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

had taken off her dress and stood in the middle of the room in her slip. Her black body with its many curves and folds appeared in the soft light as if it were a huge sea creature just captured from the ocean. She got so close to me I could feel her chest on my face. She was panting, a result of smoking, no doubt. She placed her hand on my thigh and whispered, “Come on, love. I’ll take you to paradise.”

She smelled of rotten sweat and cheap, loud perfume. I got up and away from her then gathered up my courage and said, “I am very sorry, Donna. Actually I am not feeling well.”

She came close again and whispered, “I know how to make you feel better.”

This time I blocked her with my hand to keep her away, saying, as I got bolder and more specific, “I am happy to have met you but actually I am tired and won’t be able to…”

She looked at me, as if trying to understand, then got down on her knees and placed her hand between my thighs and said in a hissing voice, “How about a blow job? I’m really good at it. You’ll like it a lot.”

“No, thank you.”

“Just as you like.”

She got up slowly then said calmly as she looked for her dress, “But you’ll pay my fee.”

“What?”

“Listen, I am not here to play games with you. We agreed on a hundred fifty dollars that you’ll pay, so long as I’ve come to you, whether you slept with me or not.”

“But I—”

“You’ll pay me a hundred fifty dollars!” she shouted angrily and began to stare at me with her good eye while her astigmatic eye gave a different impression.

“I won’t pay,” I said firmly.

“You will.”

“I won’t pay a single dollar,” I shouted, feeling very exasperated. She seemed to have suddenly gone mad. She grabbed the sleeve of my robe and began to shake me hard. “You have to learn how to treat women in America; do you understand what I am saying, darling? Women here are respectable citizens, and not creatures without dignity as you treat them in the desert you came from.”

“I respect women but I don’t respect whores.”

She stared at me for a moment then suddenly tried to slap me on the face. I backed up my head quickly and her hand missed but hit my right ear. I felt dizzy and felt a knot in my stomach and lost control because of the assault, the wine, and the disappointment. So I pushed her shoulder hard, shouting, “Get out!”

She retreated before me and I pushed her even harder. She staggered then lost her balance and fell to the floor.

“Get out now. I am going to call the police to come and get you, whore.”

She remained seated in the same position: her legs parted in front of her, her hands lying on the floor, and her head tilted back, as if she were watching something on the ceiling. I began to call her names. I used all the English insults that I knew. She glanced at me resentfully then extended her hand toward me, pointing her finger, as if threatening me. She opened her mouth to say something and suddenly her face convulsed and she broke into tears. I was overcome with a feeling of sorrow that soon turned into regret, so I said in a soft voice, “Donna, I’m sorry. Actually, I’m quite drunk.”

She remained silent and I thought she hadn’t heard me. Then her voice came hoarsely while her head was still bowed. “You don’t know how much I need the money. I’m raising three kids doing this job.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Their father ran away with a woman twenty years younger and left them to me. I don’t have any legal rights because we weren’t married. And even if I had any rights, I couldn’t get them because I don’t know where he is. I can’t give the children up. They’ve done nothing wrong in this drama. I have to pay for everything all on my own: school expenses and food and clothing and the gas and electric bills. I don’t like to be a whore but I couldn’t find another job. I tried hard but I couldn’t.”

While she was talking I got up from where I was sitting. I knelt on my knees beside her then got closer and kissed her on the forehead. “Forgive me, Donna.”

“It’s okay.”

“Have you really forgiven me?”

She raised her head slowly toward me and smiled sadly. “I’ve forgiven you.”

We remained silent, totally exhausted, as if we were two boxers who had just finished a grueling match. She looked at me and said tenderly, “Can you pay me half?

I didn’t answer. She placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Pay me half the amount, please. I really need the money. The evening is gone and I won’t find another customer.”

I still didn’t answer, so she whispered in a last attempt, “Consider it a loan to a friend. I’ll return it when I can.”

I went to the closet and came back with a hundred-dollar bill. Donna took it quickly, embraced me, and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Thank you, Nagi. You really are generous.”

After a short while she had put on her clothes and asked me as she regained her gaiety, “I’m going. Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.”

She headed for the door of the apartment, opened it, then turned around, as if she had remembered something and said in an affected, optimistic, enticing tone like that used by publicists, “If you want twenty-year-old women, you can call me. They’re really gorgeous, blondes and brunettes, whatever you like. I’ll give you the same rate and I’ll consider the hundred dollars part of the payment. I have to be generous with you like you were with me.”

I observed her in silence until she went out and closed the door.

CHAPTER 8

When Dr. Ahmad Danana