Shaymaa stared at the white policeman as if she didn’t understand, whereupon the black policeman, looking like someone about to tell a biting joke, said, “Listen, my friend, I don’t know what kind of food you eat in your country but I advise you to change your favorite dish because it almost burned down the building.”
The black policeman laughed unabashedly while his partner tried to decorously hide his smile. Shaymaa bent and signed the paper in silence. Before long the two policemen exchanged a few words and left. A short while later it was announced that the danger was over, and students began to go back up to their apartments. Shaymaa, however, remained standing in front of the reception office. She looked deathly pale and kept shaking and breathing heavily. She was trying to compose herself, as if she had just awakened from a terrifying nightmare. She felt that she was no longer in possession of her soul, that everything that was happening was unreal. She felt particularly humiliated that the fire-fighter had hugged her, and her back still hurt from the pressure of his hands. Tariq Haseeb stood scrutinizing her slowly, then circled around her twice, exploring, as if he were an animal sniffing another animal of an unknown species. From the first moment he felt attracted toward her, but his admiration, as usual, turned into extreme resentment. He knew her name and had seen her before in the histology department, but he enjoyed pretending that he didn’t know her. He approached slowly and when he was right in front of her he fixed her with a scrutinizing, disapproving, suspicious glance that he used to use on Cairo Medical School students as he proctored them during their written exams. Before long he asked her haughtily, “Are you Egyptian?”
She answered with a nod from her tired head. Then his questions, bulletlike, rang out in quick succession: What do you study? Where do you live? How did you cause the fire? She kept answering in a soft voice, avoiding looking at his eyes. Silence fell for a moment, which Tariq thought was appropriate after his lightning attack. He said sharply, “Listen, sister Shaymaa. Here you are in America and not in Tanta. You have to behave in a civilized manner.”
She looked at him in silence. What would she tell him? What she’s done is proof of her stupidity and backwardness. She was about to answer him when he approached her, ready to pounce on her, to silence and totally crush her.
CHAPTER 4
Professor Dennis Baker raised his hand in favor of admitting the new Egyptian student, as did Dr. Friedman, who counted the votes with a cursory glance and bent over the paper to record the department’s vote to admit Nagi Abd al-Samad. The meeting was adjourned and the professors left. Ra’fat Thabit got in his car to drive home. He felt so vexed at the result of the vote that he tightened his grip on the steering wheel and sighed in exasperation. He thought: Egyptians will ruin the department. That’s the truth. Egyptians cannot work in respectable places because they have many negative qualities: cowardice and hypocrisy, lying, evasiveness and laziness, and an inability to think methodically. Worse than that: they are disorganized and tricky. This negative view of the Egyptians is in line with Ra’fat Thabit’s own history. He emigrated from Egypt to the States in the early 1960s after Gamal Abdel Nasser nationalized the glass factories owned by his father, Mahmud Pasha Thabit. And despite the iron fist of the regime at that time, he was able to smuggle a large sum of money out of Egypt with which he financed his new life: he went to school and got a doctorate and taught in several American universities in New York and Boston. He then settled in Chicago thirty years ago and married a nurse, Michelle, obtained American citizenship, and became American in every respect: he no longer spoke Arabic at all, thought in English, and spoke it with a cleverly acquired American accent. He even shrugged his shoulders and gestured and made sounds while speaking exactly like Americans. On Sundays he’d go to baseball
