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

hiding? Did she go to Mark’s father to ask him to support his child? She had told him once that she wanted to do so, but he had objected strenuously. He said she had to maintain her dignity. But he knew that he objected out of jealousy. He was afraid that her love for her old mate might be rekindled. He was a younger man and the two of them had a long history. Had she gone to him? He would never forgive her if she had.

Mark had got up, so Graham prepared breakfast for him, made him a large cup of hot chocolate, and turned on the cartoon channel. Then he went back to his room, closed the door, and lit his pipe, but he couldn’t help himself. So he went back and asked Mark, “Did you see your mom going out?”

“I was asleep.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Don’t worry about Mom, John. She’s a strong woman.”

John Graham laughed at his precociousness and hugged Mark and kissed him and sat next to him to play with him. A little while later he heard the door open, squeak, and close slowly. Soon Carol appeared at the door of the room. She was frowning and looked engrossed in distant thoughts despite her elegant appearance, which confirmed his suspicions. Graham led her gently but firmly to their room. He closed the door, doing his best to control his anger. “Where’ve you been?”

“Is this an official interrogation?”

“I’d like to know.”

“You don’t have the right.”

She was speaking in a hostile tone and at the same time avoiding looking at his face. He threw his stout body into the chair and took a few moments to light his pipe and exhale a thick cloud of smoke. Then he said calmly, “Carol, I am the last person on earth who seeks to possess the woman he loves. But I think, inasmuch as we live together, it is only natural for each of us to know where the other is going.”

“I am not going to ask for your written permission to go out,” she cried, apparently determined to escalate the disagreement as far as it would go. She was carrying the Sunday Chicago Tribune and in sheer anger threw it down and its many pages scattered all over the floor. She shouted, “This is unbearable!”

She started to rush out of the room but just one step away from the door she stopped suddenly, frozen in place. She didn’t go out and didn’t turn back toward him, as if she had responded to that established mysterious rhythm that grew between people who had been married for a long time. She just stood there, as if waiting for him or summoning him. He got the signal: he rushed toward her and embraced her from the back, then turned her around and hugged her, whispering, “Carol, what’s the matter?”

She didn’t answer. He started kissing her passionately until he felt her body soften little by little as if opening up before him. He led her gently toward the bed, but he felt her tears wetting his face and he asked her in alarm, “What happened?”

She moved away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. She was exerting an extraordinary effort to control herself but finally collapsed and began to sob uncontrollably. Speaking in a disjointed manner, she said, “I went to a job interview. I told myself I’d tell you only if I get the job. You’ve had enough disappointment on my account.”

He raised her hands and began kissing them. Her mellow voice reverberated, as if coming from the depths of sadness. “I can’t take this anymore. With all my experience, what more do I need to prove to get a job.”

A profound silence descended upon them. Then she whispered as she buried her head in his chest and succumbed to a new fit of crying, “Oh, John, I feel so humiliated.”

CHAPTER 16

The reverence with which Professor Dennis Baker is regarded could be attributed to various reasons: his strong personality, his integrity, his devotion to science, the way he treats his students and colleagues lovingly and fairly, his simple austere appearance, and his constant silence, which he only breaks to say something necessary and useful. But more important than all of that: his scientific achievements. Baker presents himself as a “photographer of cells,” words that encapsulate the hard work and effort that he has exerted over the past forty years to transform the photographing of cells from a mere ancillary method in scientific research into an established independent science that had its own tools and rules. Baker invented methods and techniques in photographing cells that were patented in his name. He published so many papers over the years that including his CV in the program of scientific conferences posed a real problem because it required several times as much space as any other professor’s CV. It has become impossible for any book on histology to be published in any university in the world without using Baker’s cell photograph collections. Professor Baker approached his work in the spirit of an artist. First, a mysterious thought would come to him; then it would persist and give him sleepless nights; then it would disappear, leaving behind an amazing, but fragile, idea. He would examine that idea and scrutinize it until it took hold in his mind. Then he would spend weeks testing the cells in different light settings and different levels of microscope strength. Finally, inspiration would come, revealing for him what he should do, whereupon he would enthusiastically rush to photograph, record, and print.

In addition to his scientific achievement, Baker is considered one of the greatest lecturers that the University of Illinois has known throughout its history. His lectures about bodily tissues were as simple as they were profound. This led the university administration to market them on CDs that sold thousands of copies. Despite the magnificence of his achievement,