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

played to reduce my feeling of pain. Little by little mist covered the field of visibility before me, as if I were seeing the street and passersby through cloudy glasses. I don’t know how long I stayed in that condition but suddenly I saw her coming. There she was, walking with the measured, even gait that I like. She moved in accordance with a graceful, steady rhythm as if she were dancing. (I asked her once, “Why don’t you walk fast like other Americans?” She answered me, laughing, “Because I’m carrying the blood of my Andalusian grandmother who was in love with your grandfather.”) I rushed toward her as fast as I could. She stopped and looked at me. It seemed that, like me, she hadn’t had any sleep.

“Wendy.”

“I have to go to work.”

“Please. Just one minute.”

A bitter wind blew and showered our faces with drifting snow. I motioned to her and she hesitated for a while then followed me to the entryway of a nearby building. We were warmer there. I was breathing heavily with emotion. I held her by the shoulders and said, “Please forgive me. I don’t know why I said that. I was frustrated and drunk. I wasn’t myself.”

She bowed her head to avoid looking at me and said, “Our fight brought the truth out in the open.”

“I’ll do anything for you to forget what I said yesterday.”

“I can’t forget it. I can’t deceive myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our relationship is wonderful, but it has no future.”

“Why?”

“Because we belong to two different worlds.”

“Wendy, I made a mistake and I came to apologize.”

“There’s no mistake: ultimately I belong to the enemies of your country. No matter how much you love me, you’ll never forget that I’m Jewish. No matter how faithful I remain to you, your trust in me will always be fragile. I’ll be the first suspect in your view.”

“This isn’t true. I trust you and respect you.”

“We’re finished, Nagi.”

I was about to register one last desperate objection, but she smiled mysteriously and there came to her face that old sadness that would come over her. She moved toward me and hugged me and kissed me quickly on the cheek then said in a soft voice as she gave me my apartment key, “Please don’t call me. I’d like for our relationship to end as beautifully as it began. Thank you for the wonderful feelings I’ve shared with you.”

She turned around and left quietly. I kept watching her as she crossed the threshold of the glass door to the street then disappeared in the crowd.

Karam Doss looked worried. He sighed and said, “So, the war has started.”

“I don’t understand how Safwat Shakir found everything out about us.”

“Spying on people is his profession. Remember that we’ve met with many Egyptians to convince them to sign the statement. It’s only natural that one of them has informed on us.”

“How did he get the key to my apartment?”

“Collaboration between American and Egyptian intelligence services is tight and long-standing. They send suspects to Egypt, where State Security agents torture them and force them to confess then return them to America.”

“I thought human rights were protected here.”

“After 9/11 the American administration gave security agencies the right to do whatever they saw as necessary, beginning with spying on people up to arresting them for mere suspicion.”

“And what do we do now?”

“You still insist on the statement?”

“What are you saying?”

“I know that you are courageous and patriotic. But I also appreciate that your fear for your family might make you reconsider.”

I threw him a look that must have seemed decisive, for he raised his hand and said, “Don’t get angry. I had to ask you.”

We were sitting in the piano bar where I had met Wendy for the first time. I was struggling to stop the onslaught of memories. Wendy’s picture had not left my mind. There I was, losing one of the most beautiful experiences in my life. I recalled our last meeting. Was she right? Do we really belong to two different worlds? Our hostility, as Arabs, should be directed at the Zionist movement, not at Judaism. We should not be hostile to adherents of a certain religion. Such a fascist attitude is alien to Islam’s tolerance; besides, it gives others the right to treat us in a similarly racist manner. This is the opinion that I have stated and written dozens of times, but it seems I failed to apply it. If Wendy were not Jewish would I have accused her of treachery? Why was I so easily suspicious of her? But, on the other hand, wasn’t Wendy an exception? Don’t most Jews in the world support Israel with all their might? Doesn’t Israel commit all its massacres of the Arabs as the state of the Jews? Didn’t my relationship with Wendy anger the Jews in the university? Didn’t they harass me and insult me? How many Jews are like Wendy and how many like the student who made fun of me?

I gulped down the rest of the wine and ordered another drink. I looked at Karam’s face. He knit his brows and said seriously, “We have to analyze the situation correctly. So long as Safwat Shakir has found everything out, he will most definitely bar those who signed the statement from meeting with the president.”

“Does he have that right?”

“Of course. The president’s visit is supervised by Egyptian and American security. They have the right to prevent anyone from entering the hall.”

“Even if they prevented us from entering, we will demonstrate outside and read the statement to the media.”

“Demonstrations are important, of course, but what makes this a strong plan is for one Egyptian to surprise the president and deliver the statement to his face.”

“You are right. But how?”

“We still have two weeks. We have to find an Egyptian who hasn’t signed the statement and convince him to deliver it. We have to choose someone that Safwat Shakir doesn’t expect at all.”

“Do you know anyone who can do