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

internal public address system. The lighting is uniform, designed to be comfortable for the eyes, not distracting and not tied to time outside. Dozens of scientists and students are in constant motion.

The word histology has its origins in a Latin word meaning “the science of tissues,” the science that uses the microscope to study living tissues. It constitutes the basis for medicine because discovering a cure for any disease always starts with the study of the normal, healthy tissues. Despite histology’s extreme importance, it is neither popular nor lucrative. A histologist is most likely a physician who chooses to forgo specializations that bring fortune and glory (like surgery or gynecology) to spend his life in a cold, closed lab, bent over a microscope for long hours, his utmost hope to discover an unknown element of a microscopic cell about which no one will ever hear. Histologists are unknown soldiers who sacrifice fame and fortune for science and, with time, acquire the characteristics of craftsmen (like carpenters, sculptors, and palm leaf weavers): a comfortable, staid sitting style, heft in the lower body, few words, the power of observation, and a scrutinizing gaze. They are also distinguished by patience, calm, clarity of thinking, and a great ability to concentrate and reflect. The department is comprised of five professors ranging in age from fifty to seventy. Each of them attained his post after years of constant, arduous work. Their days are very tight and their calendars busy for weeks, and because they have so much research to do, they have to spend all their time in the lab. Other than on weekends, they rarely have the chance to talk. In the weekly departmental meetings they usually make their decisions quickly to save time. Hence what happened last Tuesday is considered out of the ordinary.

The departmental meeting came to order and the professors sat in their usual seats: Dr. Bill Friedman, the chairman, at the head of the table with his mostly bald head, white complexion, and meek features that make him look more like an honest, hardworking paterfamilias. To his right sat the two Egyptian-American professors, Ra’fat Thabit and Muhammad Salah, then the statistics professor John Graham, with his heavy build, light white beard, gray, always disheveled hair, and small round glasses behind which gleam intelligent, skeptical eyes. He has a faint, sarcastic smile and a long pipe that never leaves his mouth, even though it was not lit because smoking was not permitted at the meeting. Graham bears a considerable resemblance to the American writer Ernest Hemingway, which always elicits humorous comments from his colleagues. On the other side of the table sat George Roberts, whom they call “the Yankee” because everything about him is stereotypically American: blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair, casual attire, a broad, strong, athletic body, and sculpted muscles indicating strict regular exercise, a habit of putting his feet up on the table in the face of people he is talking to, licking his fingers while eating, and a soda can always in his hand, from which he takes a small sip then shrugs his shoulders and speaks in a twang harking back to Texas, where he grew up before coming to Chicago. There remained the oldest and most prolific professor, Dennis Baker, silent, wearing simple, clean clothes that are always slightly wrinkled, perhaps because he couldn’t find the time to iron them properly. He is tall, and his old body is taut and firm. He is completely bald, his big eyes sometimes radiating with a piercing glance, gleaming so much as to display a mysterious authority. Dennis Baker’s colleagues tease him by saying that he uses speech just like a driver uses a car horn: only when absolutely necessary.

The meeting went on the usual way, and before it adjourned, the chairman, Bill Friedman, asked his colleagues to stay. He blushed as he usually did when he had something to say; then he looked at the papers in front of him and said in a calm voice, “I’d like to consult you about something. You know that the Egyptian Educational Bureau has an agreement with the department to send Egyptian students to study for the PhD in histology. We now have three students: Tariq Haseeb, Shaymaa Muhammadi, and Ahmad Danana. This week the bureau sent the papers of a new student, whose name is”—he stopped and read the name with difficulty—“Nagi Abd al-Samad. This student is different from the others: first, because he wants to get an MS and not a PhD, and second, because he does not work at a university. I was surprised at the beginning—I couldn’t understand why he wants to get an MS in histology if he doesn’t work in scientific research or teaching. This morning I contacted the head of the bureau in Washington, D.C., and she told me that that student was denied a job at Cairo University for political reasons, and that his obtaining an MS would strengthen his position in his lawsuit against Cairo University. I looked at the student’s file and found it to be quite promising: he has high scores both in English and overall. And as you know, the bureau will cover his study expenses. I’d like to know what you think. Should we admit this student? Graduate study slots here are limited, as you know. I will listen to you, and if you don’t all agree I’ll put it to a vote.”

Friedman looked around. George Roberts, “the Yankee,” was the first to ask to speak. He took a sip from his can of Pepsi and said, “I don’t object to admitting Egyptian students. But I’d only like to remind you that this is one of the most important histology departments in the world. An opportunity to study here is rare and precious. We shouldn’t squander it just because a student from Africa would like to win a lawsuit against his government. I believe education here has a higher purpose. The spot that this Egyptian would get is