Chicago, Alaa Aswany [first e reader .TXT] 📗

games about which he had become such an expert that his American friends often consulted him if they had disagreements about its rules. He would sit in the park, wearing his cap backward, following the game intensely and enthusiastically while sipping beer from the large glass that never left his hand. That was the image that he loved of himself: to be a complete genuine American, pure and without blemish. At receptions and on social occasions, when someone asked him, “Where’re you from?” Ra’fat would promptly answer, “I’m from Chicago.”

Many people accepted this answer simply, but some of them, sometimes, would look at his Arab features suspiciously then ask, “Where were you before coming to America?”

At that point he would sigh, shrug his shoulders, and repeat his favorite sentence that had become a slogan for him: “I was born in Egypt and I fled the oppression and backwardness to justice and freedom.”

This absolute pride in everything American coupled with contempt for everything Egyptian explains everything he does. Because Egyptians are overweight and they lead unhealthy lives, he stays svelte. And even though he is sixty, he still cuts an attractive figure: tall with a graceful, athletic build. He has only a few wrinkles in his smooth complexion and his hair is discreetly dyed in a convincing manner by leaving some gray in the temple area and the front of the head. The truth is, he is handsome with an inherited aristocratic bearing that shows in his clothes and the way he moves. He resembles to a great extent the actor Rushdi Abaza, except for a tentativeness and sluggishness that detract from the magnetism of his face. Because he is proud of his country’s accomplishments, Dr. Thabit avidly acquires the latest American technology, starting with his late model Cadillac (the down payment for which he paid with his honorarium for some lectures he gave last winter at Harvard), the latest cell phone, a shaver that sprays aftershave, and a lawn mower that plays music while trimming the grass. In the presence of Egyptians in particular, he loves to show off his modern gadgets and then ask them sarcastically, “When will Egypt be able to produce a machine like this? After how many centuries?” Then he bursts out laughing in the midst of the embarrassed Egyptians. When an Egyptian student in the department excels, Ra’fat must needle him. He goes up to him, shakes his hand, and says, “Congratulations for excelling in spite of the wretched education you’ve received in Egypt. You must thank America for what you’ve achieved.”

After 9/11 Ra’fat came out publicly against Arabs and Muslims, using language that most fanatical Americans might be reluctant to use. He would say, for instance, “The United States has the right to ban any Arab from coming in until it is certain that such a person is civilized and does not think that killing is a religious duty.”

Hence the admission of Nagi Abd al-Samad was a personal defeat for Dr. Thabit. In a short while, however, he decided to forget the whole matter. He lifted his right hand from the steering wheel and pushed the button of the CD player to listen to the songs of Lionel Richie, whom he adored. He thought of spending a quiet evening with his wife, Michelle, and his daughter, Sarah. He remembered the special bottle of Royal Salute scotch that he had bought a few days earlier and decided to open it tonight because he needed a good drink. After a while he arrived at his house, a handsome white two-story building with a beautiful garden and a backyard. He was met by his German shepherd, Metz, who barked loudly for a long time. He went around the house as usual to reach the garage. To his surprise he saw the lights on in the dining room, which meant they had company. He was annoyed, since Michelle had not told him that she was expecting anyone for dinner. He pressed the remote and the car locked automatically, then he closed the garage door and pulled the bolt to make sure it was securely locked. He walked slowly toward the house, trying to guess who the guest might be. He hurriedly patted Metz and got away from him, then entered through the side door and crossed the corridor carefully. Michelle heard his footsteps on the wooden floor and hurried toward him and planted a kiss on his check, saying merrily, “Come quickly. We have a wonderful surprise.”

When he went into the dining room Jeff, Sarah’s boyfriend, was standing next to her. Jeff is about twenty-five, thin with a pale face. He has beautiful blue eyes, delicate pursed lips, and smooth chestnut-colored hair arranged in a long braid down his back. He had on a white T-shirt, blue jeans stained with colors in many places, and old sandals from which his dirty toes were visible. Jeff came forward to greet Ra’fat as Michelle’s voice announced in the background, “Jeff has finished his painting this evening and decided that we’d be the first to see it. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Great. Welcome, Jeff,” said Ra’fat, having noticed after a side glance that his wife had had her hair done, preened, and put on her new corduroy pants. Jeff came forward to shake hands with him, laughing as he said, “Let me be frank with you, Ra’fat. Your opinion matters to me, of course, but when I finished my new painting I thought only of one thing: that Sarah be the first to see it.”

“Thank you,” whispered Sarah as she pressed his hand and looked at his handsome face in admiration. Michelle then asked, as though she were interviewing him on television, “Tell me, Jeff, what does an artist feel when he finishes a new work?”

Jeff raised his head slowly, looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and was silent for a moment, then extended his arms in front of him as if embracing the world and said in a dreamy voice, “I