Alaa Al Aswany - Chicago

He didn’t answer. He felt his heart beating as if it were a drum. She came closer and stood next to him. He felt the soft fabric of the gown on his hand and his nostrils were filled with her strong perfume. He found it hard to breathe and lost his ability to focus. He felt his stomach contracting, and it occurred to him that he might be about to faint.

We drank and talked. Wendy told me about her family. Her mother was a social worker and her father a dentist. She lived with them in New York until she got the job at the Chicago Stock Exchange. She was living by herself in a studio near Rush Street. She said that she loved Chicago but that sometimes she felt lonely and depressed. She thought sometimes that her life had no meaning. She asked me, “Do you think I should see a psychiatrist?”

“I don’t think so. These are normal sad moods that all people have at one time or another, especially since you’re living by yourself. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“I found true love once, and it was wonderful, but unfortunately it ended last summer.”

I took comfort in her answer and began to tell her about myself and about my love of poetry. She said, somewhat diffidently, “Unfortunately I don’t read literature; I don’t have the time.”

“You yourself are a beautiful poem.”

“Thank you.”

She picked up her purse and said, “I must go. I have work in the morning.”

“Would it bother you if I called you?”

“Not at all.” I called her twice during the week and then I invited her on Friday to coffee at the school cafeteria (to minimize expenses). On the subsequent Saturday, following the instructions of the sage Graham, I invited her to dinner. This time she seemed to have paid more attention to her appearance. She wore black silk pants, a sleeveless white blouse, and a red jacket with a red flower pin on the lapel. Her simple attempt at dressing elegantly was touching and sincere. We had dinner in an Italian restaurant downtown. We talked and laughed as if we were old intimate friends. I actually felt very comfortable in her company. I told her everything, about my mother and my sister, my problem at Cairo University and my love of poetry. She asked me, “Do you dream of becoming a famous poet one day?”

“Fame is not a measure of a poet’s success. There are famous poets whose work has no value and great poets that people don’t know about.”

“So, why do you write?”

“I write because I have something to say. What matters to me is not fame but appreciation, that what I write reaches a number of people, no matter how few, and changes their thoughts and feelings.”

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of meeting a real poet.”

“You are sitting with one.”

I held her hands across the table. I raised them slowly to my lips and kissed them. She looked at me with a captivating smile. We went out to the street, tipsy from the wine. The sound of her footfalls next to me gave me joy. She asked me suddenly, “Where are we going now?”

My heart raced and I said, “I have a great documentary about Egypt. Would you like to watch it with me?”

“Of course. Where is it?”

“In my apartment.”

“Okay.”

We walked to the L station. I hurried my steps, as if I were afraid she might change her mind. We took the Blue Line. I sat in the seat opposite her. I studied her features slowly. She seemed extremely tender and sweet. I thought that my strong attraction to her was probably due to the problems I had encountered since arriving in Chicago. I definitely needed a woman’s affection. When we arrived at my apartment we sat next to each other on the sofa in the living room. We drank wine and talked. I was worried, afraid I might be too precipitous and ruin the occasion. I put my arms around her as she spoke. Her face tensed for a moment and I felt her body warm and vivacious. I was one step away from happiness and I knew from experience that it was a decisive moment, that if it slipped out of my hand, everything would be lost. We stopped talking suddenly and I felt her hot breaths warming me. She seemed to be breathing heavily and I thought she was about to cry. I took her in my arms and began to kiss her passionately on the face and neck. I felt her body contract, then relax little by little. I extended my hand spontaneously to her back to undo her bra. She pulled away gently and planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then whispered tenderly as she got up, “I’ll go to the bathroom and I’ll be back in a moment.”

As soon as she appeared, naked, I eagerly embraced her. We made love a first time, strong and hard, as if getting rid of our pentup feelings, or as if we had suddenly discovered the possibilities of pleasure and started devouring them in disbelief. Afterward I lay down breathing heavily next to her on the bed and strangely enough I felt desire looming in the distance. That was quite rare, for my chronic problem with women was that weariness that came over me after lovemaking. As soon as I reached orgasm, the fog of lust would be dispelled and I’d lose my awareness of beauty. With Wendy it was different. I looked at her naked body and it looked capable of seducing me endlessly. I felt blood rushing through my veins as if I hadn’t satisfied my desire only a few moments ago. She rested her head on my chest and said in a melodious, content voice, “You know something, the first time I saw you, I was sure we’d end up in bed.”

“That’s because I’m lucky.”

“I had made up my mind not to come to your apartment until we went out one more time, but I lost my resistance suddenly.”

I planted a kiss on her forehead and said, “You’re my wonderful princess!”

“You’re obviously experienced in bed even though you’re not married. In Egypt, are you permitted to have sex outside marriage?”

“We permit ourselves.”

It was a lame answer, but I wasn’t ready for any serious discussion at that moment. Wendy laid her chin on my chest and looked at me. She extended her finger and stroked my lips as if I were a child and then exclaimed playfully, “Come on, tell me all about your romantic liaisons with Egyptian women!”

I felt her breasts on my chest emitting unbearably soft warmth. I pulled her gently by the arm and she moved in such a way that she was on top of me. This time I kissed her gently and slowly and then we made love again. I had got to know the contours of her body, so I conducted the second time around in an unhurried and focused manner until we peaked together in a blaze of passion. She savored her ecstasy for a long time and then came to and jumped gleefully out of bed. She took a small camera out of her handbag and said as she readied it, “I’m going to take a picture of you.”

“Wait ’til I’m ready.”

“I’d like to take your picture in the buff.” I was about to object but she was quicker. The flash lit several times as she took pictures from different angles. Then she laughed and said, “One of these days I’ll blackmail you with these photos.”

“That’ll be the most beautiful blackmail in my life!”

“I hope you’ll still think like that always. I’ve got to go now.”

“Can’t you stay a little longer?”

“Unfortunately I can’t. Next time I’ll plan to spend a longer time with you.”

She went to the bathroom and soon came back, having put on her clothes. Her face was rosy, radiant with a smile of gratitude. I was waiting for her, having also put on my clothes. She said, “Please don’t worry about escorting me.”

“I’d like to.”

“It’s best if I go alone,” she said in a calm, decisive tone. I was somewhat surprised but I respected her wish. I embraced her affectionately and said, “Wendy, I’m happy I met you.”