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

“Of course. The fact that Egyptians go out on the street to demand that the president of the republic step down is a sure sign that something has changed and will never be the same again.”

“Those who demonstrate are members of the elite. The masses are not concerned with the issue of democracy.”

“All revolutions in the history of Egypt have started with the elite.”

“We’ll see.”

“We can’t just wait and see.”

“What can we do?”

“We can do a lot. But much depends on you.”

“Me?”

“Are you willing to take a stand on what’s happening in Egypt?”

“Are you planning for a coup d’état?”

“I am not kidding.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Listen, the president will visit Chicago in a few weeks. That’s an opportunity we should not waste.”

Graham was following the conversation. Laughing as he poured himself a new drink, he shouted, “Uh-oh, anything but that! I won’t be a witness to a criminal conspiracy. Are you planning to kill the Egyptian president? How about if we start by killing George W. Bush instead?”

I waited until the laughter died down and continued seriously. “The president will meet with the Egyptian students in Chicago. I’ve thought of preparing a statement that we would deliver in front of him.”

“A statement?”

“Yes, we’ll demand that he step down, abrogate the emergency laws, and adopt democracy.”

“You think he’ll listen?”

“I am not that naive. It’s just a step but it will be effective. There are demonstrations all over Egypt for freedom. Demonstrators are being beaten and arrested; women demonstrators are being violated by the police. Isn’t it our duty to do something for those demonstrators? If we wrote the statement and Egyptians in Chicago signed it then delivered it in the presence of the president before journalists and television cameras, we’d be aiming a hard blow to the face of the Egyptian regime.”

“You think Egyptians here will sign the statement with you?”

“I don’t know, of course, but I’ll try.”

He stayed silent. I said, “I see that you’re reluctant.”

“Not at all.”

“Haven’t you always tried to do something for your country?”

“In the field of surgery, not politics.”

“The corrupt regime is the main reason for our backwardness. The dean of Ain Shams Medical School who turned down your proposal was appointed to his post because he’s loyal to the regime, regardless of his administrative or medical efficiency. Most likely he’s a corrupt and hypocritical person who spies on his colleagues for state security. If deans were elected, a better and more qualified person would have been chosen. Such a person would undoubtedly have been happy to cooperate with you. If we love Egypt, we have to do our utmost to change this regime. Anything else is a waste of time.”

Karam looked at me then drank the rest of his drink in one gulp and said, “Let me think about it.”

CHAPTER 23

Everything that happened to Tariq Haseeb that evening was out of his control. He was not in a position to accept or reject it. If what happened had taken place a hundred times, he would’ve done exactly what he had done. He had found himself glued to Shaymaa, who raised her hand to pick up a tin from the shelf. He felt her whole breast brushing against him. He spontaneously reached out and embraced her. She didn’t object. He felt her luscious body filling his whole being; he plunged his hands around her back and showered her with kisses all over: her lips, her face, her hair, then her neck and chin. Her fresh skin was so soft it aroused him even more. He kept kissing her neck and began licking her ear then took it between his lips (as he had seen in pornographic movies). It was then that she let out a soft passionate moan and murmured a few indistinct words in a low voice, as if making a weak, formal objection that she was the first to know would not change anything, or as if she were proclaiming her innocence one last time before being swept away by the flood of pleasurable lust.

After a few moments of passionate embracing, Tariq extended his hand and undid the zipper in the middle of the dress, making a light whizzing sound. Shaymaa did not object and kept watching his hands as if she were hypnotized. Her chest was revealed behind a rose-colored cotton bra. He pressed the breasts out of the bra as if they were two ripe fruits hanging on a branch. Tariq inhaled strongly then exhaled and pressed his whole face between her breasts, rubbing it against their unbelievable softness. He was suddenly overcome by an urgent desire to cry, as if he were sad that he hadn’t done it before, as if he were a child who had been lost for such a long time that he’d given up hope then suddenly found his mother, as if the warmth coming from her breasts was his original abode, which he had known at an earlier time then lost and was now coming back to. He kissed her breasts all over and gently bit them and she let out a soft, pained, and coquettish scream, whereupon he became certain that her body was now at his disposal, obedient and responding and clamoring for him to go forward. He undid his fly and clung to her tightly. He didn’t dare take off her dress but they embraced closely and their muscles contracted in instinctive successive thrusts until they both crossed the gate of pleasure together. His body shook with great ecstasy, real flesh-and-blood ecstasy, not that artificial one that he experienced in the bathroom every night. It occurred to him that he was being born at that moment, brought back from the dead, leaving behind forever that old colorless life for another, a real and wonderful life. He closed his eyes and hugged her hard, as if cleaving to her, seeking shelter with her so that she wouldn’t leave him. He began