The Automobile Club of Egypt

by Alaa Al Aswany

  “I just don’t understand why Europeans come here to pillage the country and suck the blood out of the Egyptians, all the while despising them. You sound just like Winston Churchill, who considers the British occupation of Egypt to be a moral duty.”

  As she ranted, he turned red with anger. He sat up against the headboard, looking rather odd as he, still completely naked, lit his pipe. With some anger in his voice, he retorted, “Well, if you insist on ruining our night, let me tell you that I am in complete agreement with Churchill. Britain, or any civilized European country, is making a huge sacrifice in sending its military to a backward land like Egypt or India. I don’t know how much longer Britain will consider it a duty to bring civilization to the barbarians.”

  “It really infuriates me that a decent man like you can believe that. The British are simply robbing Egypt and stealing its resources. That’s the truth of the matter. The British are thieves.”

  “Can you deny that the British occupation has helped to modernize Egypt?”

  “The only modernization the British have carried out is that which helps them to fleece the country. The British built the railways to transport troops and to filch Egyptian cotton. Their administrative systems enable them to control all economic activity. Do you know how resolutely Lord Cromer opposed the establishment of the Egyptian University? British colonial policy will never change and can be summed up in two words: organized theft. And I can cite plenty of facts and figures.”

  He gave her a look of irritation and then said sarcastically, “I don’t understand how you can defend Egyptians so enthusiastically. Do you consider yourself Egyptian?”

  “I was born in Egypt, but I have French citizenship. It was my grandfather who moved from Lebanon to Egypt.”

  “So you’re Lebanese?”

  “Does everyone have to belong to a particular country?”

  “I can’t imagine a person with no nationality.”

  “Nationalities are a fascist way of thinking aimed at forcing people into a narrow and stupid sense of belonging. It makes some people feel superior to others and perpetuates hatred and war.”

  “But at the end of the day people need to belong to one country or another.”

  “That’s pure fantasy. I pay no heed to nationality or religion. I was born Jewish, but I am a total atheist. I am neither Egyptian nor Lebanese nor French. I am just a human being.”

  “Well, I am a British citizen.”

  “The Britain you belong to has committed terrible atrocities in Egypt, India and Africa. Britain’s victims number in the thousands.”

  “Well, you can’t pin that on me personally.”

  “You don’t even see the contradiction. When your government does something good, you are proud of it, but when it commits a crime, you wash your hands of it.”

  “I have always been proud of being British.”

  “Hitler was proud of being German too, and he had the Jews incinerated.”

  Wright seemed on the verge of completely losing his temper and shouted, “I’m fed up with your lecturing. All right. Britain has committed some awful crimes against the people in her colonies, just as Hitler carried out the holocaust against the Jews, but what are the Jews doing to the Arabs in Palestine? What are the Haganah gangs doing to Arab women and children? Are they tossing flowers at them?”

  “If you could only believe in humanity, it would help you to see things. As a human being, I condemn the holocaust just as much as I condemn the slaughter of Arabs by the Haganah gangs.”

  They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound that of Wright puffing on his pipe. Finally, he put it down and took Odette’s hand, kissing it and whispering, “Can’t we end this argument?”

  He smothered her hand in kisses and then started for her neck.

  She pulled away from him, whispering almost dejectedly, “I don’t know how I ever got involved with someone so dyed-in-the-wool!”

  Still embracing her, he whispered, “I may be dyed-in-the-wool, but I love you.”

  KAMEL

  I threw myself straight into the job. I did not think of the consequences. I was like someone who shuts his eyes and jumps in at the deep end. I decided to distribute the pamphlet in the dead of night. Until three in the morning, the streets of Sayyida Zeinab would still be swarming with people and the denizens of the coffee shops, and I knew that plainclothes police would be out and about. After four o’clock in the morning, the first clusters of people would appear on their way to morning prayers. I decided to go between three and four in the morning, starting with our own street. I went from building to building, climbing to the top floor and then leaving a pamphlet at each door as I descended. I completed a number of buildings in our street and then continued to another.

  I avoided going into any building with lights on. I must have done at least twenty buildings and was so absorbed in my task that I did not notice time pass until I reached into my bag and realized there were only a handful of flyers left, which I decided to leave in front of the closed Cinema al-Sharq. I had just one copy left in my bag. That was my single error. I crossed the street by the police station and walked in front of the Sayyida Zeinab Mosque as I made my way home. Just before the end of the mosque wall, a number of British officers appeared out of nowhere, accompanied by an Egyptian policeman. They were carrying out a surprise inspection at a spot in the square that was impossible to avoid or slip around. I was rattled. I was certain that the officers had seen me. If I were to throw away the pamphlet, they would arrest me immediately, and if I carried on walking toward them, they might notice my alarm and start questioning me. They would certainly frisk me, find the pamphlet and arrest me. That’s how I found myself doing something so strange that I still do not know how it occurred to me. I carried on walking, and a little before I reached the officers, I stopped and put my right foot against a wall. I bent over and pretended to tie my shoelace. I untied it and then tied it again as if distracted by some thought, with not a care in the world. It took me about a minute to tie my shoe before I calmly walked toward them.

  The English officer asked me, “What’s your name?”

  “Kamel Abdel Aziz Gaafar.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a student at the College of Law.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m on my way home.”

  I made a show of nonchalance. I tried to make my voice sound completely normal. The officer looked at me for a moment and then stepped back, clearing the way for me, and said, “Off you go then.”

  God in heaven. I was safe. When I recall what happened, I can still hardly believe it. I mouthed the first sura of the Quran, thanking God for rescuing me…I returned to my bedroom to find my brother Said sleeping. I put the remaining pamphlet in my desk drawer, got undressed and went to bed, falling quickly into a deep sleep.

  The moment I opened my eyes that morning, I found Said sitting on the edge of my bed. He was already dressed and wearing an ominous expression. He said contemptuously, “Good morning, Mr. Kamel!”

  “Good morning,” I responded, still half-asleep.

  “And where were you last night until dawn?”

  I sat up in bed and asked him, “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “I’m your elder brother and have the right to know where you were…”

  “I’m not a child, and I don’t need you to look after me.”

  Said got up, leaned toward me and brandished the pamphlet.

  “Has this got something to do with you?”

  “How dare you go through my things!”

  “I didn’t go through anything. I found it on the desk.”

  “Liar. It was in the drawer.”

  “In the drawer or on the desk. It’s all the same. What’s this all about?”

  I resolved to come clean.

  “Read it yourself and you’ll understand,” I shot back at him.

  “You tell me!”

  “It’s a statemen
t protesting against the British occupation.”

  “It’s not a statement. It’s a pamphlet.”

  “So what?”

  “Do you know what they do to people who distribute pamphlets?”

  “I do.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “No. I am an Egyptian whose country is being occupied.”

  Said let out a guffaw and said, “So you are the one who is going to liberate Egypt?”

  “I’m doing my duty.”

  “The only thing that will accomplish is that you’ll go to prison! Do you think that the English will be so scared of your pamphlet that they’ll evacuate Egypt?”

  “We have to fight the occupation with all the means at our disposal.”

  He laughed again, and his face turned ugly.

  “So Professor Kamel Gaafar will defeat Great Britain by means of pamphlets?”

  “Patriotism is something greater than anything you can understand.”

  “Patriotism does not mean you throwing away your future and ending up in jail.”

  “If everyone thinks like you, we’ll never liberate Egypt.”

  “Oh, when are you going to stop dreaming?”

  “That’s mine to know.” Then, almost exploding with anger, I told him, “You are the one who could use a bit of brotherly guidance.”

  Now giving me a look of great irritation, Said replied, “You’ve always been ill-mannered.”

  “You should have some self-respect!”

  He pushed me with his hand, and I caught hold of him by his shirt, and we started fighting. He was stronger, but by the sheer force of my anger, I shoved him so hard that he fell onto the bed. He got up again and tried to punch me, but it only landed on my shoulder. That’s when our mother ran into the bedroom screaming. I leaned into his face and whispered a warning, “If you say a word to our mother about the pamphlet, I’ll tell her what you get up to on the roof.”

  8

  Every day, upon first arriving at the Automobile Club, Abd el-Aziz Gaafar would go upstairs to greet the staff, who at that hour were busy cleaning. The cleaning staff were all Upper Egyptians who knew very well the repute of the Gaafar name. They felt sympathy for Abd el-Aziz as someone from a good family who had fallen on hard times. He was one of those landowners who, at an advanced age, had been forced into service in order to support their children. The staff looked up to him all the more because his position had nothing to do with their tips. They would seek out his advice, and after considering the matter, he would come up with a measured opinion. He was the most approachable, unintimidating and just authority that they could imagine, and they treated him accordingly. No sooner would Abd el-Aziz appear than everyone would shout out a greeting, rush toward him with a chair, a cup of tea or a glass of ice water, and then chat with him as they carried on cleaning.

  Abd el-Aziz loved these morning chats with the staff, and he would often bring some Upper Egyptian delicacies, such as flaky pastry feteer meshaltet or savory qaraqeesh to share with everyone. He really enjoyed listening to their stories and jokes and would laugh as heartily as if he were sitting with his friends after evening prayers in front of his big house back in Daraw. And so it was unusual that that day, when Abd el-Aziz arrived at the Club, he did not go up to greet the staff. He did not have the energy to see anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. He came in through the main entrance of the Club, crossed the hallway that led to the administrative offices and headed straight for the storeroom. He turned the key and the door creaked open. The air was heavy and musty and smelled of wood.

  The storeroom was a large, dark space with a high ceiling like the wings of a theater, a gloomy and forgotten backstage world away from the limelight of the Automobile Club. It was an enormous room with piles of everyday and unusual things, things you would expect and things you would not, cases of whiskey of all brands, the best cigars, imported soap, bottles of hand soap for the members’ washrooms, toilet paper, tablecloths, roulette chips, electrical devices, spare parts for bathrooms, plates and glasses of varying size and design, and most important, two categories of playing cards—luxury cards for the members and the royal cards with gold-leaf edges, reserved for His Majesty. His Majesty never used a pack more than once. At the end of the month, all the used royal decks would be gathered and incinerated in a special furnace in Abdin Palace, the ashes removed with the palace rubbish. The destruction of the royal cards was a serious matter, whose execution was supervised by Alku himself. Should one of the royal cards ever make its way to a popular café and be used by the hoi polloi, what would become of the king’s dignity?

  Only once in the history of the Automobile Club did a staff member attempt to purloin some of the used royal decks, and it caused a tremor that shook the Club to its core. The culprit was tracked down and dragged off to the office of Alku, who snatched the kurbash down from its hook on the wall and thrashed the living daylights out of the villain. Then the police were notified. They carried out an investigation, and the man stood trial and was sentenced to three years in prison. The message was clear: the gilded royal playing cards, like the “royal” bright red used on the royal automobile fleet, like His Majesty’s special claxon, which could not legally be used on an automobile by anyone else, these all constituted a red line. If anyone dared to cross it, he would be crushed.

  Abd el-Aziz changed into his yellow uniform with the shining brass buttons. He made himself a cup of tea and sat on a small seat at the end of the storeroom under the tires hanging from the ceiling. In that gloom and quiet, he felt at ease, and as he breathed deeply, he started to reminisce. He remembered how, whenever he had come to Cairo years ago, it had been a much anticipated and exciting occasion. After his date harvest, he used to come just to get away for a while. He would stay at the Union Hotel in Ataba Square and spend a few days enjoying the delights of the capital. A smile came back to his face as he remembered those times. He asked God for forgiveness and praised Him again and again for having enabled him to carry out the duty of making the hajj before he fell into penury. Perhaps God Almighty had already forgiven him his old transgressions, and what a huge difference between the old days and now, when he had been living in Cairo for five years. He was now a storeroom assistant and was now one, furthermore, reduced to begging in order to pay for his children’s education. Oh God, what had he ever done to deserve this ordeal? He could not complain about God’s judgment, but he did wonder when these travails would end. A man could cope with catastrophe in his younger years, as God might later recompense him with some prosperity, but that he should find himself in such misery in his fifties! But if it was his lot that this ordeal should continue, he prayed that it should at least end sooner rather than later. God forgive him, he concluded that death would be more honorable.

  After lighting another cigarette, he took a drag and felt such a splitting pain in his head that he dropped the cigarette into the ashtray and grasped his head in his hands. Armies of ants were crawling up his forehead and making their way to the back of his head. He had had headaches like this before. They came every day now, and he had been putting off going to the doctor, not because he was trying to ignore them but because he was terrified of the unknown. These were bad times, and nothing good could come of it. He shuddered to imagine that moment when the doctor would take the stethoscope out of his ears and with a grave expression tell him the bad news as delicately as he could. What would Abd el-Aziz do then? Who would support his children? The best thing would be for him to carry on as he was, a few months longer, until Said got his technical diploma and could find a job. Then if Abd el-Aziz succumbed, at least the family would have some means of support.

  Abd el-Aziz heard the door opening and then the heavy footsteps of George Comanus. George was a Greek-Egyptian from Shubra. He was fat, jolly and garrulous and loved telling jokes. All the staff liked him because he never bossed anyone around and had never offended a soul. He had been the storeroom manager ever since the Club was established, spending the la
st twenty years in this large, dark room. It was part of his life. He had always insisted that he did not need more than one assistant and had worked for years with Beltagi, who was from Sohag. He was a good, hard worker, but God had called the lad to Him. When Comanus needed to find a replacement, some of his friends recommended Abd el-Aziz, and Comanus took a liking to him. He found him a respectful and polite man dressed in neat, clean clothes.

  The two got on perfectly from the very first. Abd el-Aziz never once let Comanus down. He learned the ropes quickly and then took on further responsibilities: he started writing down the contents of the storeroom and checking it against the actual inventory. Comanus was pleased with this system, as it enabled him to have up-to-date stock information at any moment. Over time, spending all day together, speaking man to man and sharing personal details, Comanus and Abd el-Aziz became friends. But Abd el-Aziz never mixed work and friendship. They might be sitting having a friendly chat, but the moment someone came with a request, Abd el-Aziz would spring to his feet and wait for his boss to give him orders. Comanus considered this ability to separate working and socializing to be a mark of civility, and it made him grow even fonder of Abd el-Aziz.

  One evening, he invited Abd el-Aziz to dinner in the Union Restaurant, opposite the Rivoli Cinema. Comanus was surprised to see Abd el-Aziz order the escalope in breadcrumbs and then eat it using a knife and fork. Abd el-Aziz noticed his astonishment and remarked, laughing, “Don’t be so surprised, boss! Even though I’m an Upper Egyptian, I’ve had treatment for it and can now use cutlery!”

  Abd el-Aziz regaled him with stories of his visits to Cairo when he had been well off. Comanus started inviting him for dinner from time to time, and Abd el-Aziz would return the invitation whenever he could. One time, he invited Comanus for kebab in the popular Hussein district. He also started bringing in food cooked by Umm Said, which they would share in the storeroom. She would send mulukhiya with rabbit, or roast duck stuffed with onion and served with creamy baked savory rice.