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

he blame her? She was not in full control of her faculties and was not responsible for her actions. It was not her fault. It was that criminal Jeff who had led her to addiction. What a poor girl! How he blamed himself for hitting her! He was so upset about it that he felt that his right hand was separate from his body. It was the hand that had hit Sarah. Why had he hit her? Why couldn’t he control himself? How cruel he was to her! He spent several days grappling with his thoughts before he was able to cope with his sorrow. He said to himself: there are two ways to deal with this tragedy. One is to be a backward Oriental father and disown and curse her; the other is to act like a civilized person and help her get over her ordeal.

He and Michelle went over the list of Sarah’s friends who could join the love team. When he contacted them he discovered that they all knew she had a problem. Her friend Sylvia told him, “Jeff is the reason she’s an addict. I’ve often warned her about him, but she loved him too much to listen to me.”

Sylvia agreed to join the love team and so did a young man named Jesse who used to sit next to her in class. The two of them started developing a plan: Sylvia said she’d buy Sarah an apple and banana pie, which she knew she just loved. Jesse, on the other hand, decided to get her a kitten or a puppy because she loved animals. Catherine, the counselor, got very enthusiastic and said, “These are very positive ideas; reminding her of her favorite dishes and raising a little animal would put her in a mood to help her combat addiction.”

Everything was ready, and the following Sunday, at about ten in the morning, the love team headed for Sarah’s house in Oakland. Michelle sat next to Ra’fat while Sylvia and Jesse sat in the Cadillac’s backseat. They talked about various things in short, disconnected spurts and laughed nervously for no reason in order to escape the gravity of the situation. Ra’fat was driving at an incredibly high speed, which prompted Michelle to ask him, “Are you trying to get a speeding ticket?”

But he was driven by a mysterious, resentful energy, so he didn’t reduce his speed until he got to Oakland, where he slowed down to remember the way. The neighborhood looked different during the day: the streets were empty, as if they had been abandoned. Graffiti in black and red was sprayed on the walls. Ra’fat parked the car in the parking lot where he had been robbed. As soon as they got out of the car they stood in front of Catherine, the counselor, as if they were players receiving the coach’s instructions before the game. Catherine, maintaining her calm smile, said, “Please, Ra’fat, wait in the car. Last time you saw Sarah, you had a fight. We don’t want to provoke her negative feelings. Unfortunately addicts tend to be irascible. Stay here, and after we talk with her for a little bit, we’ll ask her if she would like to see you.”

Ra’fat acquiesced. He bowed his head and moved one step away as Catherine resumed her instructions to the team. “The most important thing we should convey to Sarah is that we love her: no pity and no sermons. Remember that well. It’s quite possible that we’ll find her in a condition that we don’t like. She might receive us badly or be hostile. She might even kick us out. Prepare yourselves for the worst possibility. The young lady we will see in a few moments is not the Sarah that we know. Now she is an addict. This is the truth we should not forget.”

They listened to her in silence, but Sylvia suddenly cried in a hoarse voice that sounded strange, “Oh, Jesus, save poor Sarah,” then started to sob. Michelle hugged her. The counselor’s voice came calm and firm this time. “Sylvia, get a grip on yourself. We have to convey to her our positive feelings. If you cannot stop crying, it’d be best if you stayed in the car with Ra’fat.”

Ra’fat backed off slowly, opened the car, and sat behind the steering wheel while the rest of the team proceeded toward the house: Jesse holding the little puppy and Sylvia carrying the apple and banana pie. They walked slowly toward the house as if in a funeral procession. They found the garden gate open and the outside lights on even though it was daylight. They climbed the front stairs and Michelle rang the bell. A whole minute passed and no one opened. She rang again. After another minute the door opened and a large black man, wearing a blue workman’s suit, appeared. Michelle said, “Good morning. Is Sarah here?”

“Who?”

“Pardon me. Isn’t this Jeff Anderson and Sarah Thabit’s house?”

“I believe those are the names of the tenants who moved.”

“Did they move?”

“Yes, a few days ago. The landlord sent me over to paint the house. I think he’s renting it to a new tenant.”

They remained silent for a moment, then Michelle said, “I’m Sarah’s mom. I’ve come to check on her with these friends of hers. Do you have her new address?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t know it.”

“Even if you are an official at the Egyptian embassy, that doesn’t give you the right to break into my house,” I shouted. He looked at me defiantly and moved one step to the center of the living room, taking his time as if affirming his control of the situation.

“I’ve invited myself to a cup of coffee with you. Listen, Nagi, you have a superior academic record, you’re intelligent, and you have a great future ahead of you.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“I want to help you.”

“What makes you want to do that?”

“My fear for you.”

“Fear of what?”

“Your stupidity.”

“Watch your words.”

“You’ve come to America to