Chicago

CHAPTER 2

The University of Illinois is one of the largest schools in the United States. It is divided into several campuses: the Medical Center on the west side comprises the medical colleges. The nonmedical colleges are in other parts of the city. The Medical Center started in the 1850s with modest means then developed and expanded, like everything in Chicago, at a very fast rate, until it became a huge self-contained town on thirty acres, occupying more than a hundred buildings that constitute the medical school, pharmacology school, school of dentistry, nursing, library branches, and the administration. In addition there are movie theaters, theaters, athletic facilities, giant stores, and a free local transit system working around the clock.

The University of Illinois Medical School is one of the largest in the world and has one of the oldest histology departments, housed in a modern five-story building surrounded by a large garden, in the middle of which is a bronze bust of a man in his fifties who seems to stare into space with big, tired, dreamy eyes. On the pedestal the following words are inscribed in large letters: “The great Italian scientist, Marcello Malpighi (1628–1694), founder of histology. He started it and we are here to finish the job.” This fighting tone epitomizes the spirit of the department. As soon as you enter through the glass door, you feel you've left the world with its preoccupations and noise and found yourself in the sanctum of science. The place is very quiet with soft, light music coming from the internal public address system. The lighting is uniform, designed to be comfortable for the eyes, not distracting and not tied to time outside. Dozens of scientists and students are in constant motion.

The word histology has its origins in a Latin word meaning “the science of tissues,” the science that uses the microscope to study living tissues. It constitutes the basis for medicine because discovering a cure for any disease always starts with the study of the normal, healthy tissues. Despite histology's extreme importance, it is neither popular nor lucrative. A histologist is most likely a physician who chooses to forgo specializations that bring fortune and glory (like surgery or gynecology) to spend his life in a cold, closed lab, bent over a microscope for long hours, his utmost hope to discover an unknown element of a microscopic cell about which no one will ever hear. Histologists are unknown soldiers who sacrifice fame and fortune for science and, with time, acquire the characteristics of craftsmen (like carpenters, sculptors, and palm leaf weavers): a comfortable, staid sitting style, heft in the lower body, few words, the power of observation, and a scrutinizing gaze. They are also distinguished by patience, calm, clarity of thinking, and a great ability to concentrate and reflect. The department is comprised of five professors ranging in age from fifty to seventy. Each of them attained his post after years of constant, arduous work. Their days are very tight and their calendars busy for weeks, and because they have so much research to do, they have to spend all their time in the lab. Other than on weekends, they rarely have the chance to talk. In the weekly departmental meetings they usually make their decisions quickly to save time. Hence what happened last Tuesday is considered out of the ordinary.

The departmental meeting came to order and the professors sat in their usual seats: Dr. Bill Friedman, the chairman, at the head of the table with his mostly bald head, white complexion, and meek features that make him look more like an honest, hardworking paterfamilias. To his right sat the two Egyptian-American professors, Ra'fat Thabit and Muhammad Salah, then the statistics professor John Graham, with his heavy build, light white beard, gray, always disheveled hair, and small round glasses behind which gleam intelligent, skeptical eyes. He has a faint, sarcastic smile and a long pipe that never leaves his mouth, even though it was not lit because smoking was not permitted at the meeting. Graham bears a considerable resemblance to the American writer Ernest Hemingway, which always elicits humorous comments from his colleagues. On the other side of the table sat George Roberts, whom they call “the Yankee” because everything about him is stereotypically American: blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair, casual attire, a broad, strong, athletic body, and sculpted muscles indicating strict regular exercise, a habit of putting his feet up on the table in the face of people he is talking to, licking his fingers while eating, and a soda can always in his hand, from which he takes a small sip then shrugs his shoulders and speaks in a twang harking back to Texas, where he grew up before coming to Chicago. There remained the oldest and most prolific professor, Dennis Baker, silent, wearing simple, clean clothes that are always slightly wrinkled, perhaps because he couldn't find the time to iron them properly. He is tall, and his old body is taut and firm. He is completely bald, his big eyes sometimes radiating with a piercing glance, gleaming so much as to display a mysterious authority. Dennis Baker's colleagues tease him by saying that he uses speech just like a driver uses a car horn: only when absolutely necessary.

The meeting went on the usual way, and before it adjourned, the chairman, Bill Friedman, asked his colleagues to stay. He blushed as he usually did when he had something to say; then he looked at the papers in front of him and said in a calm voice, “I'd like to consult you about something. You know that the Egyptian Educational Bureau has an agreement with the department to send Egyptian students to study for the PhD in histology. We now have three students: Tariq Haseeb, Shaymaa Muhammadi, and Ahmad Danana. This week the bureau sent the papers of a new student, whose name is”—he stopped and read the name with difficulty—“Nagi Abd al-Samad. This student is different from the others: first, because he wants to get an MS and not a PhD, and second, because he does not work at a university. I was surprised at the beginning—I couldn't understand why he wants to get an MS in histology if he doesn't work in scientific research or teaching. This morning I contacted the head of the bureau in Washington, D.C., and she told me that that student was denied a job at Cairo University for political reasons, and that his obtaining an MS would strengthen his position in his lawsuit against Cairo University. I looked at the student's file and found it to be quite promising: he has high scores both in English and overall. And as you know, the bureau will cover his study expenses. I'd like to know what you think. Should we admit this student? Graduate study slots here are limited, as you know. I will listen to you, and if you don't all agree I'll put it to a vote.”

Friedman looked around. George Roberts, “the Yankee,” was the first to ask to speak. He took a sip from his can of Pepsi and said, “I don't object to admitting Egyptian students. But I'd only like to remind you that this is one of the most important histology departments in the world. An opportunity to study here is rare and precious. We shouldn't squander it just because a student from Africa would like to win a lawsuit against his government. I believe education here has a higher purpose. The spot that this Egyptian would get is needed by a genuine researcher to learn and discover new things in science. I refuse to admit this student.”

“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 anti-racial-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 and shouts loudly or claps his hands and heaps obscene insults on an imaginary person or raises his arms and dances wantonly all over the room. That is the way he expresses joy when he manages to understand a scientific problem that he has had some difficulty comprehending.

With the same determination, Tariq Haseeb continues his holy march every day with the exception of Sunday, which he devotes to chores that might distract him from studying the rest of the week. He does his grocery shopping at the shopping center and his laundry in the apartment building, vacuums his room, and cooks for the week, keeping the food in paper containers that can be easily reheated. It is this military precision that has enabled him to achieve the difficult goal of staying at the top. He placed first in his Cairo primary school, third in preparatory school, and eighth nationally in the general secondary school certificate with a 99.8 percentile. After that Tariq maintained the grade “excellent” throughout his five years in medical school but did not have the right connections, so he was appointed to the histology department rather than the general surgery department as he had dreamed. But it didn't take him long to overcome his sorrow, and he devoted himself to work anew, obtained an MS in histology with distinction, and was nominated for a scholarship to obtain a doctorate from the University of Illinois. In his first two years there he maintained straight As.

Does that mean that Tariq Haseeb does not have any fun?

Not true. He also has his little pleasures, such as the basbusa tray whose ingredients he gets from Egypt and which he takes delight in making himself. He places it on the kitchen table, and when he is pleased with the way he studies he decides to reward himself by devouring a piece of basbusa commensurate in size to the work done. He also has a recreational hour that he takes pains to observe every night, even during examination periods. It is divided into two parts: watching pro wrestling and fantasizing. He cannot go to sleep before watching on the sports channel a complete match of professional wrestling. From the beginning he roots for the bigger wrestler. When that wrestler rains blows on his rival's face, causing him to bleed profusely, or when he picks him up by the waist and throws him down on the floor of the ring or when he locks his head with his huge arm and slams it on the edge of the ring, as if it were a melon about to explode, Tariq claps and jumps up and down in sheer ecstasy and shouts as if he were an adoring, ecstatic fan at an Umm Kulthum concert in Cairo: “Wonderful, mountain monster! Drink his blood! Break his head! Finish him off tonight.” By the end of the match, Tariq collapses on his bed, out of breath, sweat pouring from his pores, as if it were he who'd fought the wrestling match. But he would by then have satisfied something deep inside him (being partial to strength, perhaps, because he is thin and has been in poor health from a young age).

After the delight of wrestling comes the moment of fantasy, the secret pleasure for which he yearns so much that he pants and feels his heartbeat shaking him to his foundations as he takes the CD from its hiding place in the lower desk drawer. He places it in the computer drive, and soon a magical world of utmost beauty reveals itself to him: graceful, voluptuous blond women with soft and delectable legs and extremely splendid breasts of different sizes with aroused erect nipples, the mere sight of which transports him beyond sanity. Then strong muscular men appear with long, swollen, and erect organs, built as if they were giant, well-wrought steel hammers. The women and men soon start making love harmoniously, accompanied by a cacophony of orgiastic screams, with camera close-ups of women crying from sheer pleasure and biting their lower lips. Tariq cannot stand this excitement for more than a few minutes after which he dashes to the bathroom as if in a race or putting out a fire. He stands in front of the sink and gets rid of his pleasure and little by little he calms down and regains his equanimity, then takes a hot bath, performs his ablution and his evening prayers—both mandatory and optional—and finally pulls a woman's nylon stocking that he had brought with him from Egypt over his head so that in the morning his hair would be smooth, thus covering, as much as possible, his bald spot, which, unfortunately, is constantly expanding.

At that point a day in the life of Tariq Haseeb would come to an end. He would turn off the light and lie down on his right side, in emulation of the tradition of the Prophet, peace be upon him. He would whisper in a submissive voice, “O God, I have submitted myself to You and turned my face toward You and left all my affairs up to You. I have entrusted my back to You, out of desire and fear of You. There is no recourse and no succor for me except in You. I believe in Your book that You have revealed and in the Prophet You have sent.” Then he'd fall asleep.

THE MORE PRECISE THE MACHINE, the more subject it is to damage. One hard blow to the most sophisticated computer is enough to render it inoperable. Tariq Haseeb received just such a blow last Sunday. In order to understand what happened, we must first examine how Tariq behaves with women.

When a man likes a woman he seeks out her affection with tender talk or gladdens her heart with flirtation and praise, or just makes her laugh and amuses her with interesting stories. This is the nature of humans and animals too; even in the world of insects, if a male wants to have intercourse with a female, he must first fondle her antennae gently and softly until she softens and accepts. This law of nature, unfortunately, does not apply to Tariq Haseeb. He is the opposite of all of that: if he likes a beautiful woman he starts to treat her aggressively and tries to embarrass and harass her in every possible way. And the more he likes the woman the more vicious he is toward her. Why does he do that? No one knows. Perhaps it is to hide his excessive bashfulness before women, or because his attraction to a woman makes him feel weak in comparison to her, so he tries to overcome that by mounting a crushing attack against her. Or because, in the eagle-like loneliness in which he lives and his relentless fight to get to the top, he internally resists any feeling that might distract him from his work. This strange quirk in Tariq's character has ruined several prospective engagements that he had undertaken with the best of intentions but which all ended in regrettable incidents. The most recent had happened two years before his coming to the States on this scholarship, when he went with his mother to ask for the hand of the daughter of a retired army general. The visit started amicably: cold drinks and pastries were served and courtesies exchanged. The young lady, Rasha, was a graduate of the Spanish department in the College of Languages. She was very pretty: she had long, smooth black hair and a captivating smile revealing snow-white, perfectly arranged teeth. She had two enchanting dimples on both sides of her alluring white face. As for her figure it was luscious and curvaceous, filled with vitality and sending off lustful vibrations in the air that made Tariq lose his concentration for a few moments as he imagined himself possessing the bride-to-be's body, and doing such things to it. But his admiration, as usual, turned into an aggressive inclination that he tried to control at first, but he failed and gave in to it and it swept him overboard. The father of the bride, as usually happened on such occasions, was talking about his daughter lovingly and admiringly. Somewhat boastfully he said, “Rasha is our only daughter and we've done all we could to give her the best upbringing and education. Praise God, all her life she was in language schools, from nursery to secondary school.”

Tariq looked at him with his bulging eyes for a few moments then asked him with a mocking smile on his flushed face, “Pardon, pasha, what school exactly did Mademoiselle Rasha attend?”

The general fell silent for a moment, taken aback by the question, then answered smiling, still willing to be tolerant, “Amon School.”

Thereupon, Tariq found himself in front of the goal, so he kicked the ball hard. With a light laugh on his face that he tried to hide in order to double its impact, he said, “Pardon, General. Amon School was never a language school. Amon is an experimental school, that is, a regular government school but with nominal fees.”

The general's face showed signs of distress which soon turned into resentment, and he got into a heated debate with Tariq about the difference between experimental and exclusive language schools. Tariq's mother tried to intervene with pacifying words and secretly gestured to her son several times with her eyebrows and lips to be quiet. But his viciousness was out of his control. He cruelly started to refute the arguments of the father of the bride, having decided to deliver a final, crushing blow. Sighing, as if he had already tired of discussing self-evident platitudes, he said, “With all due respect, sir, what you're saying is absolutely wrong. There's a big difference between Amon School and language schools. Language schools in Egypt are few and well known and one cannot enroll in them easily.”

“What do you mean?” asked the general, his face now red with vexation. Tariq took some time before delivering his coup de grâce. “I mean exactly what I said.”

Several moments of silence passed during which the general exerted a great effort (almost audible as hyperventilation) to control his anger. Finally he turned to Tariq's mother sitting to his left and said in a tone of voice fraught with meaning as he fidgeted, indicating the end of the visit and the engagement, “We are blessed and honored, dear lady.”

The return trip seemed too long. There was heavy silence in the taxicab. Tariq's mother had put on her best outfit for the engagement: a long dark blue suit and a bonnet of the same color adorned with sequins and crystal beads. She wanted her son to be engaged before he traveled on the scholarship, but every time he behaved like this and ruined the engagement. She had given up on giving him any advice; she had told him many times that he was a respectable and highly regarded catch, that many a girl would love to have him as her husband, but that his combative ways left people with the impression that he was aggressive and strange, so they were afraid of him for their daughter.

“Did you see these liars, Mother? They called Amon School a language school!” he said suddenly, as though he sensed what his mother was thinking.

His mother looked at him for a long while then said in a soft voice in which were mixed rebuke and kindness, “It wasn't worth all the fuss, my dear. The man just wanted to brag about his daughter, which is natural.”

Tariq interrupted her sharply. “He can brag as much as he likes, but he shouldn't lie to us. When he says that Amon School is a language school, it means that he has little regard for our minds. I cannot let him get away with that.”

ON SUNDAY EVENING TARIQ HASEEB woke up from his siesta and said to himself that he'd finish the statistics assignment then go out to do his week's shopping. He applied himself to solving the problems, thinking hard and writing down the numbers then eagerly checking the back of the book, hoping every time that his answer would be correct. Suddenly the alarm sounded throughout the building and a voice came over the public address system warning that there was a fire in the building and demanding that the tenants leave their apartments immediately. Tariq's mind was full of numbers, so it took him a few moments to realize what was happening, and he jumped up and rushed down the stairs in the midst of the panicked students. The firefighters spread throughout the building, making sure that every floor had been evacuated, and then they pushed certain buttons on the walls and immediately nonflammable steel doors were lowered in place. The students gathered in the lobby; they were excited, laughing nervously and whispering anxiously. Most of them had gone out of their apartments in their sleepwear, which gave Tariq (despite the gravity of the situation) a rare chance to check out the girls' bare legs. Three persons appeared, coming from the farther end of the lobby, and little by little their features became recognizable: two Chicago policemen, one white on the short and heavy side, the other a tall, muscular black man. Between them walked Shaymaa Muhammadi in the flannel gallabiya she had had no time to change. They reached the reception desk and the white policeman took out a sheet of paper and said loudly in a formal tone of voice, “Young lady, this is an affidavit that you will sign to be responsible for any damages that might come to light in the future because of the fire you caused. You also have to sign a pledge that this won't happen again in the future.”

Shaymaa stared at the white policeman as if she didn't understand, whereupon the black policeman, looking like someone about to tell a biting joke, said, “Listen, my friend, I don't know what kind of food you eat in your country but I advise you to change your favorite dish because it almost burned down the building.”

The black policeman laughed unabashedly while his partner tried to decorously hide his smile. Shaymaa bent and signed the paper in silence. Before long the two policemen exchanged a few words and left. A short while later it was announced that the danger was over, and students began to go back up to their apartments. Shaymaa, however, remained standing in front of the reception office. She looked deathly pale and kept shaking and breathing heavily. She was trying to compose herself, as if she had just awakened from a terrifying nightmare. She felt that she was no longer in possession of her soul, that everything that was happening was unreal. She felt particularly humiliated that the firefighter had hugged her, and her back still hurt from the pressure of his hands. Tariq Haseeb stood scrutinizing her slowly, then circled around her twice, exploring, as if he were an animal sniffing another animal of an unknown species. From the first moment he felt attracted toward her, but his admiration, as usual, turned into extreme resentment. He knew her name and had seen her before in the histology department, but he enjoyed pretending that he didn't know her. He approached slowly and when he was right in front of her he fixed her with a scrutinizing, disapproving, suspicious glance that he used to use on Cairo Medical School students as he proctored them during their written exams. Before long he asked her haughtily, “Are you Egyptian?”

She answered with a nod from her tired head. Then his questions, bulletlike, rang out in quick succession: What do you study? Where do you live? How did you cause the fire? She kept answering in a soft voice, avoiding looking at his eyes. Silence fell for a moment, which Tariq thought was appropriate after his lightning attack. He said sharply, “Listen, sister Shaymaa. Here you are in America and not in Tanta. You have to behave in a civilized manner.”

She looked at him in silence. What would she tell him? What she's done is proof of her stupidity and backwardness. She was about to answer him when he approached her, ready to pounce on her, to silence and totally crush her.