That sudden and open transition would be necessary to rule out the last possibility of a wrong inference. If the woman smiled or resorted to embarrassed silence without anger or even whispered in a soft but animated voice, he would be sure that the coast was clear, so he would talk explicitly about sex. At the end of the conversation he would take a piece of paper and write the address of his apartment on Shawarbi Street, then mutter in a businesslike manner, “Tomorrow, at five o’clock, I’ll wait for you at this address.”
It never happened that the woman didn’t keep the appointment. There were numerous reasons for that: a detainee’s wife, ultimately, was a human being with her desires preying on her nerves with no hope of satisfying them in the near future. It might satisfy her to know, deep down, that a high-ranking officer like Safwat Shakir would want her, which meant that he had preferred her, the poor woman, to women of high society available to him. Besides, by accepting the relationship with Safwat Shakir she would be securing for her husband better conditions in detention. The acquiescence of detainees’ wives, however, could be attributed to a more profound cause, related to the graph that Shakir drew to teach his young officer students. A woman, broken by poverty and different ordeals, exhausted by fighting on more than one front, one who had given up on resuming a normal life, one who was ganged up on by deprivation, men’s lust, and her miserable daily struggle to feed her children, would be like a besieged, exhausted soldier just a few moments before surrender. Such a woman would be driven by a deep desire to fall. Yes, falling would almost bring her relief because it would suppress forever the inner conflict that had often tormented her. Now she would be indeed a fallen woman; there was no longer any room for hesitation, thinking, or resistance. As soon as she entered the apartment, Safwat Shakir would take her to bed, and every time he would discover that, from the way she had taken care of her intimate details, she had expected and prepared for it. Strangely enough, he never kissed them and often had intercourse with them without a single word. He would fondle their bodies, already burning with desire to begin with, igniting them further to insane degrees, then at a moment that he knew by intuition, like a bullfighter brandishing his sword to finish off his animal opponent, Safwat Shakir would penetrate the women with extreme violence, devoid of any tenderness or kindness, mercilessly. He would penetrate her over and over again as if he were whipping her, as he had done to her husband earlier. She would scream as if crying for help, and in her screams her pleasure would be mixed with pain, or maybe the pleasure resulted from the pain. Roughing her up like that brought her a profound pleasure arising not from the sex but from her being liberated for good from her dignity. Humiliating her by sleeping with her, while despising her, took his contempt to the lowest depths because she deserved it: she was now a fallen woman who did not deserve to be treated tenderly or with respect; he took her as fallen women were usually taken. Once such a woman climaxed, she would cling to Shakir; she never dared to kiss him (for a kiss implied parity), but she would embrace him, cleave to his body, feeling it, smelling and sometimes licking it with her tongue. She’d often bend and kiss his hand as he remained stretched out, relaxed, smoking, his mind far away as if he were a god indifferently receiving offerings from his worshippers.
GENERAL SAFWAT SHAKIR WAS NOW sitting in his office in the Egyptian embassy in Washington, busily reading security reports that he had just received from Cairo. The office was quiet until the silence was broken by the voice of his secretary, Hasan, over the intercom. “Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“I said I didn’t want any calls.”
“It’s Dr. Ahmad Danana, who came from Chicago to see you, sir. He assures me it’s urgent and important.”
Safwat Shakir was silent for a moment then said in a gruff voice, “Let him in.”
After a moment, Danana rushed into the room, panting and sweating profusely, as if he had run all the way from Chicago. He threw himself onto the sofa facing the desk and said in a hoarse voice, as if crying for help, “Sorry to bother Your Excellency, but there’s a catastrophe, sir. A catastrophe.”
Safwat Shakir kept watching him in silence as Danana continued in a shaking voice, “Dr. Dennis Baker, my doctoral dissertation advisor, has accused me of forging the results of my research and has sent me up for investigation.”
Safwat Shakir remained silent. He took out a cigarette from the golden cigarette case open in front of him, lit it slowly, then took a drag and kept staring at Danana, who pleaded in a prayerful voice, “If the investigation finds me guilty, they will expel me.”
Safwat answered slowly, piercing him with a glance like a bullet, “And what do you want me to do?”
“My future will be ruined, sir. They’ll kick me out of the university.”
“And who told you to make up the results of the research?”
“I didn’t make them up, sir. I had been late doing my research as a result of the assignments Your Excellency gave me. Dr. Baker kept pressuring me to give him results. So I told myself I’d give him the results and then I’d take my time doing the experiments.”
“You fool! Didn’t it occur to you that he would review the results?”
“In other dissertations he frequently just reviewed the numbers. And he was satisfied with the numbers I submitted to him,” Danana mumbled. He then went on talking in a soft voice as if to himself, “It almost passed, but, unfortunately for me, he wanted to
