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

in deep thought. Then he said slowly, his eyes gleaming, “Once again, congratulations, Danana. The results are logical and strong.”

“Thanks.”

“An idea has occurred to me that would support your results. Show me one of your slides.”

Danana got up slowly and opened the cabinet next to the desk and gave Baker a slide. Baker held it carefully, put on his glasses, and examined it under the microscope. He soon raised his head and said, “The number of black spots on this slide is a hundred sixty-seven.”

Danana nodded and remained silent. Baker examined the results and said in surprise, “That’s strange. The number you recorded is greater than that.”

He looked at Danana as if he didn’t understand then went over to the cabinet himself and took two other slides that he put through a similar examination, and then looked at Danana, who bowed his head slowly. For a few moments, a silence, charged with an unknown energy, prevailed so quietly that the soft hum made by the lab’s fridge sounded like destiny. Suddenly Dr. Baker threw the slides on the floor and they broke into shiny shards. Then he roared with an angry resounding voice that no one had heard from him before. “What a scumbag! The results you submitted are fabricated. Where is your honor? I will revoke your dissertation and expel you from the department at once.”

CHAPTER 21

“Good morning. I’m calling about the job you advertised.”

“It’s taken,” the man replied tersely then hung up. The dial tone rang in Carol’s ear and she felt bitter. Nothing new there. It was her daily routine: every morning after Graham went to the university and little Mark to school, she made herself a large cup of black coffee and sat in the living room, spreading the help wanted pages in the Chicago Tribune, the Sun-Times, and the Reader. Then she prepared for her calls. She concentrated on controlling the tone of her voice in such a way as if she were inquiring about the job with dignified interest. She was not an unemployed black woman on welfare; she was not starving or begging and didn’t need anyone’s pity.

She was just inquiring about a job that she liked, no more and no less, as if she were asking about tickets for a concert or the closing time of her favorite restaurant. If she found what she wanted she’d be happy, but if she didn’t, that would not be the end of the world. That was what she came up with to combat humiliation. Every time, she asked the same questions and received the same answers. By the end of the day she would have accumulated all kinds of lists, addresses, and numbers. Over the last few months she had been all over Chicago and had had interviews for various jobs: secretary, receptionist, babysitter, day-care supervisor. But she never got the job. The head of human resources at the Hyatt told her with an embarrassed smile, “You’ll find a job somewhere else. But be patient, unemployment is at its highest rate. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of people apply for one job. The competition is horrendous.”

Two months ago she applied for a job as a telephone operator for an elevator company. She passed the first interview and had to pass a voice test. The company executive told her, “You’ll get this job if you know how to make your voice smooth, feminine, and seductive but at the same time not vulgar. Your voice must carry a sense of humor and superiority. It should sound as if you were making ten times your salary. It’s your voice that introduces our company to the customers.”

Carol trained seriously. She recorded her voice dozens of times saying the same thing: “Hendrix Elevator Company. Good morning. How may I help you?” Every time she listened to the recording she discovered a new flaw: the voice was too soft, a little shaky, faltering, too fast, letters elided, she had to pronounce the name of the company better, and so on.

After days of training she settled on a good delivery and went to take the test. There were five other applicants. They all sat in the same room in front of the company executive, who was a fat white man, over fifty, completely bald with wide sideburns that made him look unpleasant. It seemed from his swollen eyelids, bloodshot eyes, and foul mood that he had drunk too much the night before and hadn’t had enough sleep. He began to signal to one applicant after another to deliver the sentence, looked at the ceiling as if evaluating the performance in his mind, and then bent over a sheet of paper and wrote something down. At the end of the day the result was announced. Carol didn’t get the job. She received the news coldly; she had got so used to being disappointed nothing shocked her anymore. What pained her the most was the way some white employers treated her. None of them came out and said they didn’t hire black people. That would be against the law. But as soon as one of them saw her, his face would have a cold, arrogant expression, and he would end the interview promising to give her a call that she knew very well would not come. These successive humiliating situations felt like slaps on her face. She sometimes cried on her way back home and some nights stayed awake imagining that she was taking revenge against the racist employer, teaching him a lesson, and assuring him that it was she who refused to work with a despicable racist like him. The drama reached its peak when she had an interview for a job as a dog walker for twelve dollars an hour. The job was so menial that it took her three days just to convince herself to go. She needed the money badly. She couldn’t stand the suffering she was putting Graham through. What had