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 pent-up 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 manner until we peaked together in a blaze of passion. She savored her ecstasy for a long time and then came to and jumped gleefully out of bed. She took a small camera out of her handbag and said as she readied it, “I’m going to take a picture of you.”
“Wait ’til I’m ready.”
“I’d like to take your picture in the buff.”
I was about to object but she was quicker. The flash lit several times as she took pictures from different angles. Then she laughed and said, “One of these days I’ll blackmail you with these photos.”
“That’ll be the most beautiful blackmail in my life!”
“I hope you’ll still think like that always. I’ve got to go now.”
“Can’t you stay a little longer?”
“Unfortunately I can’t. Next time I’ll plan to spend a longer time with you.”
She went to the bathroom and soon came back, having put on her clothes. Her face was rosy, radiant with a smile of gratitude. I was waiting for her, having also put on my clothes. She said, “Please don’t worry about escorting me.”
“I’d like to.”
“It’s best if I go alone,” she said in a calm, decisive tone. I was somewhat surprised but I respected her wish. I embraced her affectionately and said, “Wendy, I’m happy I met you.”
“Me too,” she whispered as she looked at my face and ran her fingers through my hair, then said, “Where’s that documentary movie you promised me?”
I was embarrassed, but she laughed loudly and said as she winked, “I was on to you from the beginning but I pretended to believe you.”
“When will I see you again?”
“That depends on you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s something I have to tell you. I don’t know how you’ll take it.”
She had opened the door and left it ajar as she got ready to leave. Then she said simply, “I’m Jewish.”
“Jewish?”
“Are you shocked?”
“No, not at all.”
“Perhaps I was wrong. I should have told you from the beginning. But you’d have found out anyway. No one can hide their religion.”
I remained silent. She pulled the door to close it behind her and said with a mysterious smile on her face, “Take your time thinking about our relationship. You can call me anytime. If you don’t, I’ll still thank you for the wonderful time we had together.”
CHAPTER 19
When instructor Karam Abd al-Malak Doss found out that he’d failed his MS exams for the second time, he went straight to see Dr. Abd al-Fatah Balbaa, chairman of the department of surgery at Ain Shams Medical School. It was a hot day in the summer of 1975. Karam went into the office drenched in sweat from the heat and agitation. When the secretary asked him why he wanted to see the chairman he said, “It’s a personal matter.”
“Dr. Abd al-Fatah Bey went to perform the midafternoon prayers at the mosque.”
“I’ll wait for him,” said Karam defiantly and sat in the chair facing the secretary, who ignored him and went back to reading some papers in front of him. A whole half hour passed before the door opened and Dr. Balbaa’s hulking figure, balding head, crude, stern features, thin beard, and the amber prayer beads that never left his hand appeared. Karam stood up right away and approached his professor, who scrutinized him with a suspicious glance then asked him as if in alarm, “Yes, khawaga?”
Dr. Balbaa used the khawaga as a term of address when speaking to all Copts, be they professors or messengers. He used this seemingly jocular term to disguise his profound contempt for them. Karam gathered his courage
