Chicago by Alaa Aswany (story books to read .TXT) 📕

her fingers and a gruff voice came from inside. She opened the door slowly and motioned to Dr. Ra’fat, and he went in with her. The room was of a medium size, quiet and clean. To the right, there was a window that let in the daylight. The doctor was in his forties, bald, and wearing a white coat and glasses with silver frames. He stood in silence next to the bed. Ra’fat saw Sarah stretched out in the same clothes she had on the last time he saw her: the worn-out blue jeans and the yellow T-shirt with a dirty collar. Her face was totally calm, her eyes closed, and her lips relaxed but not open. The doctor said in a deep voice, whose reverberations echoed in the silence, “Last night at about three A.M. a car dropped her at the door of the hospital and sped away. We did all we could to save her, but the overdose caused a sharp drop in brain function. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

The demonstration was over. We walked to the car: Karam Doss, John Graham, and me. I left the front seat for Graham and rode in the back. We remained silent for a while. We were dejected. Karam suggested we have a drink. Graham murmured in agreement. I remained silent. We went to our favorite place on Rush Street. With drinks we warmed up. Karam Doss said, “I don’t understand Dr. Salah. Why did he do that? He could’ve refused to read the statement from the beginning. He ruined everything.”

I was bitter over what had happened, so I said, “You have no idea how angry I am with this man. I don’t know how I’ll have any dealings with him in the department after this.” We fell silent again, then Karam said, “I think what Salah has done was totally deliberate. He conspired with Safwat Shakir to sabotage the whole thing.”

I didn’t comment. My disappointment was mixed with a feeling of guilt. It was I who agreed with Salah that he would deliver the statement. I remembered how he showed an enthusiasm that surprised me when I offered him the task. I asked Karam, still unable to think clearly, “You think he works for Security?”

“Of course.”

“No,” said Graham. He took a sip from his drink and added, “I think the man really wanted to deliver the statement but was frightened at the last moment.”

“Why did he accept, and why was he so enthusiastic at the beginning?”

“A man may sometimes try to overcome his fear then fail.”

I went home at about midnight. I took off my clothes and threw myself on the bed and was soon fast asleep. I still remember what happened in an uncertain way, as if recalling a dream. I opened my eyes and saw shadows moving in the dark of the room. I was frightened and stayed in that state between being awake and being in a dream until the light was turned on and I saw them clearly. They were three large American men, two in military uniform and the third in civilian clothes. It was very clear that he was in charge. He came over to me and said, as he showed a card from his inside pocket, “FBI. We have a search warrant and another for your arrest.”

It took me a while to collect my thoughts, and then I asked him why. He said, “We’ll show you the information we have later on.”

He was talking to me as the other two were carefully searching the house. Finally he allowed me to put on my clothes. He came over to me and put the handcuffs on. Strangely enough, I gave in, as if I were hypnotized and had no will. We rode in a large car driven by a black driver with whom the man in charge rode in front. The two military men sat on either side of me in the backseat. I said as I tried to concentrate again, “I want to see your badge again.”

He was taken aback for a moment then reached in his pocket in slow, suppressed anger and showed the badge. We remained silent. After about half an hour, we arrived at an isolated building in north Chicago, surrounded by a garden and a winding driveway that we ascended in the car until we stopped at the entrance. There were some guards who gave military salutes. We entered an office on the left side of the hallway. As soon as the door was closed, the features of the man in charge changed. The muscles of his face contracted, as if he were grinding his teeth. He fixed me with a stern look and said, “We have definitive information that you are part of a cell planning a terrorist attack in the United States. What do you say to that?”

I remained silent. Events were moving too fast for me to think. He got so close to me I could smell a light aftershave scent. He shouted angrily, “Speak! Are you deaf?”

Then suddenly he slapped me in the face. I felt a sharp stinging heat and a dark spot began to form on my left eye. I shouted in a raspy voice, “You have no right to hit me. What you’re doing is illegal.”

He slapped me again several times then punched me hard in the belly. I felt nauseated and was about to lose consciousness.

“Egyptian intelligence has given us everything about the organization you belong to. It’s no use denying it.”

“All of this is made up.”

He hit me again. I began to feel sticky blood trickling down from my nose onto my lips. He shouted in an angry voice, “Speak, you son of a bitch. Why do you want to destroy our country? We’ve opened America’s doors to you. We welcomed you to get an education and become a respectable human being. In return you are conspiring to kill innocent Americans. If you don’t confess,