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

She went with him to the studio and took off her clothes as usual. He spent a long time adjusting the lights and cameras. After several attempts he shot the part where she appeared bare chested. The harder part remained. He asked her to put on the bra, and he himself snapped it closed at the back, and then he stood her in the middle of the frame that he had prepared and said, “Carol, I’m going to help you get aroused. Don’t be embarrassed; I’ll touch you in a perfectly professional manner.”

He got close to her, put his hands through the bra, cupped her breasts with his hands, and began to knead them slowly. Then he took the nipples between his fingers and began to rub them gently. A whole minute passed without any response. He said, “It seems I’m not arousing you sufficiently. Should I go on?”

She didn’t answer. She stood where she was, looking at his hands stuck between the bra and her chest. He took out his hands and jumped behind the camera to make sure it was adjusted, and then went back and whispered to her, “I’ve prepared something to help you. Look at the screen.”

She noticed for the first time that he had placed a laptop on a nearby table. He pushed a button and she could see scenes from a pornographic movie: a white woman was sleeping with a black man and screaming with pleasure. Carol shouted, “Please turn it off.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand those movies.”

“Why?”

“Because they are phony and naive.”

“Do you have a problem with this?”

“I’m perfectly normal.”

He looked at her almost angrily and said, “Listen, I’ve got to do one or two shoots today. Don’t ruin my work.”

“Give me a chance. Let me be natural and I’ll do it.”

He glanced at her uneasily. She whispered as she pushed him to stand behind the camera, “Go on, please.”

He dragged his feet like an unruly student kicked out by the teacher. Carol closed her eyes and began to recall her intimate moments with Graham, that burning pleasure that engulfed her when she was with him. Little by little she forgot her surroundings and got totally absorbed in the wonderful feeling that she was reliving. When she realized, somewhat vaguely and from a distance, that the lighting was getting more intense in front of her closed eyes, she ignored it and continued in her reverie until she came to as Fernando exclaimed while putting his hand on her bare shoulder, “Brava. A wonderful shot.”

Shooting took several sessions. Carol used the same method to arouse herself. The commercial was a great success. A few days later, Fernando invited her to dinner, and after two glasses of red wine added to the ever-present effect of marijuana, he started humming the old song “Oh, Carol,” then he said to her as his eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“It’s all thanks to your talent.”

Fernando looked at her for a little while, as if reluctant to speak. Then he said with a childlike spontaneity that she liked, “The owner of the company would like to meet you.”

“Really?”

“Your guardian angel is working with extraordinary efficiency. This meeting might change your life. It’s Henry Davis, owner of Double X, one of the wealthiest people in America. Do you know that I’ve never met him? I’ve asked to meet him more than once, but they’ve always had all kinds of excuses.”

“In my case it’s different. You want to meet him but he refuses; he wants to meet me but I don’t know if I’ll say yes or no,” she said in jest, but he didn’t laugh.

He looked her in the eye and said in a serious tone, “I hope you appreciate my honesty. Someone else in my place would never have let you meet the company owner before signing an exclusive contract with you.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

“You have to prove that. I’ll give you Henry Davis’s office number to schedule an appointment with him. In return, you will not sign a contract with him before getting back to me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

CHAPTER 32

“It’s Salah, Zeinab.”

His breathing was painful. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, as if it were someone else’s. It was as though, after a thirty-year separation, he had suddenly seen her in the street and kept running after her until he caught up with her. How strange it all was. He could not believe that he was talking to her, as if he had not been absent for a whole lifetime, as if he had not longed for her a thousand times and cursed her a thousand times. His voice meant much more than his actual words: “It’s Salah, Zeinab.” His voice was really saying: Do you remember me? It’s Salah who loved you as no one has loved you. When I lost you, Zeinab, I lost my life. Thirty years I’ve lived, lost, away from you. I’ve tried and failed, Zeinab, and here I am coming back to you.

“Salah? I don’t believe it!”

Despite age, her voice had kept its old passion.

“Did I call you at a convenient time? I don’t want to take you from work.”

“I work for the Egyptian government, Salah. Working here just means showing up. We always have extra time.”

Oh, my God. Her wonderful laugh was still there. She said she couldn’t describe how happy she was to hear from him. She told him about her life: she was living alone after the death of her husband and the marriage of her only daughter. He avoided talking about her husband. He asked her about Egypt and she said in sorrow, “Egypt is living its worst days, Salah. As if everything we’ve struggled for, my colleagues and I, was just a mirage. We don’t have democracy; we have not been liberated from backwardness, ignorance, and corruption. Everything has changed for the worse. Reactionary ideas are spreading like the