first biting taste that he liked. Soon a feeling of relief came over him. There was no work to be done; he had lied to them because he couldn't stand sitting with that Jeff anymore. Ra'fat smiled bitterly and thought, as he poured his second drink: Oh, God! How did intelligent, talented Sarah fall for this insignificant person? And why does Mr. Jeff feel so confident? He deals with people as if he were van Gogh or Picasso—where does he get this sense of importance? He's just a high school dropout and a runaway. Even the gas station where he used to work has fired him. Now he's living in Oakland with vagrants and criminals—an unemployed would-be artist and unbelievably insolent. I tried to start a conversation with him, just trying to be a good host, but he mocked me and yawned in my face. What a jerk! What does Sarah see in him? He is so dirty, he bathes only on special occasions; how come she's not disgusted when she kisses him? He splashes canvases with his nonsense, and these two foolish women treat him like a genius. He's not content with that; he wants to give me lessons in art? What insolence! Little by little, the drinks eased his irritation and he felt relaxed. He closed his eyes and sipped the drink with great relish. Suddenly the door opened hard and Sarah and Michelle came in and stood in front of him, obviously itching for a confrontation. Michelle asked him, “Where's the work you left us to do?”
“I finished it.”
“You're lying.”
He looked at his wife in silence then asked her, pretending to be worried, “Where'd Jeff go?”
“He left.”
“So soon?”
“He had to leave after what you've done. He has pride, like the rest of us. Do you know he waited for a whole hour to have dinner with you?”
Ra'fat bowed his head and began to shake the glass in his hand to melt the ice. He decided to avoid the confrontation as much as possible. But his silence aggravated Sarah's anger, so she stepped forward until she faced him directly and pounded the table so hard the flower vase shook. Then she screamed in a tone that sounded hysterical and strange to him, “It's not right to treat my boyfriend this way.”
“I didn't do anything improper. It's he who descended on us without an appointment.”
“Jeff is my boyfriend; I have the right to welcome him any time.”
“Enough, Sarah, please. I am tired and I want to go to bed. Good night,” said Ra'fat as he got off the chair and headed for the door.
But Sarah kept shouting, “How dare you insult my boyfriend like that. I hate how you treat him. It was so nice of him to come and show us his new painting and you ended up insulting him. But you won't be able to insult him again. I have a fantastic surprise for you. Would you like to know what it is?”
Nagi Abd al-Samad's Journal
The soldier fights his enemies ferociously, wishing to annihilate them all. But if he were destined, just once, to cross to the other side and to walk among them, he would see one of them writing a letter to his wife, another looking at his children's photos, and a third shaving and humming a tune. What would the soldier think then? Perhaps he would think that he was deceived when he was fighting against those good people and now would have to change his attitude toward them. Or he might think that what he saw was just a deceptive appearance, that those peaceful men, as soon as they took their positions and readied their weapons, would turn into criminals who'd kill his family and seek to humiliate his country. How much like this soldier I am!
I am now in America, which I've often attacked, shouted for it to fall and burned its flag in demonstrations; America, which is responsible for the poverty and misery of millions of humans in the world; America, which has supported and armed Israel, enabling it to kill the Palestinians and steal their land; America, which has supported all the corrupt, despotic rulers in the Arab world for its own interests; the evil America I am now seeing from inside. I am gripped by the same dilemma experienced by that soldier. A question persists in my mind: those kind Americans who treat strangers nicely, who smile in your face and like you the moment you meet them, who help you and let you go ahead of them and thank you profusely for the slightest reason? Do they realize the horrendous crimes their governments commit against humanity?
I wrote the section above to start my journal then crossed it out because I didn't like it. I've decided to write simply what I felt. I wouldn't publish this journal and no one else would read it but me. I am writing for myself, in order to record points of change in my life. I am now moving from my old world, the only world I've known, to a new and exciting world filled with possibilities and probabilities. I arrived this morning in Chicago. I got off the plane and stood in a long line until I got to the passport officer, who examined my papers twice and asked me several questions with a suspicious and hate-filled look on his face before he stamped my passport and let me in. After only a few steps into the terminal I saw my name written in English on a sign carried by a man over sixty. He had Egyptian features and a smooth brown complexion, was totally bald, and wore glasses whose silver frames gave his face a rather formal look. His clothes were elegant and well fitting, indicating a refined taste: dark blue corduroy trousers, a light gray jacket, a white shirt with an open collar and black athletic shoes. I approached him, pulling my suitcase. His face lit up and he asked me, “Are you Nagi Abd al-Samad?”
I nodded. He shook my hand warmly and said, “Welcome to Chicago. I'm Muhammad Salah, professor in the department of histology where you'll be studying.”
At the end of the sentence I detected a slight accent in his Arabic. I thanked him profusely, saying I appreciated his generosity for leaving his family on his day off to meet me at the airport. He made a gesture with his hand in the American way, as if he were chasing away a fly, as if to say that thanks were not needed or deserved. He tried to help me carry the suitcase to the car, but I refused, thanking him. He said as he started the car, “We Egyptians like to be welcomed with warm feelings. When we travel, even a short distance, we like to have somebody meet us, right?”
“Thank you very much, Doctor.”
“That's the mayor's duty!”
I looked at him quizzically and he laughed loudly then said merrily as he turned the car on the curving road, “Egyptians here call me ‘the mayor of Chicago,’ and I do my best not to lose the title.”
“Sir, have you been here a long time?”
“Thirty years.”
“Thirty years?” I repeated in astonishment. We were both silent for a moment, then he said in a different tone of voice, “The president of the Egyptian Student Union in America was supposed to meet you, but he begged to be excused for circumstances. He's your colleague from Cairo University Medical School.”
“What's his name?”
“Ahmad Danana.”
“Ahmad Abd al-Hafeez Danana?”
“I think this is his full name. Do you know him?”
“All graduates of Qasr al-Ayni know him. He's an agent of the secret police.”
Dr. Salah fell silent and looked slightly upset. I felt sorry and said, “Sorry, Doctor, but this Danana got me and many colleagues arrested and detained during the second Gulf war.”
He remained silent, his eyes on the road, then said, “Even if that were true, I advise you to forget it; you should start your scientific journey having got rid of all your old quarrels.”
I was on the point of answering him, but he quickly asked me, to change the subject, “What do you think of Chicago?”
“It's big and beautiful.”
“Chicago is a fantastic city but it is treated unfairly. Its reputation in the world is that it's a city of gangsters. But the truth is, it is one of the most important centers of American culture.”
“There are no gangs?”
“In the 1920s and 1930s the Mafia was quite active