“Okay. This is your opinion, Dr. Roberts. How about the rest of you?” the chairman asked, smiling. Ra’fat Thabit raised his hand then started speaking like someone telling an anecdote. “Having been an Egyptian at one time, I know very well how Egyptians think. They don’t learn for the sake of learning. They get MSs and PhDs, not for the sake of scientific research, but to get a promotion or a lucrative contract in the Arab Gulf countries. This student will hang his diploma in his clinic in Cairo to convince the patients that he can cure them.”
Friedman looked at him in astonishment and said, “How do they allow that in Egypt? Histology is an academic subject that has nothing whatsoever to do with treating people.”
Ra’fat laughed sarcastically and said, “You don’t know Egypt, Bill. Everything there is permitted, and people don’t know what the word histology means to begin with.”
“Are you exaggerating a little, Ra’fat?” asked Friedman in a soft voice.
Muhammad Salah intervened, “Of course he’s exaggerating.”
Ra’fat Thabit turned to him and said sharply, “You, in particular, know I am not exaggerating.”
Friedman sighed and said, “Anyway, this is not what we’re discussing. We now have two opinions, from Dr. Roberts and Dr. Thabit, against admitting the Egyptian student. What do you say, Dr. Graham?”
John Graham took the unlit pipe from his mouth and said vexedly, “Gentlemen! You’re talking more like secret police detectives than university professors!”
There were some noises of objection but Graham continued loudly, “The right thing to do is quite obvious. Anyone who fulfills the requirements of the department is entitled to enroll. It’s none of our business what he’ll do with his diploma or what country he’s come from.”
“This kind of talk gave America September 11,” said George Roberts.
Graham rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, “What led to September 11 is that most decision makers in the White House thought like you. They supported despotic regimes in the Middle East to multiply the profits of oil and arms companies, and armed violence escalated and reached our shores. Remember, this student will leave his country and his family and travel to the end of the world for the sake of learning. Don’t you find this to be an honorable endeavor deserving respect? Isn’t it our duty to help him? Remember, Dr. Roberts, you’ve often objected to admitting any non-American students, haven’t you? As for you, Ra’fat, do you think your speech is culpable under the antiracial-discrimination statutes?”
“I didn’t say anything racist, Comrade Graham!” said Ra’fat with some irritation.
Graham turned toward him, ran his fingers through his beard, and said, “If you call me ‘comrade’ in jest, I take that as a compliment and I can assure you that what you say is racist. Racism is the belief that a difference in race leads to a difference in behavior and human abilities. This applies to what you said about Egyptians. The amazing thing is, you yourself are Egyptian!”
“I used to be Egyptian some time ago, but I’ve quit. And, comrade, when will you recognize the American passport I carry?”
Chairman Friedman made a gesture with his hand, saying, “Control your tempers. We’ve got off the subject at hand. Dr. Graham, you agree to admit the student. How about you, Dr. Salah?”
“I agree to admit the student,” said Salah calmly. The chairman’s smile widened and he said, “Two in favor and two against. I’ll keep my opinion until the end. We’d like to hear from Dennis. I don’t know if today is one of the days Dr. Baker can talk, or do we have to wait a few days?”
Everyone laughed and some of the tensions caused by the discussion dissipated. Baker smiled and remained silent for a moment, then his eyes grew wider and he said in his gruff voice, “I’d rather we have a formal vote.”
The chairman bowed his head at once, as if he had received an order. He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper in front of him, then cleared his throat, and his voice acquired a formal tone as he said, “Gentlemen, this is a formal vote. Do you agree to admit the Egyptian student Nagi Abd al-Samad to the histology MS program? Those in favor, please raise your hands.”
CHAPTER 3
At the student dorm at the University of Illinois in Chicago, apartment 303, in front of the elevator on the third floor, Tariq Haseeb leads a life as precise as the hand of a clock: alone, thin, and tense, moving forward in a constant, nonchanging rhythm. From 8:00 A.M. until 3:00 P.M., every day, he moves from lecture hall to lab to library. Then he returns to his apartment to have his lunch in front of the television followed by a full two-hour siesta. At exactly 7:00 P.M., regardless of changing circumstances or events around the world, what Tariq Haseeb does doesn’t change one bit: he turns off his cell phone and turns on light music in his room. Then he assumes the position he has throughout his thirty-five years on this earth: he bends over his small desk, studying his lessons, or more precisely, waging a relentless war against the material until he controls it and records it in his mind, never to be erased afterward. He spreads the books and papers in front of him and stares at them with his big, slightly bulging eyes. He knits his brow and purses his thin lips, the muscles of his pale face contracted in a stony expression, as if patiently suffering some kind of pain. When his concentration reaches its peak, he becomes so completely isolated from his surroundings that he doesn’t hear the doorbell or forgets the teakettle on the stove until the water in it totally evaporates and it starts burning. He stays like that tirelessly until he suddenly jumps to his feet
