Chicago

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.