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

“Why does that happen?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Tell me how your feeling changes.”

“Desire hides details. Once you see the details you lose the desire.”

“I don’t understand. Give me examples.”

“If you were hungry, you would never notice the little shreds of onion on the edge of the plate. You’d notice them only after you’d become full. If you noticed them before eating, you’d lose your appetite. Do you understand?”

The psychiatrist nodded and made a gesture for him to continue, so he went on. “When you desire a woman, you don’t see her minute details. You do that only after you make love to her. You will notice, for instance, that her fingernails are not quite clean or that one of her fingers is too short or that her back is covered with dark spots. If you notice that before you sleep with her, you’ll lose the desire. And this is exactly what happens with my wife. When I get close to her, her details show clearly and take hold of my thinking so that I lose desire toward her.”

“This will help us a lot,” the psychiatrist muttered, then went back to his professional smile and opened a nearby drawer and said confidently, as he handed him a bottle of medication, “One tablet with breakfast for a week.”

Then he picked up another drug in front of him and said, “And this pill half an hour before sex.”

Salah thought to himself: Do these tablets and pills treat the sorrows of sixty years? How silly it all seems! Why is this boy so self-confident? To hell with you and your pills! What do you know about real life? There he is, getting up to see him off at the door, so affectionately and respectfully. He is applying everything he’s learned in medical school under the heading of “How to Deal with Your Patients.”

The psychiatrist kept Salah’s hand in his for a while and said slowly, “Dr. Salah, in conditions like yours, the patient usually tries to run away from therapy by projecting his hatred on the doctor. I think you are smarter than that. Rest assured that I want to help you and I am sorry if I upset you by what I said. See you in a week, same time.”

They gave me a small office in the histology department and asked me to print a sign with my name to hang outside my door. I went to the ground floor, where I found the person in charge of signs, an old American man who received me in a friendly way and asked me to write my name on a piece of paper. Then, without taking his eyes off the sign he was working on, he said, “Come after lunch to get your sign.”

I was surprised because lunch was only an hour away. I went back to him at the appointed time and he pointed with his hand saying, “You’ll find it in there.”

I found my name elegantly embossed on the new sign. I picked it up and stood reluctantly then asked him, “What should I do now?”

“Take it.”

“Shouldn’t I sign a receipt that I have received it?”

“Isn’t this your sign?”

“Yes.”

“Would anyone else come to take it?”

I shook my head and thanked him. In the elevator I laughed at myself. I must get rid of the Egyptian bureaucratic legacy I was carrying in my blood. This simple American worker has given me a lesson: why should I sign for receiving a sign that bears my name?

The day passed uneventfully. After lunch, I was reading the departmental class schedule when Ahmad Danana appeared. He stormed into the room and said loudly, “Thank God for your safe arrival, Nagi.”

I got up and shook his hand. I remembered Dr. Salah’s advice and tried to look friendly. We exchanged a few words about nothing in particular when he suddenly nudged me in the shoulder and said in a commanding tone of voice, “Come with me.”

He accompanied me through the corridors of the department until we got to a room lined with shelves chock-full of reams of paper and notebooks of different shapes and colors. Then he said to me, “Take all the notebooks, paper, and pens you want.”

I took some notebooks and colored pens, and he said, laughing, “These supplies are for the researchers in the department, all free, at the expense of the store owner.”

“Thank you. I took what I needed.”

We crossed a corridor on our way back, then he said, out of the blue, “All the Egyptians who came to Chicago, I have done all of them all kinds of favors; I have stood by them and helped them but they have rarely been grateful.”

I didn’t like the way he spoke, but I kept my peace. When we got to the door of my office he shook my hand to say good-bye and said affectionately, “I wish you success, Nagi.”

“Thank you.”

“Tonight we have a meeting at the Egyptian Student Union. Would you like to come so I can introduce you to our colleagues?”

I looked reluctant but he went on, “I’ll wait for you at six. Here’s the address.”

I went back to my apartment and sat, smoking and thinking: Ahmad Danana was an agent of the State Secret Security. No good would ever come from him. Why was he so friendly with me? There must be something behind it. Why did I get involved with him? I should’ve avoided him completely. I was about to call him to turn down the invitation, but I said to myself that the union belonged to all Egyptian students in Chicago and I had every right to participate and to get acquainted with them. I wouldn’t give up my right because of my fear of Danana. I bathed and put on my clothes and went to the meeting. The address was printed clearly with a detailed map, so I arrived at the union headquarters easily. There were twenty-three students,