instance. At least here the dangerous neighborhoods are well known, but in New York, the danger is all over the place; armed men might attack you anywhere in the city. Would you like a little tour?”
He didn't wait for my answer. He left the expressway and for half an hour he showed me around Sears Tower and Water Tower Place, and drove by the Museum of Contemporary Art, slowing down so that I could see the sculpture that Picasso gave as a gift to Chiago. And when he drove on Lake Shore Drive he pointed, saying, “This is Grant Park. Doesn't this spot remind you of the Corniche in Alexandria?”
“You still remember Egypt?”
He smiled and said, “Of course. And by the way, what's happening in Egypt these days? What I read in the newspapers worries me.”
“On the contrary, recent events make one optimistic. The Egyptians have awakened and started demanding their rights. The corrupt regime is shaking hard and I believe its days are numbered.”
“Don't you think the demonstrations and the strikes will lead the country to anarchy?”
“We cannot obtain freedom without paying a price.”
“You think Egyptians are ready for democracy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that half the Egyptians are illiterate. Wouldn't we do better concentrating on teaching them how to read and write?”
“Egypt has the oldest parliament in the East. Besides, illiteracy does not impede the practice of democracy, as witnessed by the success of democracy in India despite the high illiteracy rate. One doesn't need a university diploma to realize that the ruler is oppressive and corrupt. On the other hand, to eradicate illiteracy requires that we elect a fair and efficient political regime.”
For the second time I felt that he was upset with what I said. He turned once again onto a highway and said, “You must be quite tired. You've got to rest. We will have time to take a tour of Chicago later on. We're now heading for the university, learn the route.”
“I'll try. I'm not good with directions.”
“It's impossible to get lost in Chicago because it is organized on regular north-south and east-west lines. It's enough to know the number of a building to reach it easily.”
We took a tour of the university shopping center, and he helped me buy groceries. Then he said kindly, “If you like ful medammis, there are cans in the back row.”
“Do Americans eat ful and taamiya like us?”
“Of course not, but a Palestinian immigrant produces them here in Chicago. Would you like to try?”
“While in Egypt, I've eaten enough ful to last me till Judgment Day.”
When he laughs his face looks quite friendly and affectionate. We arrived at the student dormitory. It's a big building surrounded by a large garden. The black receptionist welcomed us, and it was clear that she and Dr. Salah were friends, for he inquired about her family. She typed my name and the information appeared on the monitor. “Apartment 407, fourth floor,” she said as she handed me the key with a smile. I said good-bye to Dr. Salah and thanked him anew. I took my suitcase, went up to my apartment, closed the door behind me, and took off my clothes. It was warm, so I stayed in my underwear. As soon as I saw the bed I fell upon it and slept very soundly, waking up in the afternoon. The apartment has one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen opening to a small living room big enough only for a table and two chairs. It's a small but clean place, and because of the patterned wallpaper, the lush carpeting, and the indirect lighting it has the look of handsome Western homes that we see in foreign movies. I took a hot bath, made myself some coffee, then stretched out on the bed and lit a cigarette. At that point something strange happened. I was overcome by vivid sexual fantasies and a violent and persistent desire that was almost painful. I feel embarrassed as I write this down, but I was so greatly aroused for no reason I could think of. Was it my feeling of freedom beginning my new life in America? Was it the clean air I breathed on the shore of Lake Michigan? Or could it be the quiet atmosphere in the apartment and the indirect lighting and the lazy day off? Could all that have reminded me of Friday mornings in the Giza apartment that has witnessed my adventures? I don't know. I tried to resist the desire and think of something else, but I couldn't, so I got off the bed, picked up the telephone, and asked the receptionist whether I could entertain a girlfriend in my apartment. She laughed and said in a merry tone, “Of course you can. This is a free country. But the regulations here do not permit your friend to spend the night with you. She has to leave before ten P.M.”
The receptionist's words aroused me even more. I got up and fixed myself a tuna sandwich and opened the bottle of wine I had bought on the plane. I began to drink slowly and leaf through the huge telephone directory. I knew that prostitution was not legal in Chicago but I soon figured out that it existed under another name. I found in the telephone book ads for beautiful women expert in giving “special massage.” I said to myself that that was exactly what I wanted. I stayed away from the large ads, which I figured would be exorbitant in price. I chose the smallest ad and dialed the number. I held the receiver to my ear and I heard my heartbeats, strong and fast from sheer excitement. I heard a woman's voice, soft and sleepy, as if she had just awakened.
“How can I help you?”
“I want a beautiful woman to massage me,” I blurted out.
“That'll cost you two hundred fifty dollars an hour.”
“That's too much. I am a student. I don't have a lot of money.”
“What's your name?”
“Nagi. And you?”
“Donna. Where are you from?”
“Egypt.”
She cried enthusiastically, “Egypt? I love Egypt. I dream of going one day to the Pyramids, riding a camel, and seeing the crocodiles in the Nile. Listen, Nagi, do you look like Anwar Sadat? He was very handsome.”
“Actually I do; so much so that many people think I am his son. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. What are you doing in America?”
“I am studying at the University of Illinois. Listen, I'll invite you next winter to spend your vacation in Egypt. What do you say?”
“It's my life's dream.”
“I promise you. But, my dear, I cannot pay two hundred fifty dollars for an hour of love.”
She was silent for a moment then said in a soft voice, “I'll help you out, Nagi. Hang up now and call me again in five minutes.”
Donna hung up suddenly and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I was assailed by apprehensions: Why did she end the call in this manner? What's she afraid of? Are the police after her? Did they get my telephone number? Will they arrest me on the charge of getting in touch with a prostitution ring? What an inauspicious beginning for my lucky scholarship. I was gripped with anxiety and began to regret the adventure, but I couldn't go back. I rang up five minutes later. She told me, “Listen, I'll make you an offer outside the company. Instead of two-fifty, I'll come myself for only a hundred fifty an hour.”
I hesitated a little as she said, laughing, “This is a special offer from Donna because you're a handsome Egyptian like Sadat. If I were you, I'd accept it at once.”
“Will you make me happy?”
“I'll take you to paradise.”
“Okay then.”
I gave her the address and we agreed that she'd come at seven o'clock. Before she ended the call, she whispered in a frightened voice, “Your number has been recorded by the company. Someone will contact you to ask you why you didn't agree to have a woman come to you. Tell them you've changed your mind because you're tired and that you'll call again tomorrow. Please don't tell them what we've agreed to. I don't think you'd like me to get hurt.”
And just as she said, a man called