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

In the midst of the endless conspiracies and schemes surrounding the throne, the sultan trusted his Jewish private physician perhaps more than he did his wife and children. In Muslim Spain, Jews lived as citizens with full rights, and when Andalusia fell into the hands of the Christian Spaniards, they persecuted both Muslims and Jews. They gave them the choice between Christianity and death. Then they went as far as coming up with the Inquisition for the first time in history, to get rid of Jews and Muslims who had recently converted to Christianity. The priests would ask them theological questions, and when they failed to answer, they gave them the choice between being burned or drowned.”

Wendy closed her eyes in pain, so I said in an attempt to reintroduce some gaiety, “And thus, my dear, your ancestors and mine were persecuted together. It is quite possible that you and I are the descendants of a Muslim man and a Jewish woman who fell in love with each other in Andalusia.”

“You have a very fertile imagination.”

“It is the truth. I feel I have known you in another life, otherwise how would you explain our mutual attraction from the first moment?”

I bent over and kissed her hands, then a thought occurred to me. I got up quickly and looked for the Andalusian song tape until I found it. Before long Fairouz’s voice was all over the place. “Return, O thousand nights, the mist of perfume/Love slakes its thirst on the dew of dawn.”

I said, “This is Andalusian music.”

“I don’t understand the words but the music speaks to my heart.”

I started translating for her as much as I could of the meaning. Everything around me was captivating: the snow, the warmth, the love, the candles, the wine, and the music, and my beloved Wendy. I was so transported with happiness I got up, held Wendy by her shoulders, and pulled her gently. I stood her in the middle of the room and said as I returned to my place, “This bed on which I am sitting is the throne of Andalusia. I am the prince. I am now sitting to run the affairs of the principality. When I clap once, you start dancing. You are the most talented and most beautiful dancer in Andalusia, therefore the prince has chosen you to dance for him alone.”

Wendy let out a shout of joy and stood ready with a mirthful expression on her face, as if she were a child yearning to start playing. Fairouz was singing to a dancing tune:

O luscious branch crowned with gold

I ransom you from death with my mother and my father.

If I have overstepped the bounds in my love for you,

Only prophets are infallible.

I clapped and Wendy began to dance. She moved according to her notions of belly dancing. She kept shaking her arms and chest nervously as if trembling. She looked like a child mimicking adults, eliciting laughter and affection. She looked at me as she was dancing and sent me an air kiss that made her charm irresistible. I got up, embraced her, and showered her with kisses. We made love while Fairouz’s voice filled the whole place with ecstasy as if blessing us. When we were done, we lay down, naked in each other’s arms. I kissed her nose and whispered, “I’ll always be in your debt.”

“If you don’t go easy on the tenderness I’ll cry from compassion.”

“I’m really grateful. You’ve brought poetry back to me after a whole year of loss. This morning I started a new poem.”

“Wonderful. What’s your new poem about?”

“You.”

She hugged me hard and I whispered in her ear, “Wendy, you’ve saved me from feeling miserable. You made a beautiful dream for me.”

We remained embraced and I felt her breath warming my face. Then she backed off gently and said as she got up, “Even beautiful dreams come to an end. I must go.”

She planted a quick kiss on my forehead as if in apology, then went to the bathroom and came out fully dressed. I had got lost in contemplation so I jumped up, saying, “Wait. I’ll accompany you to the L station.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Why do you always refuse to let me walk with you?”

She looked ill at ease and hesitated for a while then said, “Do you remember Henry, my old boyfriend I told you about? He is a receptionist here at the dorm. I don’t like him to see us together.”

“Why do you care, if your relationship is over?”

“Please don’t get angry. If I still loved him, I couldn’t love you.”

“So why are you afraid that he would see us together?”

“I’ll tell you frankly. Henry is Jewish and the fact that you’re an Arab will give him an opportunity to cause us problems.”

“What’s he got to do with us?”

“I know him well. He won’t tolerate that at all.”

“I can’t believe that in America we have to keep love hidden.”

She walked over to me, kissed me, and said, “All I want you to be sure of is that I love you.”

I didn’t insist on escorting her so as not to cause her any trouble. I knew her ex-boyfriend and had had dealings with him more than once in the receptionist’s office. He used to treat me in a normal, one could say affable, way. But since Wendy started visiting me in my apartment, I noticed that he looked at me in a hostile manner. I asked him once if there was any mail for me, but he didn’t answer. When I repeated the question he said rudely without lifting his head from the papers he was reading, “When mail comes we will send it to you. There is no need to ask me a hundred times every day.”

I left in silence. I did not wish to get into a fight nor was I ready for one. I asked myself: How did Henry find out about my relationship with Wendy? I remembered