Chicago. Farouk Abdel Wahab
There were murmurs of approval and appreciation and one student cried enthusiastically, “May God recompense you well, Doctor!”
Danana totally ignored him and went on. “Approving the establishment of a mosque in this place was almost impossible, but God Almighty willed us to be successful.”
The same student shouted flatteringly, “Thank you, Dr. Danana, for this great effort you're exerting for us!”
Danana fixed him with a disapproving glance and said, feigning anger, “And who told you I am doing that for you? I only expect reward from God Almighty.”
“Praise the Lord, sir!”
The other students felt they had to take part in the praise, and murmurs of thanks filled the room, but Danana ignored them and bowed his head in silence, like an actor bowing before his audience and wishing the applause would never stop. Then he said, “Another very important subject: some students are not attending their classes regularly. Yesterday I reviewed rates of absenteeism and found them to be too high. I am not going to mention them by name so as not to embarrass them. They know themselves.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled hard and said, “Forgive me, folks. I am not going to cover for anyone or intercede for anyone. I've overworked myself a lot for you. If you don't help yourselves, I cannot help you. Anyone exceeding acceptable absence rates I'll report to the educational bureau and they'd take it from there in accordance with the rules.”
A tense silence prevailed and Danana kept scrutinizing the students with his fierce stare. Then he announced moving on to the agenda, which, as usual, was filled with various requests from the students: facilitating travel to Egypt, getting discounted tickets or getting free transit cards, and other issues. One student was complaining that his adviser was biased against him; another had exceeded the upper limit for the scholarship; a female student wanted to change her housing arrangement because her American roommate was receiving her lover in the apartment they shared. Danana would listen attentively to each problem, ask for clarification of some details, take a drag on his cigarette and look pensive, then announce the solution simply and confidently. Thereupon the student would look grateful and thank Danana, who would ignore him as if he were not there. He liked, at such moments, to have a rough joke at the student's expense or to insult him, this way tightening his psychological control over him, by saying for instance, “What matters is for you to study and pass, dummy.”
Or by wondering sarcastically, “And what would I do with ‘thank you’? Which bank can I cash it at? You're such a loser!”
The suddenly humiliated student, weakened by need and silenced by gratitude, would have no choice but to ignore the insult or laugh nervously or fall silent and turn his face away as if he had heard nothing.
“We finished all items on the agenda. Any new business?” Danana asked. No one spoke except a bearded student who said, “Dr. Danana, the Palestinian butcher from whom we bought halal meat has unfortunately closed his store and left Chicago. You know, sir, that meat in ordinary stores is not slaughtered in the Islamic way—”
Danana interrupted him with a gesture of his hand as if saying it wasn't a big deal, then turned around and pulled from the bookcase behind him a sheet of paper that he handed to him, saying, “Here, Ma'mun, is a list of the addresses of all halal butchers in Chicago.”
Ma'mun's face lit up and he took the sheet, muttering, “May God recompense you well, sir!”
As usual Danana ignored the thanks and said, “Anything else?”
The students remained silent so Danana turned off the recorder and the meeting was adjourned. Nothing remained, according to the usual routine, except distributing the newspapers among the students. But Danana's cell phone rang suddenly, and as soon as he answered it, the expression on his face changed from ordinary welcome to intense interest. Then he ended the conversation and jumped to his feet, saying, as he gathered his things hastily, “I have to leave at once. A high-ranking official has arrived in Chicago and I've got to welcome him. Take the newspapers and don't forget to close the apartment door and turn off the lights.”
“I have to read this paper because I have to explain it to the students tomorrow.”
She fell silent for a moment then sighed and got up, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered affectionately, “Good night.”
He listened to her footsteps as they receded on the wooden staircase. When he heard the bedroom door close he put the paper in his briefcase and poured himself a drink. He had no desire to drink but he wanted to while away the time until Chris was fast asleep. Then he came to suddenly when the doorbell rang. At first he didn't believe it was actually ringing until he heard it ring again, clearly and emphatically this time. He got up reluctantly and looked at the wall clock: it was after eleven-thirty. He remembered that the intercom had not been working for a week and that he had asked Chris to get someone to repair it, but she had forgotten as usual. When he was only a few steps from the door, a disturbing idea occurred to him: had the intercom been deliberately sabotaged? He remembered many similar details that he had read in the crime pages of the newspaper about groups of criminals watching houses and cutting off burglar alarm systems before attacking them. Usually it happened this way: a perfectly innocent-looking girl would knock on the door at a very late hour asking for help. As soon as the owner opened the door the home invaders would attack him. He did his best to dismiss the disquieting thought, but he couldn't. So he stopped in front of the little safe in the wall near the entrance and pushed the secret button. It opened and he took out the old Beretta handgun that he had bought when he first came to Chicago. He'd never used it but took care of it and kept it in good condition. He felt some trepidation when he listened to the click of the bullet chamber. He moved with agility toward the door, his right hand feeling the cold metal with his finger on the trigger. Now, with just one movement of his finger he could shoot the person behind the door if they had evil intentions. He approached with extreme caution and looked through the peephole and at once his hand, still clutching the gun, relaxed. He put the Beretta away and opened the door and shouted enthusiastically while grinning, “Hello, what a surprise!”
Ra'fat Thabit was standing in front of the door, slightly awkward with an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry to disturb you, Salah. I tried calling but your telephone was turned off and I had to see you tonight.”
“You're always disturbing, Ra'fat. So, what's new there?” he said, laughing as he pulled him by the hand. This was their way of joking with each other: sarcastic and somewhat cruel, as if the cruelty masked the affection they felt for each other, their thirty-year friendship as comrades-in-arms. They had been together through sorrows and joys and tempestuous times that had created a rare kind of understanding between them, so much so that one glance from Salah now at Ra'fat's face was sufficient to make him realize that his friend had a serious problem. His smile vanished and he asked him anxiously, “What happened?”
“Make me a drink.”
“What would you like?”
“Scotch and soda with lots of ice.”
Ra'fat began to drink and speak. He spoke fast and passionately, as if getting rid of a heavy burden. And when he finished, he kept his head bowed for a while. Then Salah asked in a serious and understanding voice, “Did Sarah actually leave?”
“She will, this weekend.”