“Yes, sir.”
“Which cocktails can you make, then?”
“Any, sir.”
“Are you sure about that, barman?”
“Yes, sir. Can I get you something?”
The colonel reflected for a moment, puffing on his pipe, and with the stupid expression of a child at play, he said, “All right then. Make me a One Ball.”
He pronounced the name of the cocktail deliberately, as if delivering a killer tennis serve. Then he turned away without following the tennis ball, so convinced was he of his shot’s effect that he did not need to see his opponent miss it. Bahr betrayed no more effort than if the colonel had just ordered a glass of water. He reached for a bottle of champagne, uncorking it with a flourish. Applying himself with total concentration, he poured a measure of it into the cocktail shaker, added the other ingredients and shook them for the requisite amount of time. Then he emptied the contents into a glass of ice. The colonel turned back to watch him carefully and with some astonishment. He took the glass from Bahr, and as he sniffed and tasted it, the pomposity disappeared from his face, and his tone changed utterly as he asked Bahr, “Where did you learn to make this cocktail?”
“In Egypt, sir.”
“Do you know why it is called a One Ball?”
“It is a reference to Adolf Hitler, sir.”
“How so?”
“Because he was born with only one testicle.”
The colonel’s eyebrows rose. He laid his pipe on the bar and stretched out his hand to pat Bahr on the back. When it came time to pay his tab, he left a whole pound tip for Bahr.
For all Bahr’s professionalism, the question still remains whether he ever cheated his customers. The answer depends upon one’s concept of cheating. Bahr resorted to a number of ruses in order to increase his income. He used the floating tab by which he extracted multiple payments for the same bill. Another ruse depended on the Club administration’s charging Bahr according to an expectation that he would sell twenty glasses from one bottle of whiskey; by always pouring slightly less than the specified full drink’s measure, he could stretch a bottle to twenty-six glasses, pocketing the difference. Bahr carefully chose the customers so served: those who got drunk quickly (and who would not notice the diminution in their glass) and those so trusting that they never checked their tabs. Thus, in cahoots with Morqos the accountant, Bahr was able to reap a tidy profit from the bar, though he did not consider this to be theft by any stretch of the imagination but merely the usual creative license of the barman trade and completely licit, provided the customer was kept satisfied. In return for his profit from the bar, Bahr would pay Alku the monthly amount called the “bonus.”
That night, Bahr was worried because Alku had rebuked him and accused him of theft in front of his colleagues, which meant that Alku was up to something. “God help me,” thought Bahr, who did not consider himself one of the serving staff but rather one of the Big Four, comprised of the chef Rikabi, the maître d’ Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh, manager of the casino. All were managers and received special treatment. Alku never punished them with a flogging, choosing instead to dress them down, and when he accused one of them publicly of theft, it meant that he wanted more money from him. Bahr knew that much from experience.
There were still a few days until the first of the month, when the bonus had to be handed over, but Bahr put the usual amount in an envelope, placing it in a drawer in the bar ahead of schedule. He carried on supervising his staff halfheartedly and in a state of apprehension. At midnight, he announced, “I am off to see Alku.”
They knew from his expression that the matter was serious, and one of them rushed over to stand in for him behind the bar. Bahr put the envelope in his pocket and took a taxi to Abdin Palace. Midnight was the best time to see Alku. That was when His Majesty the king was otherwise engaged, in the casino of the Automobile Club or out with his friends at the Auberge des Pyramides. At Alku’s office, Bahr was greeted by Hameed, who looked at him quizzically. Bahr cringed with a smile and said, “Mr. Hameed, I would like to see His Excellency Alku.”
“Wait there.”
Hameed pointed quickly at the chair in the far corner. After half an hour, Hameed returned and said tersely, “His Excellency Alku will see you.”
Hameed used the words “will see” rather than “is waiting for,” as it did not befit Alku to wait for anyone. Bahr sprang up from his chair, quickly checked in the mirror to make sure that his shoes were shined, that his bow tie was straight and his jacket spotless, and then walked into Alku’s office, bowing deeply as he said, “Good evening, Your Excellency.”
Alku was sitting at his desk, holding a cigarette, which gave off thick smoke. He was wearing his embroidered chamberlain’s uniform and gold spectacles as he read over papers lying in front of him on the desk. He left Bahr standing in front of him for a full minute before he raised his head to look at him. Bahr smiled politely, bowing again, and then came forward two steps, placing the envelope on the edge of the desk. The envelope was unsealed, and the banknotes were visible. That was the usual method of handing over the bonus to Alku, who normally did not even look at it but would just make a gesture of dismissal. This time Alku looked at the envelope and, appearing offended, bellowed, “What is this?”
“A small gift for your goodness, Your Excellency.”
Alku screeched, “Take it and get out.”
Bahr turned pale, and his face showed great consternation as he tried to speak, but Alku’s voice echoed around him, “Get out. Get out of here!”
Bahr picked up the envelope and hurried out.
7
James Wright would rise at six in the morning, wash his face, brush his teeth and enjoy a cup of tea with two of his favorite chocolate cream biscuits. Then he would pick up his tennis kit and leave his villa on the Nile in Zamalek, walking the few minutes that it took him to reach the Gezira Club to play for an hour. After that, he would go back home and take a hot bath, eat a proper breakfast and dress before making his way to the Automobile Club, where he had been managing director since its establishment. He would work in his office from nine o’clock until four in the afternoon. Then his chauffeur would drive him back to the Gezira Club, where he would drink two or three whiskeys as he read the English newspapers or played a game of cards with his friends. At exactly seven o’clock, he would arrive back home for dinner with his wife, Victoria, and his daughter, Mitsy. Mr. Wright’s life was lived at such measured intervals. At any given moment, it was possible to know where he was and what he was doing. Like most people, however, he also had something to hide. Two or three times a week, after his chauffeur dropped him off at the club, Wright would go into the bar and knock back a drink. Then he would stroll along the corridors as if taking his constitutional and sneak out of the back entrance. After a long while, he would return and climb into his car to go home as usual. Where did he go on these secret trips?
The story starts two years ago, at the Automobile Club’s annual New Year’s Eve party, which was attended by the British high commissioner, ambassadors, ministers, VIPs and princes of the Egyptian royal family. His Majesty the king surprised the guests with a gracious appearance just after one o’clock in the morning. He wished all those present a happy new year and then took his seat at the green baize table and played cards until dawn. The party, as usual, was an occasion for the guests to display the latest fashions, evening dresses, furs and smoking jackets. One of the female guests caught Mr. Wright’s attention: a petite white woman in her forties with jet-black hair cut in a bob, smoking nonstop and wearing a plain blue dress completely inappropriate for the occasion. Wright kept eyeing her with astonishment, wondering how a woman could dare to appear at a society soiree in a dress that would hardly do for a tea party. The strange thing was that she was chatting away and laughing with the guests as naturally as if she had no idea how out of place she looked. This only heightened Mr. Wright’s curiosity, and he finally asked Maître Shakir about her.
Maître Shakir bowed and whispered, “That is Madame Odette Fattal, sir.”
“Is she related to Monsieur Henri Fattal?”
“She is his daughter, sir.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The millionaire Henri Fattal was one of the largest cotton dealers in Egypt. Why would his daughter turn up looking that way? Any secretary in her father’s office would most certainly have worn something more formal. What was she up to and why were all the guests overlooking her faux pas? Wright could not contain his curiosity and ordered another drink, quickly downing it. Having thus overcome his inhibitions, he walked over to her. As she looked at him, he bowed and said, “Bonsoir, Madame. Please allow me to introduce myself. James Wright, managing director of the Automobile Club.”
As he kissed her hand, he noticed the softness of her skin and her light and captivating perfume. She smiled and said, “I am Odette Fattal. I am a teacher at the Lycée Français. Enchantée!”
He felt encouraged by her smile, and as he reached for another glass from the tray of a passing waiter, he said, “May I ask why we have not had the pleasure of seeing you here at the Club before?”
“I don’t like the Automobile Club.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“If it wasn’t for my friends, I wouldn’t have come tonight either.”
“Then I am most grateful to your friends.”
“Please don’t be upset with me. I am just being honest.”
Wright continued looking at this strange creature, who, in spite of everything, was not lacking in a certain charm. He said, “May I ask why you dislike the Automobile Club?”
“Because it is such a deceitful and artificial environment. Full of sharks.”
Odette said this in a straightforward manner. Wright raised his eyebrows and gave her an uneasy look, but she paid no heed and carried on speaking, “Here, in the Automobile Club, the thieves don the finest clothes, douse themselves in cologne and then disport themselves in a sort of pantomime of respectability.”
“When you say thieves, to whom are you referring?”
“Everyone here. Aren’t those pashas the cream of the Egyptian upper classes? Just mention the name of anyone here, and I’ll read you his charge sheet.”
In all his sixty-one years, James Wright had never had such a bizarre conversation. He knew that he was in the presence of a woman unlike those he saw day in, day out. Despite her eccentricity, she had a certain allure. They chatted on, until the guests who noticed them together started whispering amongst themselves. At six in the morning, he dropped her off at her building, and the following day he rang to check on her. They went out together three more times, and on the fourth occasion he invited her to dinner at the Mena House Hotel, afterward dropping her off at her apartment in Zamalek. As she stepped out of the car, they were exchanging their usual good-byes when suddenly she leaned over and planted a quick kiss on his lips. Trying to control his excitement, he pulled her into his arms and covered her with kisses. That night they slept together for the first time.
Even after a whole year, his feelings of wonder had not dissipated at all, though for all the happiness that he felt with her, she remained an object of mystery. As things continued, all sorts of unanswerable questions arose in his mind. Often he would stand in front of the mirror, looking at his wrinkled and furrowed face and the small strip of gray hair around his bald pate, and he would try to fathom how the beautiful Odette could be attracted to such a plain-looking man twenty years older. Did she have an Electra complex; was she looking for the father she had lost? Why had she moved out of her father’s mansion in Maadi and rented a small place in Zamalek? Why was the daughter of the millionaire Fattal forced to earn her living as a teacher at the Lycée? Why not work in one of her father’s numerous concerns, if at all? And what about her Lebanese husband, who lived in Paris, about whom she refused to speak? Why were they not living together? At various moments he had thrown all these questions at Odette, with each, her beautiful face turning ashen before she answered him tersely, “I grew apart from my father years ago. I do visit him occasionally, but I don’t let him interfere in my life.”
“How did you grow apart?”
“We are different in every way.”
“Had my father been a millionaire like yours I would never have grown apart from him.” He let out a laugh and then asked her why she did not live with her husband or ask him for a divorce.
Odette smiled and answered calmly, “James, do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Then love me for what I am. Don’t keep on asking me about my life.”
He acceded to her wish. Odette would remain mysterious, but he loved her more than he had ever loved his wife. He could not imagine his life without her. He had never been a devoted husband to Victoria, never feeling any pangs of conscience all the times he had cheated on her. At the same time, he was always ready to forgive his wife for her predictably regular outbursts. He considered marriage necessary in order to produce offspring, but beyond that he deemed it a flawed and useless institution. The odd extramarital affair simply helped to keep a husband and wife together. It was his style to have a fling and then go back and try harder at keeping his wife happy. He had always felt the same about his mistresses, but with Odette, it went somewhat deeper. She had shown him true happiness. It was as if she were the first woman he had ever known. She excited him so much that, even at this stage of life, he started to wonder about his sexuality. It was her boyish appearance that excited him so much. Had she grown her hair out, worn high heels, plastered her face in makeup and acted more feminine, he would not have been so attracted to her.
The most beautiful thing about Odette was something that was almost masculine. She had an instinctive and visceral roughness about her. Her serious talk and her revolutionary ideas were also alluring, expressed in her distinctive way of speaking. She spat out her consonants and emphasized things with small nods of her beautiful head. Wright couldn’t help but smile whenever he thought about her. What a wonderous creature she was. She had been offering her body to him for a whole year now and had asked for nothing in return. No presents, no money, no privileges—although she did once intervene on behalf of a peon at the Lycée to help his son get a job at the Automobile Club.
For her birthday, Wright bought her a gold necklace. She leaned toward him, and they lost themselves in a kiss. Then she pulled away slightly but with her arms still around him, smiled and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I won’t wear this necklace.”
“Why not?”
“Actually, I don’t wear gold.”
“You are probably the only woman in the world who has something against it!”
“I don’t base my opinions on their popularity.”
Her strange and surprising notions always produced a mixture of shock and admiration. He asked sharply, “May I know what you have against gold?”
“People run after gold because it represents wealth, but in itself it has no value. It’s valued only for its rarity and price, and, personally, I think it looks awful.”
Wright closed the box with the gold necklace in it, and in a tone of barely suppressed anger, he said, “I’m so sorry that I have upset you with this gift.”
“No. I’m the one who has upset you with my bizarre reaction.”
She smiled and looked at his face as if to make sure that he was not still upset, then grinned wider and said, “Even so, I reserve the right to be given a present.”
A few days later, she took him to a small shop in Soliman Pasha Street and picked out a silver chain with an ankh. It was not expensive, but she was thrilled. Wright gave the gold necklace to his wife, who naturally was delighted with it.
The day before, he had arrived at Odette’s apartment before her and let himself in. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and stretched out on the sofa, savoring it. When Odette turned up, he became a slave to his passion and for the first time showered her with kisses before they’d eve
n spoken a word. After making love, they simply lay together on the bed. He loved it when she rested her head in the hollow between his arm and his chest. He could feel her hot breath and leaned to kiss her smooth hair.
After a short while, she roused herself, gave him a quick kiss and then looked at him and asked, “You seem a little distracted this evening…”
“Do I?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Problems at work…”
“Tell me about them.”
“It’s nothing specific. It’s just that from time to time I carry out surprise inspections of the staff at the Club, and I always find some gross violations of policy.”
“What a fine general manager you are!”
“Yes. I always think that the Egyptian’s capacity to work as well as his moral values are completely different from our own.”
Odette pulled away from him slightly and gave him a disapproving look.
“I can’t believe that is how you think.”
“Why?”
“It’s racist.”
“I’m not a racist. I’m just speaking the truth. Egyptians are lazy, dirty and liars too.”
“Well, if they’re so awful, why do you live among them? Why don’t you go back to clean and efficient England?”
“My work obliges me to live in Egypt.”
“Oh, really! How terrible that must be for you! How can you put up with the villa you live in with your family, your grand car and your fabulous salary?”
“Odette, don’t mock me. Obviously, my job does afford me some perquisites, but were it not for that I wouldn’t be able to bear life in this country for a single day.”
The Automobile Club of Egypt Page 9