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  The previous night worries had assailed her and she was unable to sleep. For a whole hour she tossed and turned and felt miserable. She cried in the dark and wet her pillow. Then she got up, turned on the light and said to herself that she couldn’t possibly bear such a hard life for four full years. What would happen if she were to write a request to withdraw from the scholarship? She would suffer for some time from the gloating and sarcastic taunts of some of her colleagues in Tanta, but her two sisters would welcome her with open arms, and her mother would never gloat at her misfortune. The desire to withdraw from the scholarship took hold of her and she started wondering how to carry it out. Suddenly another idea occurred to her: she performed her ablution, opened the holy Qur’an, and recited the Chapter of Yasin, then performed the prayer for guidance and followed it with supplications. As soon as she lay her head on the pillow she was fast asleep. In her sleep she saw her father, Ustaz Muhammadi, wearing his fancy blue wool suit that he wore on important occasions (such as visits to or by the minister or graduation parties at the school). Her father stood in the garden in front of the main door of the histology department where she studied. His face was clean-shaven and without wrinkles, his lucent eyes gleamed, and his hair was thick jet-black without a single gray hair, which made him appear twenty years younger. He kept smiling at Shaymaa and whispering to her in his affectionate voice, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll stay with you. I won’t leave you, ever. Come.” Then he held her by the hand and pulled her gently until she entered through the department door with him.

  Shaymaa woke up in the morning at peace with herself, her misgivings totally gone. She said to herself, “This is a true vision from God Almighty to give me strength in my difficult task.” She believed that the dead lived with us but that we didn’t see them. Her father had visited her in her sleep to encourage her to continue her studies, and she wasn’t going to let him down; she would forget her sorrows and cope with her new life. She felt profound relief now that she had made up her mind. So, she decided to celebrate. She had certain rituals she was used to performing with her two sisters on happy occasions. She began by making the well-known paste of sugar and lemon juice on the stove, and then she went into the bathroom and sat, naked, on the edge of the bathtub and began to remove unwanted hair from her body. She enjoyed that repeated, fleeting, delightful pain caused by plucking the hair from the skin. She followed that by a long, warm bath during which she gave every part of her body a rubbing that refreshed and liberated her.

  A few minutes later, Shaymaa stood in the kitchen enacting a purely Egyptian scene: she put on a flannel gallabiya with a pattern of little flowers and a pair of khadduga slippers with a wide face and four intersecting straps, which were her favorite because they were easy on her toes and gave them freedom of movement. She let her long, soft wet hair cascade down her shoulders and decided to enjoy everything she loved to do. She put in the cassette player Kadhim al-Sahir’s song “Do You Have Any Doubt?” of which she was so fond that she recorded it three times on the same cassette tape so she wouldn’t have to rewind it. Kadhim’s voice boomed out and Shaymaa began to dance to the tunes and, at the same time, slide bell peppers, one by one, into a frying pan of boiling oil to make her favorite dish, Alexandria-style moussaka. Little by little she became completely absorbed in the act and began to roam all over the kitchen, dancing and singing with Kadhim as if performing on stage, then going back to the stove to slide in a new pepper. When Kadhim sang “My Murderess Is Dancing Barefoot,” Shaymaa extended her feet and threw off her khadduga slippers into the corner of the kitchen. When Kadhim asked his beloved, “Where’d you come from? How did you come here? And how did you storm my heart?” she became so ecstatic that it occurred to her to perform a dance move that used to earn great admiration from her girlfriends in Tanta. She suddenly got down on her knees, raised her arms, and began to rise slowly, shaking her waist and jiggling her breasts. This time she slid in two peppers at once, and when they hit the boiling oil the impact produced a great bang and released thick plumes of smoke. For a moment she imagined hearing something like an alarm. But she dismissed at that moment anything that might spoil her good mood and began another dance move: she extended her arms, as if getting ready to embrace someone, then began to move her breasts forward and backward while standing in place. When she picked up another pepper to drop it into the oil, at that very moment, she experienced a horrifying nightmare. She heard a loud bang, after which the door of her apartment was forcibly opened. Some huge men surrounded her, shouting in English things that she did not understand. One of the men jumped toward her and hugged her hard, as if he wanted to carry her off the ground. She didn’t resist because she was too shocked until she felt his strong hands clasping at her back and she smelled a putrid smell after her face got caught in his black leather coat. It was only then that she realized the enormity of what was happening and she channeled all her strength to her hands to push off that stranger and began to let loose a stream of very loud, piercing screams that reverberated throughout the building.

  Chapter 2

  The University of Illinois is one of the largest schools in the United States. It is divided into several campuses: the Medical Center on the west side comprises the medical colleges. The nonmedical colleges are in other parts of the city. The Medical Center started in the 1850s with modest means then developed and expanded, like everything in Chicago, at a very fast rate, until it became a huge self-contained town on thirty acres, occupying more than a hundred buildings that constitute the medical school, pharmacology school, school of dentistry, nursing, library branches, and the administration. In addition there are movie theaters, theaters, athletic facilities, giant stores, and a free local transit system working around the clock.

  The University of Illinois Medical School is one of the largest in the world and has one of the oldest histology departments, housed in a modern five-story building surrounded by a large garden, in the middle of which is a bronze bust of a man in his fifties who seems to stare into space with big, tired, dreamy eyes. On the pedestal the following words are inscribed in large letters: “The great Italian scientist, Marcello Malpighi (1628–1694), founder of histology. He started it and we are here to finish the job.” This fighting tone epitomizes the spirit of the department. As soon as you enter through the glass door, you feel you’ve left the world with its preoccupations and noise and found yourself in the sanctum of science. The place is very quiet with soft, light music coming from the 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 needed by a genuine researcher to learn and discover new things in science. I refuse to admit this student.”

  “Okay. This is your opinion, Dr. Roberts. How about the rest of you?” the chairman asked, smiling. Ra’fat Thabit raised his hand then started speaking like someone telling an anecdote. “Having been an Egyptian at one time, I know very well how Egyptians think. They don’t learn for the sake of learning. They get MSs and PhDs, not for the sake of scientific research, but to get a promotion or a lucrative contract in the Arab Gulf countries. This student will hang his diploma in his clinic in Cairo to convince the patients that he can cure them.”

  Friedman looked at him in astonishment and said, “How do they allow that in Egypt? Histology is an academic subject that has nothing whatsoever to do with treating people.”

  Ra’fat laughed sarcastically and said, “You don’t know Egypt, Bill. Everything there is permitted, and people don’t know what the word histology means to begin with.”

  “Are you exaggerating a little, Ra’fat?” asked Friedman in a soft voice.

  Muhammad Salah intervened, “Of course he’s exaggerating.”

  Ra’fat Thabit turned to him and said sharply, “You, in particular, know I am not exaggerating.”

  Friedman sighed and said,“Anyway, this is not what we’re discussing. We now have two opinions, from Dr. Roberts and Dr. Thabit, against admitting the Egyptian student. What do you say, Dr. Graham?”

  John Graham took the unlit pipe from his mouth and said vexedly, “Gentlemen! You’re talking more like secret police detectives than university professors!”

  There were some noises of objection but Graham continued loudly, “The right thing to do is quite obvious. Anyone who fulfills the requirements of the department is entitled to enroll. It’s none of our business what he’ll do with his diploma or what country he’s come from.”

  “This kind of talk gave America September 11,” said George Roberts.

  Graham rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, “What led to September 11 is that most decision makers in the White House thought like you. They supported despotic regimes in the Middle East to multiply the profits of oil and arms companies, and armed violence escalated and reached our shores. Remember, this student will leave his country and his family and travel to the end of the world for the sake of learning. Don’t you find this to be an honorable endeavor deserving respect? Isn’t it our duty to help him? Remember, Dr. Roberts, you’ve often objected to admitting any non-American students, haven’t you? As for you, Ra’fat, do you think your speech is culpable under the anti-racial-discrimination statutes?”

  “I didn’t say anything racist, Comrade Graham!” said Ra’fat with some irritation.

  Graham turned toward him, ran his fingers through his beard, and said, “If you call me ‘comrade’ in jest, I take that as a compliment and I can assure you that what you say is racist. Racism is the belief that a difference in race leads to a difference in behavior and human abilities. This applies to what you said about Egyptians. The amazing thing is, you yourself are Egyptian!”

  “I used to be Egyptian some time ago, but I’ve quit. And, comrade, when will you recognize the American passport I carry?”

  Chairman Friedman made a gesture with his hand, saying, “Control your tempers. We’ve got off the subject at hand. Dr. Graham, you agree to admit the student. How about you, Dr. Salah?”

  “I agree to admit the student,” said Salah calmly. The chairman’s smile widened and he said, “Two in favor and two against. I’ll keep my opinion until the end. We’d like to hear from Dennis. I don’t know if today is one of the days Dr. Baker can talk, or do we have to wait a few days?”

  Everyone laughed and some of the tensions caused by the discussion dissipated. Baker smiled and remained silent for a moment, then his eyes grew wider and he said in his gruff voice, “I’d rather we have a formal vote.”

  The chairman bowed his head at once, as if he had received an order. He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper in front of him, then cleared his throat, and his voice acquired a formal tone as he said, “Gentlemen, this is a formal vote. Do you agree to admit the Egyp
tian student Nagi Abd al-Samad to the histology MS program? Those in favor, please raise your hands.”

  Chapter 3

  At the student dorm at the University of Illinois in Chicago, apartment 303, in front of the elevator on the third floor, Tariq Haseeb leads a life as precise as the hand of a clock: alone, thin, and tense, moving forward in a constant, nonchanging rhythm. From 8:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m., every day, he moves from lecture hall to lab to library. Then he returns to his apartment to have his lunch in front of the television followed by a full two-hour siesta. At exactly 7:00 p.m., regardless of changing circumstances or events around the world, what Tariq Haseeb does doesn’t change one bit: he turns off his cell phone and turns on light music in his room. Then he assumes the position he has throughout his thirty-five years on this earth: he bends over his small desk, studying his lessons, or more precisely, waging a relentless war against the material until he controls it and records it in his mind, never to be erased afterward. He spreads the books and papers in front of him and stares at them with his big, slightly bulging eyes. He knits his brow and purses his thin lips, the muscles of his pale face contracted in a stony expression, as if patiently suffering some kind of pain. When his concentration reaches its peak, he becomes so completely isolated from his surroundings that he doesn’t hear the doorbell or forgets the teakettle on the stove until the water in it totally evaporates and it starts burning. He stays like that tirelessly until he suddenly jumps to his feet and shouts loudly or claps his hands and heaps obscene insults on an imaginary person or raises his arms and dances wantonly all over the room. That is the way he expresses joy when he manages to understand a scientific problem that he has had some difficulty comprehending.