Karam looked toward me, raring to go, as if he was determined to take the matter all the way. He said, “Why are we running away from the truth? Ancient Egypt had a great civilization but right now it’s turned into a dead country. The Egyptian people are behind other peoples when it comes to education and thinking. Why do you take this fact as a personal insult?”
“If I have the shortcoming of the Egyptians, I also have their good traits.”
“What are these good traits? Name one, please,” Karam asked me sarcastically, and I replied, “At least I love my country and haven’t fled it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you fled from Egypt so you don’t have the right to speak about it.”
“I was forced to leave.”
“You left your poor, miserable country for your comfortable life in America. Remember, you got a free education at the expense of those Egyptians you now despise. Egypt gave you this education so that one day you’d be useful to it. But you turned your back on the Egyptian patients who needed you. You left them to die over there and came here to work for the Americans, who don’t need you.”
Karam stood up suddenly and shouted, “I’ve never heard anything more stupid in my whole life!”
“You insist on insulting me, but that won’t change the facts: those who’ve fled their country like you should stop criticizing it.”
Karam snarled some insults and rushed toward me, raising his fist, so I got up, ready to defend myself. But Graham, despite his considerable heft, sprang up at the right moment and separated us, saying, “Easy, easy. Calm down. You’re both drunk.”
I was panting in sheer agitation and shouted loudly, “Dr. Graham, I won’t allow anyone to insult my country. I am leaving now because if I wait one more minute, I’ll beat him up!”
I turned and left hurriedly. As I was crossing the corridor I heard Karam shouting, “It’s I who’ll break your head, you rude son of a bitch!”
I was so drunk I didn’t remember how I got back to the dorm. It seemed I took off my clothes in the living room because I found them later on, piled on the floor next to the table. I woke up at four in the afternoon feeling terrible. I had a horrendous hangover; I threw up more than once and felt very weak. There was an excess of acidity in my stomach and I had a splitting headache, as if hammers were pounding my head. Worst of all, I felt guilty because I had ruined the evening and created a problem for Dr. Graham. I didn’t regret one word that I had said to Karam Doss. Whenever I recalled his arrogance and his insults against Egyptians, my resentment toward him was reignited. How can anyone publicly insult his country so easily? And yet I was wrong, because I did not exercise self-control. It wasn’t appropriate at all to quarrel. What was Graham’s fault? The good man wanted to welcome me and get to know me and I caused him a problem. He had told me that for him a student’s character was no less important than his academic standing. What did he think of me after what had happened? I took a hot bath and drank a large cup of coffee. I called Dr. Graham to apologize, but he didn’t answer. I remembered that he kept my number in his telephone memory: Did that mean that he was refusing to talk to me? I called several times, but he didn’t answer. I drank a second cup of coffee and felt somewhat better. I began to go over what I’d done since arriving in Chicago. It seemed that I indeed, as Dr. Salah said, could not control my negative feelings. There was an essential defect in my character that I had to confront. Why was I so easily provoked? Am I aggressive? Was my viciousness the result of drinking too much or feeling frustrated? Or was it that our feelings became more delicate and sensitive away from home? All these were contributing factors, but I realized what was the true cause of my misery, which I had carried inside me, ignored, and avoided even thinking about. A whole year had passed and I’d been unable to write even one verse of poetry. My real problem was my inability to write. When I wrote I would be more tolerant and accepting of differences. Then I drank less and ate and slept better. Right now, however, I had a short fuse and was prone to quarreling and felt the need to drink nonstop. Poetry was the only thing that restored my balance. I had ideas for poems that sounded excellent from a distance, but no sooner did I sit down to write them on paper than they eluded me, as if I were a thirsty person chasing a mirage in the desert, time after time, endlessly. There was nothing more miserable in the world than a poet who had lost inspiration. Hemingway was the most important novelist of his age, and when he couldn’t write, he committed suicide. Wine consoled me but it pushed me to a dark tunnel that had no end. How would I pursue my studies regularly when I was drinking so heavily?
I came to as the doorbell rang. I got up slowly to open the door and when I looked through the peephole, I was taken aback for a moment. I saw the last person I expected a visit from: Dr. Karam Doss.
CHAPTER 13
Dr. Salah followed the psychiatrist’s advice and took his wife to dinner on Saturday at her favorite Mexican restaurant. Chris looked wonderful in her new hairdo, full makeup, and a low-cut red dress and shining brooch in the shape of a rose. The evening went perfectly: they listened to Mexican music and ate delicious spicy food. Chris drank several
