“Don’t worry about Mom, John. She’s a strong woman.”
John Graham laughed at his precociousness and hugged Mark and kissed him and sat next to him to play with him. A little while later he heard the door open, squeak, and close slowly. Soon Carol appeared at the door of the room. She was frowning and looked engrossed in distant thoughts despite her elegant appearance, which confirmed his suspicions. Graham led her gently but firmly to their room. He closed the door, doing his best to control his anger. “Where’ve you been?”
“Is this an official interrogation?”
“I’d like to know.”
“You don’t have the right.”
She was speaking in a hostile tone and at the same time avoiding looking at his face. He threw his stout body into the chair and took a few moments to light his pipe and exhale a thick cloud of smoke. Then he said calmly, “Carol, I am the last person on earth who seeks to possess the woman he loves. But I think, inasmuch as we live together, it is only natural for each of us to know where the other is going.”
“I am not going to ask for your written permission to go out,” she cried, apparently determined to escalate the disagreement as far as it would go. She was carrying the Sunday Chicago Tribune and in sheer anger threw it down and its many pages scattered all over the floor. She shouted, “This is unbearable!”
She started to rush out of the room but just one step away from the door she stopped suddenly, frozen in place. She didn’t go out and didn’t turn back toward him, as if she had responded to that established mysterious rhythm that grew between people who had been married for a long time. She just stood there, as if waiting for him or summoning him. He got the signal: he rushed toward her and embraced her from the back, then turned her around and hugged her, whispering, “Carol, what’s the matter?”
She didn’t answer. He started kissing her passionately until he felt her body soften little by little as if opening up before him. He led her gently toward the bed, but he felt her tears wetting his face and he asked her in alarm, “What happened?”
She moved away from him and sat on the edge of the bed. She was exerting an extraordinary effort to control herself but finally collapsed and began to sob uncontrollably. Speaking in a disjointed manner, she said, “I went to a job interview. I told myself I’d tell you only if I get the job. You’ve had enough disappointment on my account.”
He raised her hands and began kissing them. Her mellow voice reverberated, as if coming from the depths of sadness. “I can’t take this anymore. With all my experience, what more do I need to prove to get a job.”
A profound silence descended upon them. Then she whispered as she buried her head in his chest and succumbed to a new fit of crying, “Oh, John, I feel so humiliated.”
Chapter 16
The reverence with which Professor Dennis Baker is regarded could be attributed to various reasons: his strong personality, his integrity, his devotion to science, the way he treats his students and colleagues lovingly and fairly, his simple austere appearance, and his constant silence, which he only breaks to say something necessary and useful. But more important than all of that: his scientific achievements. Baker presents himself as a “photographer of cells,” words that encapsulate the hard work and effort that he has exerted over the past forty years to transform the photographing of cells from a mere ancillary method in scientific research into an established independent science that had its own tools and rules. Baker invented methods and techniques in photographing cells that were patented in his name. He published so many papers over the years that including his CV in the program of scientific conferences posed a real problem because it required several times as much space as any other professor’s CV. It has become impossible for any book on histology to be published in any university in the world without using Baker’s cell photograph collections. Professor Baker approached his work in the spirit of an artist. First, a mysterious thought would come to him; then it would persist and give him sleepless nights; then it would disappear, leaving behind an amazing, but fragile, idea. He would examine that idea and scrutinize it until it took hold in his mind. Then he would spend weeks testing the cells in different light settings and different levels of microscope strength. Finally, inspiration would come, revealing for him what he should do, whereupon he would enthusiastically rush to photograph, record, and print.
In addition to his scientific achievement, Baker is considered one of the greatest lecturers that the University of Illinois has known throughout its history. His lectures about bodily tissues were as simple as they were profound. This led the university administration to market them on CDs that sold thousands of copies. Despite the magnificence of his achievement, Baker, like many great creative minds, was not immune to fears of failure and apprehensions of falling short. There were dark thoughts that sometimes made him wonder about the value of what he did. Those who worked with him were quite familiar with the anxiety that came over him before his lectures, like stage fright. As soon as the lecture ended he would ask one of his assistants, “Don’t you think that my explanation was somewhat vague?”
If the assistant did not hurry to refute the accusation enthusiastically, Baker’s imagined shortcoming would be confirmed for him and he would shake his head and say sadly, “Next time I’ll try to do better.”
In Chicago’s bitter cold and snowy winter, old Professor Baker often got up at four o’clock in the morning, washed up, put on heavy clothes and gloves, and covered his head and ears well, as if he were a soldier going to the battlefield. He would take the 5:00 a.m. train with cleaning crews and drunkards from the previous night. He would go through this trouble gladly to be able to check the cell samples at the exact time that he had set to the minute. That was how Baker accomplished his glorious achievements day after day, with the perseverance of an ant and the devotion of a monk, until he became a legend. There was a lot of talk at Illinois for years about the likelihood of his getting a Nobel Prize at any moment.
John Graham, during one of his outspoken moments, commented on Baker’s achievement by saying, “The great Western civilization was made by unique and devoted scientists like Dennis Baker, but the capitalist system has turned their creative endeavor into production machines and commercial enterprises from which millions of dollars pour in to stupid and corrupt men like George Bush and Dick Cheney.”
Baker supervised dozens of MSs and PhDs, and among his students were many Egyptians who achieved dazzling results. He kept in his lab thank-you letters from them, which he always asked them to write in Arabic because he liked the shape of the letters. His positive experience with Egyptians made him curious about their country, so he borrowed several books about Egypt from the university library. One time he was invited with some professors to a reception at De Paul University. There he drank two glasses of whiskey (the limit that he allowed himself). The liquor loosened his tongue and released inside him a torrent of sympathy. He looked at Dr. Salah, who was standing next to him, and asked him in his usual, direct manner, “Dr. Salah, I have a question: all the Egyptians who’ve worked with me were talented and exceptionally hardworking and yet Egypt, as a country, is still scientifically backward. Do you have an explanation for that?”
Salah answered quickly, as if he had prepared the answer. “Egypt is backward because of the lack of democracy, no more and no less. Talented Egyptians achieve great results when they emigrate to the West; but in Egypt, unfortunately, the despotic regime usually persecutes them and passes them over.”
Baker looked at him for a moment then nodded and said, “I get it.”
This deep appreciation by the great scientist for Egyptians made him always amenable to being the advisor for their theses and dissertations. It must be mentioned here that Baker, the pious, observant Protestant Christian, did not see any differences among the races and ethnic groups. In his creed humans were all children of God, equally blessed with His sacred spirit. Thus we are able to understand his tolerant, liberal positions in departmental meet
ings: he evaluated each student according to his or her effort and abilities only, in total disregard for their nationality or the color of their skin (unlike George Roberts). These great ideals in which Dr. Baker believed were recently put to a difficult test. He had welcomed supervising Ahmad Danana for the PhD, but from the first instant, he noticed that Danana was a type of Egyptian that he hadn’t seen before: he was older, looked formal, and wore a full suit and a necktie. Baker did not dwell on Danana’s appearance, but the problem started with the first course, in which Baker taught his students methods of research. It was an important course because it introduced students to the basic principles they had to follow in their theses. Passing that course depended on class participation rather than on a traditional final examination. So Baker assigned students certain papers that they had to read, summarize, and comment on every week. Then he would listen to them and engage them in discussion and give them grades based on their absorption of the material and the amount of work they had put into it. Since the first class meeting Baker noticed, somewhat anxiously, that Ahmad Danana spoke on matters not germane to the subject at hand. He attributed that, perhaps, to the possibility that he did not understand what was required of him. So he summoned him to his office after class and gave him a new research paper, saying gently, “Read this paper well. Next week, in class, I’ll ask you to summarize it and comment on it.”
The following class, when it was Danana’s turn, he stood up in his full suit, cleared his throat, coughed, and began a long spiel during which he waved his hands, speechifying in his broken English, modulating his voice to influence the listeners as if he were delivering an oration in the National Party. The students followed him in bafflement as he said, “Dear colleagues, believe me. The question is not methods of research. Methods of research, praise the Lord, are copiously abundant. What I’d like for us to discuss today is the idea behind the methods of research. Within each of us there is a certain idea about method. We must, let me repeat here, must, come clean to each other, for the sake of the future of science, for our children and our grandchildren.”
Baker, as usual, was recording everything said in class so he could accurately evaluate each student. He was so extremely perplexed by what Danana said that for a moment he thought he was an imbecile. But on second thought he deemed that unlikely and had to interrupt him decisively. “Mr. Danana, I’d like to draw your attention to the fact that what you are saying has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of this session.”
That sentence would have silenced any student instantly, but Danana, well trained in arguing and polemics in political gatherings, did not bat an eyelash and said loudly, “Professor Baker, please. I am calling upon my colleagues to come clean, to exchange the ideas that each of us has about methods of research.”
Baker’s face turned red with anger and he shouted: “Listen, you’ve got to stop talking like that. I won’t allow you to confuse your colleagues. You either speak to the subject or stop talking, or get out of here.”
Danana fell silent and sighed. His face acquired the features of a great man who has received a cruel insult but, for noble considerations that he alone was aware of, decided to transcend the insult and forget it. The class went on as usual, and when it was over, Baker stared at Danana and asked him in disbelief mixed with exasperation, “Do you have psychological problems?”
“Of course not,” answered Danana with a nonchalant smile.
“Then why didn’t you read the paper?”
“I read it.”
“But you didn’t refer to it at all. You wasted class time with meaningless words.”
Danana placed his hand on Baker’s shoulder as if he were an old friend and said as if counseling him, “I always prefer to present scientific data with a human touch that brings students closer to one another.”
Baker looked at him closely then said calmly, “It’s I who determines the way this class is taught, not you.” Then he opened a folder he was holding and took out a large stack of paper that he handed to Danana and said, “I am going to give you one last chance. Here, read this paper carefully. I want you to present me with a summary within two days at most.”
“I don’t have time this week.”
“How can you be a student and not find time for your studies?”
“I am not an ordinary student. I am the president of the Egyptian Student Union in all of America.”
“What does this have to do with research?”
“My time is not my own. It belongs to my colleagues who’ve given me the responsibility.” Baker fell silent, looking at him in true bewilderment: this was a type of human being that he hadn’t encountered before in his life. Danana went on to say in an official tone, “Professor Baker, I expect you to take my political post into consideration.”
It was then that Baker burst out, saying angrily, “What you’re saying is nonsense. Do you understand? Here you are a student, no more and no less. If you don’t have time for your studies, quit.”
Baker turned and left. Danana ran after him trying to pacify him, but he dismissed him with a wave of his hand. From that day on Danana became a heavy psychological burden on Baker, who, despite his long experience, didn’t know how to deal with him. He would attend regularly for a few days and then would miss several classes and neglect his lessons, coming back every time with a new story about a problem that one of the students had had that forced him to travel to Washington, or about a student suddenly falling ill that he had to check into a hospital. At this point we have to understand that the problem was much more serious than Danana’s preoccupations or his neglect of his lessons: the academic record that Danana had attained in Egypt was extremely mediocre, for it was his relationship with the secret State Security police— which had started when he was an undergraduate — that had earned him his promotions, and not his work. Every year the security apparatus exercised tremendous pressure on professors at the medical school in Cairo University to give Danana high grades that he didn’t deserve. Then the pressure continued to appoint him as an instructor, and then he got a master’s degree and finally got this scholarship. But his true level of competence was exposed in Illinois and he was not able to keep up with his studies. Professor Baker was shocked at Danana’s ignorance of some basics of medicine, so much so that he told him once in disbelief, “I can’t understand how you graduated with Tariq Haseeb and Shaymaa Muhammadi. Their academic knowledge is far superior to yours.”
Two full years passed and Danana covered only very little in his research. He was supposed to present his results this week but he missed class three days in a row. On the morning of the fourth day, Baker was working in his lab when there was a knock on the door, then it opened and Danana appeared. Baker ignored him and went on with his work. When Danana began the recital of his usual excuses, Baker interrupted him without turning toward him. He said calmly as he looked with one eye inside a glass test tube as if examining the barrel of a gun, “If you do not submit the results of the research this week, I will ask to be relieved of supervising your dissertation.”
Danana was about to speak but Baker silenced him with a gesture of his hand. Then he said as he withdrew inside the lab, “I have nothing to say to you. It’s your last chance.”
* * *
Karam Doss smiled and said, “Sorry to disturb you, Nagi.”
“Welcome.”
“Would you allow me to treat you to a cup of coffee some where?”
I saw his face in the soft corridor light. He looked tired and pale.
It seemed he hadn’t slept since yesterday and hadn’t changed his clothes, which looked wrinkled and a little dirty. I said to him, “If this has something to do with last night, I’ve forgotten it.”
“No, it’s bigger than that.”
I was tired and wasn’t ready for more arguments and problems. I said, “Can I accept your invitation some other time? I am still hung over.”
“Please, I won’t keep you long.”
; “Okay, come on inside. I have to get dressed.”
“Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
After about a quarter of an hour, I was sitting next to him in his red Jaguar. I leaned back in the comfortable seat, feeling as if I were a leading man in a foreign film about car racing. I said, “Your car is wonderful. I imagine it’s very expensive.”
He smiled and replied calmly, “I make good money, thank God.”
The dashboard had so many meters it looked as if it were part of the cockpit of an airplane. The head of the gearshift was in the shape of a big metal fist. Karam grabbed it then moved. The engine roared loudly and the car dashed off at an enormous speed. I asked him, “Do you like car racing?”
“I am crazy about it. As a child I dreamed of becoming a race car driver and here I am, realizing some of my old dreams.”
Something deep down in the tone of his voice was different from what it had been yesterday. It was as if he had been performing a role onstage but now he was talking to a friend after the show. He asked me in a friendly voice, “Have you been to Rush Street?”
“No.”
“Rush Street is the young people’s favorite street in Chicago. It has the most popular bars, restaurants, and dance clubs. On weekends, young men and women come out to the street to dance and drink until dawn, a kind of communal celebration of the end of a week of work. Look.”
I looked to where he was pointing and saw several policemen on horseback. They looked strange against the giant skyscrapers in the background. Karam said, laughing, “In the late hours of the night, when drunkenness and revelry reach their peak, Chicago police resort to the mounted detail to disperse the drunks. When I was young, an American friend taught me how to provoke a horse. We would drink and go out on the street, and when the mounted force came to disperse us, I would sneak behind the horse and prod it in such a way that it would neigh and get agitated and gallop away.”
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