“It’s impossible to get lost in Chicago because it is organized on regular north-south and east-west lines. It’s enough to know the number of a building to reach it easily.”
We took a tour of the university shopping center, and he helped me buy groceries. Then he said kindly, “If you like
“Do Americans eat
“Of course not, but a Palestinian immigrant produces them here in Chicago. Would you like to try?”
“While in Egypt, I’ve eaten enough
When he laughs his face looks quite friendly and affectionate. We arrived at the student dormitory. It’s a big building surrounded by a large garden. The black receptionist welcomed us, and it was clear that she and Dr. Salah were friends, for he inquired about her family. She typed my name and the information appeared on the monitor. “Apartment 407, fourth floor,” she said as she handed me the key with a smile. I said good-bye to Dr. Salah and thanked him anew. I took my suitcase, went up to my apartment, closed the door behind me, and took off my clothes. It was warm, so I stayed in my underwear. As soon as I saw the bed I fell upon it and slept very soundly, waking up in the afternoon. The apartment has one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen opening to a small living room big enough only for a table and two chairs. It’s a small but clean place, and because of the patterned wallpaper, the lush carpeting, and the indirect lighting it has the look of handsome Western homes that we see in foreign movies. I took a hot bath, made myself some coffee, then stretched out on the bed and lit a cigarette. At that point something strange happened. I was overcome by vivid sexual fantasies and a violent and persistent desire that was almost painful. I feel embarrassed as I write this down, but I was so greatly aroused for no reason I could think of. Was it my feeling of freedom beginning my new life in America? Was it the clean air I breathed on the shore of Lake Michigan? Or could it be the quiet atmosphere in the apartment and the indirect lighting and the lazy day off? Could all that have reminded me of Friday mornings in the Giza apartment that has witnessed my adventures? I don’t know. I tried to resist the desire and think of something else, but I couldn’t, so I got off the bed, picked up the telephone, and asked the receptionist whether I could entertain a girlfriend in my apartment. She laughed and said in a merry tone, “Of course you can. This is a free country. But the regulations here do not permit your friend to spend the night with you. She has to leave before ten p. m.”
The receptionist’s words aroused me even more. I got up and fixed myself a tuna sandwich and opened the bottle of wine I had bought on the plane. I began to drink slowly and leaf through the huge telephone directory. I knew that prostitution was not legal in Chicago but I soon figured out that it existed under another name. I found in the telephone book ads for beautiful women expert in giving “special massage.” I said to myself that that was exactly what I wanted. I stayed away from the large ads, which I figured would be exorbitant in price. I chose the smallest ad and dialed the number. I held the receiver to my ear and I heard my heartbeats, strong and fast from sheer excitement. I heard a woman’s voice, soft and sleepy, as if she had just awakened.
“How can I help you?”
“I want a beautiful woman to massage me,” I blurted out.
“That’ll cost you two hundred fifty dollars an hour.”
“That’s too much. I am a student. I don’t have a lot of money.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nagi. And you?”
“Donna. Where are you from?”
“Egypt.”
She cried enthusiastically, “Egypt? I love Egypt. I dream of going one day to the Pyramids, riding a camel, and seeing the crocodiles in the Nile. Listen, Nagi, do you look like Anwar Sadat? He was very handsome.”
“Actually I do; so much so that many people think I am his son.
How did you know?”
“Just a guess. What are you doing in America?”
“I am studying at the University of Illinois. Listen, I’ll invite you next winter to spend your vacation in Egypt. What do you say?”
“It’s my life’s dream.”
“I promise you. But, my dear, I cannot pay two hundred fifty dollars for an hour of love.” She was silent for a moment then said in a soft voice, “I’ll help you out, Nagi. Hang up now and call me again in five minutes.”
Donna hung up suddenly and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I was assailed by apprehensions: Why did she end the call in this manner? What’s she afraid of? Are the police after her? Did they get my telephone number? Will they arrest me on the charge of getting in touch with a prostitution ring? What an inauspicious beginning for my lucky scholarship. I was gripped with anxiety and began to regret the adventure, but I couldn’t go back. I rang up five minutes later. She told me, “Listen, I’ll make you an offer outside the company. Instead of two-fifty, I’ll come myself for only a hundred fifty an hour.”
I hesitated a little as she said, laughing, “This is a special offer from Donna because you’re a handsome Egyptian like Sadat. If I were you, I’d accept it at once.”
“Will you make me happy?”
“I’ll take you to paradise.”
“Okay then.” I gave her the address and we agreed that she’d come at seven o’clock. Before she ended the call, she whispered in a frightened voice, “Your number has been recorded by the company. Someone will contact you to ask you why you didn’t agree to have a woman come to you. Tell them you’ve changed your mind because you’re tired and that you’ll call again tomorrow. Please don’t tell them what we’ve agreed to. I don’t think you’d like me to get hurt.”
And just as she said, a man called and asked me and I gave him the answer she told me to give. He didn’t sound convinced of what I said, but he said good-bye and hung up. Once again I began to worry, but my raging desire, now doubled by the wine, made me forget all other things, to the extent that I ignored the fact that $150 would make a big dent in my budget. There was nothing on my mind except Donna, the beautiful woman I’d make love to. I wondered what she looked like: was she going to be a buxom white woman with full round hips and breasts, like Monica, Clinton’s mistress, or one with a graceful Parisian figure and a dreamy, sparrowlike face like Julia Roberts? Even if she were just like Barbra Streisand, with a slightly long nose and an angular body, I’d be happy. I am not going to dwell on such minor shortcomings. Praise the Lord who created beauty in a hundred ways! I began to get ready for the date a whole hour early. I took another bath, during which I went to extra lengths to clean my body. Then I put a silk robe on my naked body like a lady-killer in Egyptian movies. I am now writing this while gulping down wine. There are only a few minutes before the date. I am sitting, waiting for my beloved Donna, on pins and needles. There, the bell is ringing. My beloved is punctual. How beautiful! I’ll get up to open the door. Gentlemen, what bliss!
Chapter 5
As soon as the train stopped, its doors opened and out came the weekend passengers: young lovers embracing, beggars lugging musical instruments that they would soon play on the platforms, drunkards who have been barhopping since yesterday, European tourists carrying tourist guides and maps, young black men dancing to the music blaring from the huge boom boxes they carry, and traditional American families — a father, a mother, and their kids returning from a day in the park. In the corner of the station stood heavyset policemen in their distinctive uniform, with chests thrust forward bearing the badge chicago police, as though deriving their strength from it, with large trained dogs at their side, noses raised, sniffing for drugs. On some occasions, as soon as one of them barks at a passenger, the policemen rush him, immobilize him, and push him toward the wall, uncovering his chest, especially if black, to look for gang tattoos. Then they search him until they find the drugs and place him under arrest. In the midst of this purely American scene, Dr. Ahmad Danana looked totally out of place, as if he were a genie that had just come out of an enchanted bottle, or had disembarked from a time machine, or as if he were an actor who decided to go for a walk in costume. His features are rural Egyptian with a triangular prayer mark in the middle of his forehead, his kinky hair turning gray. He has a large head and very thick glasses, their bluish lenses reflecting his sly eyes in many intersecting circles that often disorient his interlocutors. The prayer beads never leave his hand. Summer or winter he wears full suits that he gets from Mahalla, Egypt, together with cartons of
