my apartment. I’ll make a pizza that’s a hundred times better than the restaurant’s. What do you say?”

He seemed at a loss to understand what was happening. He stared at her face, which turned red suddenly as she laughed nervously. What exactly did she want? He tried to embrace her and she made a scene. So why was she inviting him to her place again? Tariq was so totally confused and unable to concentrate that he could not understand the new biochemistry lesson. And, strangely enough, that did not disturb him much. He said to himself as he closed the book: I’ll try to understand it later on. He threw himself onto the bed and crossed his legs (his favorite posture for thinking) and then asked himself what he was going to do with Shaymaa. The answer came right away: I’ll go to her place and come what may!

At the appointed time exactly he stood before her door. He was wearing his sharpest outfit: dark blue jeans, a white woolen turtleneck, and a black leather jacket. As soon as he stepped inside, the smell of the dough baking in the oven greeted him. He sat watching television until Shaymaa finished cooking. She set the table and called out to him in a voice that rang soft and affectionate in his ear. She was wearing a blue brocade Moroccan gown. His heart skipped several beats when he noticed that it was closed by a long zipper from top to bottom. Her body was completely covered, but the thought that one pull of the zipper would render her totally naked began to peck at his mind, just as a bird did to a leaf until it finished it off. He was so overcome by wild sexual fantasies (all beginning with the undoing of the zipper) that he became a nervous wreck. The pizza was delicious. They sat eating and talking about different topics and her voice was melodious and deep. There were warm and mysterious signals in it that so charged the atmosphere that his ability to concentrate was diminished to the extent that he didn’t hear most of what she said. After dinner he insisted on carrying the dishes to the kitchen himself. He washed them well, dried them, and returned them to the shelves. He rinsed the kettle, filled it with water, and placed it on the stove to make tea. He was surprised when she came into the kitchen. She came close to him and said in a soft, hoarse voice that sounded strange to him, “Would you like some help?”

He didn’t answer. He felt his heart beating as if it were a drum. She came closer and stood next to him. He felt the soft fabric of the gown on his hand and his nostrils were filled with her strong perfume. He found it hard to breathe and lost his ability to focus. He felt his stomach contracting, and it occurred to him that he might be about to faint.

* * *

We drank and talked. Wendy told me about her family. Her mother was a social worker and her father a dentist. She lived with them in New York until she got the job at the Chicago Stock Exchange. She was living by herself in a studio near Rush Street. She said that she loved Chicago but that sometimes she felt lonely and depressed. She thought sometimes that her life had no meaning. She asked me, “Do you think I should see a psychiatrist?”

“I don’t think so. These are normal sad moods that all people have at one time or another, especially since you’re living by yourself. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“I found true love once, and it was wonderful, but unfortunately it ended last summer.”

I took comfort in her answer and began to tell her about myself and about my love of poetry. She said, somewhat diffidently, “Unfortunately I don’t read literature; I don’t have the time.”

“You yourself are a beautiful poem.”

“Thank you.”

She picked up her purse and said, “I must go. I have work in the morning.”

“Would it bother you if I called you?”

“Not at all.” I called her twice during the week and then I invited her on Friday to coffee at the school cafeteria (to minimize expenses). On the subsequent Saturday, following the instructions of the sage Graham, I invited her to dinner. This time she seemed to have paid more attention to her appearance. She wore black silk pants, a sleeveless white blouse, and a red jacket with a red flower pin on the lapel. Her simple attempt at dressing elegantly was touching and sincere. We had dinner in an Italian restaurant downtown. We talked and laughed as if we were old intimate friends. I actually felt very comfortable in her company. I told her everything, about my mother and my sister, my problem at Cairo University and my love of poetry. She asked me, “Do you dream of becoming a famous poet one day?”

“Fame is not a measure of a poet’s success. There are famous poets whose work has no value and great poets that people don’t know about.”

“So, why do you write?”

“I write because I have something to say. What matters to me is not fame but appreciation, that what I write reaches a number of people, no matter how few, and changes their thoughts and feelings.”

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of meeting a real poet.”

“You are sitting with one.”

I held her hands across the table. I raised them slowly to my lips and kissed them. She looked at me with a captivating smile. We went out to the street, tipsy from the wine. The sound of her footfalls next to me gave me joy. She asked me suddenly, “Where are we going now?”

My heart raced and I said, “I have a great documentary about Egypt. Would you like to watch it with me?”

“Of course. Where is it?”

“In my apartment.”

“Okay.”

We walked to the L station. I hurried my steps, as if I were afraid she might change her mind. We took the Blue Line. I sat in the seat opposite her. I studied her features slowly. She seemed extremely tender and sweet. I thought that my strong attraction to her was probably due to the problems I had encountered since arriving in Chicago. I definitely needed a woman’s affection. When we arrived at my apartment we sat next to each other on the sofa in the living room. We drank wine and talked. I was worried, afraid I might be too precipitous and ruin the occasion. I put my arms around her as she spoke. Her face tensed for a moment and I felt her body warm and vivacious. I was one step away from happiness and I knew from experience that it was a decisive moment, that if it slipped out of my hand, everything would be lost. We stopped talking suddenly and I felt her hot breaths warming me. She seemed to be breathing heavily and I thought she was about to cry. I took her in my arms and began to kiss her passionately on the face and neck. I felt her body contract, then relax little by little. I extended my hand spontaneously to her back to undo her bra. She pulled away gently and planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then whispered tenderly as she got up, “I’ll go to the bathroom and I’ll be back in a moment.”

As soon as she appeared, naked, I eagerly embraced her. We made love a first time, strong and hard, as if getting rid of our pentup feelings, or as if we had suddenly discovered the possibilities of pleasure and started devouring them in disbelief. Afterward I lay down breathing heavily next to her on the bed and strangely enough I felt desire looming in the distance. That was quite rare, for my chronic problem with women was that weariness that came over me after lovemaking. As soon as I reached orgasm, the fog of lust would be dispelled and I’d lose my awareness of beauty. With Wendy it was different. I looked at her naked body and it looked capable of seducing me endlessly. I felt blood rushing through my veins as if I hadn’t satisfied my desire only a few moments ago. She rested her head on my chest and said in a melodious, content voice, “You know something, the first time I saw you, I was sure we’d end up in bed.”

“That’s because I’m lucky.”

“I had made up my mind not to come to your apartment until we went out one more time, but I lost my resistance suddenly.”

I planted a kiss on her forehead and said, “You’re my wonderful princess!”

“You’re obviously experienced in bed even though you’re not married. In Egypt, are you permitted to have sex outside marriage?”

“We permit ourselves.”

It was a lame answer, but I wasn’t ready for any serious discussion at that moment. Wendy laid her chin on my chest and looked at me. She extended her finger and stroked my lips as if I were a child and then exclaimed playfully, “Come on, tell me all about your romantic liaisons with Egyptian women!”

I felt her breasts on my chest emitting unbearably soft warmth. I pulled her gently by the arm and she moved in such a way that she was on top of me. This time I kissed her gently and slowly and then we made love again. I had got to know the contours of her body, so I conducted the second time around in an unhurried and focused