“You’re the one who got us into this mess. You will have to do something to get us out of it.”
“Oh, stop it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
She turned and marched toward the door. Wright darted after her and grabbed her by the hand, but she snatched it back.
“If I were in your shoes,” she snapped at him, “I’d be ashamed of myself.”
He raised his hand and gave her a slap on the face. She screamed. He reached out to try to grab hold of her, but she rushed out of the study, slamming the door behind her.
26
Abd el-Malek the waiter looked the part. He was short and wiry, had an enormous bald pate and a moustache so small it looked like a dark speck under his nose. He looked like an old caricature of a “native Egyptian,” and his colleagues never stopped joking about it. There was a lot to joke about, including the fact that he was Christian. They only had to hear his footsteps in the distance before one would shout out, laughing, “Praise the Lord, my son!”
Abd el-Malek would laugh and reply, “Glory be to God on High.”
“Pray for us, Saint Abd el-Malek!”
“I pray to God to carry you all off!”
They all chuckled, but Abd el-Malek, turning serious again, replied, “I’ll have you know that I am a Muslim.”
“How can you be a Muslim, Abd el-Malek?”
“You are all such ignorant children,” he said in a learned tone of voice. “Do I, the Copt, have to explain your religion to you? O children, children. Islam means submitting yourself to God, relying upon Him for everything. That’s what I do, so I’m a Muslim like you even though I am a Copt.”
“God is great,” his colleagues shouted.
“What a nice bit of philosophizing!”
The fun continued.
“Abd el-Malek! Why don’t you announce that you have accepted Islam so that you can marry a nice girl as a second wife.”
“I can’t. My wife would kill me!”
“How long have you been married, Abd el-Malek?”
“Twenty years.”
“Twenty years with one woman? Aren’t you tired of her?”
“Of course I am.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll just have to put up with her.”
This playful banter fostered such a happy and tolerant atmosphere that the men would then repeat to themselves little expressions showing the convergence of their religious outlooks, such as:
“Leave religion to the pious!”
“We are all guided by God.”
“Religion is how you treat other people.”
The workers all loved Abd el-Malek and were greatly influenced by his enthusiasm, his openness and his devotion to his friends. If he was absent from work, they would walk around saying, “That Abd el-Malek. He’s a Copt, isn’t he? But by God Almighty, he’s a better person than many Muslims.”
Had they known that morning that he was so ill, they would have rushed to help him, but he appeared perfectly normal. He chatted with some of them, and, as usual, they joked around. He did not complain of anything. He carried out the tasks given him by Rikabi the chef, then excused himself and went to the toilet. When he returned, he washed his hands in hot water and soap (in accordance with Alku’s strict rules) and went back to peeling potatoes. Except that fifteen minutes later, he excused himself again.
“What’s going on, you bastard?” shrieked Rikabi the chef. “You just went to the toilet five minutes ago. Just what are you doing in there?”
The other staff laughed, but Abd el-Malek did not. He looked pale and worn out.
“Chef Rikabi, please excuse me,” he said meekly. “There’s something really wrong with my insides.”
“All right. Go. But make it quick,” said Rikabi, busy checking a pan on the stove. This time, Abd el-Malek ran to the toilet, and when he returned a few minutes later, his colleagues noticed the sweat running down his pale face. He seemed to be having difficulty walking and was tottering about. The staff clustered around him.
“What’s the matter?” they asked him anxiously. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
Abd el-Malek looked at them in gratitude and forced a smile. He raised a hand as if to reassure them and was about to say something, but when he opened his mouth, white liquid ran out. His colleagues recoiled, terrified, and one of them shouted, “God help us!”
Abd el-Malek was vomiting in a way that no one had ever seen before. He knelt on the ground with his head forward, his facial muscles contracted amid spasms of vomiting as if some invisible iron hand were squeezing his innards out of him. He knelt there panting, unable to stand up. His colleagues tried to lift him by the arms, but he sank back down to the ground, and his limbs started trembling. Then he had a fit of convulsions and lay groaning weakly. The news was conveyed at lightning speed to Mr. Wright, who did not deem the illness of a member of staff any reason for him to leave his office. He thought it over for a moment and then peremptorily told Khalil, his office assistant, “Tell Mustafa the driver to take him home. Most importantly, clean up after him. I will go and check the kitchen area myself.”
Indeed, half an hour later, Wright went to the kitchen to check that it had been cleaned up properly. He ordered one of the staff to give the area a good scrub with some disinfectant from the storeroom. As the smell of disinfectant spread around the kitchen area, the whole affair was over as far as Mr. Wright was concerned. A servant had fallen ill, thrown up and been sent home. An everyday event that did not merit further attention.
When Alku came to hear of it in Abdin Palace, he ordered Hameed to visit Abd el-Malek that evening to check on him. Abd el-Malek had made it home to his apartment in Shubra, dragging his legs and leaning heavily on his colleague Kaylani the waiter, who had accompanied him in the car with Mustafa the driver. The two had helped him up the stairs to his apartment on the third floor and then spent a while calming Abd el-Malek’s wife, who had started panicking when she saw how his condition had deteriorated. They sat him down on the first chair in the sitting room. His wife had rushed off to the kitchen to prepare a glass of hot lemon juice, but when she came back a few minutes later, she let out a scream and dropped the glass on the floor. Abd el-Malek’s body was heaving up and down, and he was foaming at the mouth. He gave a few groans and then fell back, dead. His wife started wailing, and Kaylani and Mustafa burst out crying like children.
When the news reached the Club, all the staff felt deeply saddened, telling each other dolefully, “Abd el-Malek was such a fine, upstanding man. He never hurt a fly his whole life long.”
His colleagues went to his funeral mass. As Muslims, they were a little nervous at finding themselves in a church, and their ignorance of the liturgy meant that they were not quite sure when to stand up or sit down. Notwithstanding, many of them were so overcome that they burst out in tears. They weren’t just distressed about their friend Abd el-Malek’s death, but were also terrified that death had come upon them, out of the blue, twice, with a second colleague having died suddenly so soon after Abd el-Aziz Gaafar. Not only had Abd el-Malek’s sudden death hit them hard, but what happened afterward did not allow them the opportunity to mourn. They needed some time to absorb it. They would have felt better had they been given the chance to shake their heads, bite their lips and recall their fond memories of him with pride and grief, ending with words of consolation, “We are from God and we return to Him. All men are mortal. Men are just shadows on the face of the earth. We are all mortal but care not to think of it.”
Fate, however, had ordained otherwise. For, just two days later, before they had recovered from the blow, they were shocked to see Mur’i the lift attendant rushing off to the toilet again and again. A very short while after that, exactly as with Abd el-Malek, they saw him reeling around, throwing up and falling unconscious to the ground. They rushed over, picked him up and laid him on a sofa, shouting for someone to call an ambulance, which arrived within minutes and took him to Qasr el
-Ayni Hospital. He was dead upon arrival.
When this news reached the Club, the staff became hysterical. They threw down their cleaning equipment and ran around screaming like terrified mice in a trap. And for good reason. Before they even had time to reckon with Abd el-Malek’s death, Uncle Mur’i had now gone and died before their eyes in exactly the same way. What was going on? Was there a curse on the Automobile Club? Had the Grim Reaper, intent on culling their souls one by one, made a den for himself at the Club?
This time, when the news reached Mr. Wright, he took it with the utmost seriousness. He made some telephone calls, and about an hour later, a military vehicle stopped in front of the Automobile Club. Out stepped four British officers, three male and one female, whose uniforms indicated that they were three doctors and a nurse. They had two large cases with them, which the staff rushed out to carry. In the casino, in the presence of Mr. Wright and Alku, who had sped over to the Club, they set up a field clinic. The staff, lined up outside the casino door, stood in silence, their terror at the succession of events having rendered them unable to comment or react. The doctors summoned them in one by one. They examined each staff member carefully, giving him a plastic bag and asking him to bring a stool sample the next day. The atmosphere was heavy and doom-laden. It felt like a curse had fallen upon everyone. Some of the staff wanted to bring the sample back that same day, as if that would put a speedy end to their nightmare. They rushed off to the only toilet they were allowed to use, on the roof. It was a strange sight to see, as they went into the stall, one after another, and came out each clutching a plastic bag full of excrement. If one of them was taking a long time inside, the others started shouting at him to hurry up. The doctors did not exclude anyone from their examination. Having checked all the serving staff and the other employees, they then insisted on examining Alku and Mr. Wright. They left the nurse to accept any samples and write up her notes. Those who had not yet provided a sample were reminded of the urgency of bringing it the following morning.
In the meantime, the head doctor had gone with Mr. Wright to his office. There was no time for small talk. Mr. Wright knitted his eyebrows.
“Dr. Frankham, thank you so much for all your effort.”
“No need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”
“Can you give me some understanding of what is happening here?”
Dr. Frankham looked down for a moment. Then he raised his head and said calmly, “Unfortunately, I am not very optimistic.”
“About what?”
“There is a high chance that the staff member who died today and perhaps also the one who died two days ago…were suffering from cholera. We have sound information that cases have occurred in Cairo and Alexandria.”
“How is it I haven’t heard about that until now?”
“The Ministry of Health does not wish to publicize cases of cholera in order to avoid an outbreak of panic. We had hoped that they were isolated cases, but unfortunately every day there are new ones. I think that the government is going to make a statement about the outbreak tomorrow.”
Wright knitted his brows.
“Cholera outbreak? Can’t be! We have meticulous procedures for hygiene here at the Club. I supervise everything myself.”
“They cannot prevent cholera, they can only slow down the rate of infection.”
Wright lit his pipe, drew on it and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.
“Dr. Frankham,” he barked, “are you sure about this?”
“Naturally we have to analyze the samples first, but after thirty years of practicing medicine, I think I know what the results will be.”
There was silence between them. Then Wright sighed heavily, “Please understand my position. This will have terribly negative repercussions for the Automobile Club.”
“I do understand your concern, but our duty is to deal with a far graver reality. If it is confirmed that your man died from cholera, as unfortunately seems almost certain, then everyone at the Club is in mortal danger, the rate of infection is very quick in such settings.”
“And in that case, what must we do?”
The doctor shook his head and looked at Wright.
“There is no alternative. The Club will have to be closed.”
KAMEL
“I should like to introduce myself,” Mitsy said in English with a smile.
“Mr. Wright has told me about you,” I replied quickly.
“My father doesn’t know me,” she said dejectedly. I felt a little embarrassed.
“Then tell me who you are,” I said.
“My name is Mitsy, and I am studying drama at the American University. I have studied elementary Arabic with a private teacher here in Cairo, but I didn’t like his method. He just taught grammar, but I want to learn Arabic, whether classical or colloquial, in order to be able to get along with people.”
“Why are you so interested in learning Arabic?”
“I want to be able to understand Egyptians. I can’t understand them if I don’t speak their language. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”
“My name is Kamel, and I work here at the Club. I am also studying law at the Fuad I University, and I like writing poetry.”
Her blue eyes widened, and she shrieked, “Oh! You’re a poet. Fantastic. I’d love to read your poems.”
“That would make me very happy, Miss Mitsy.”
“Please, let us dispense with titles.”
So I started calling her Mitsy. I loved the way she pronounced my name, drawing out the “a” so that it sounded like “Kaaaamel.” During the lesson, the way she looked imprinted itself onto my consciousness: she was so elegant and tall, with smooth brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She had smooth skin, bluish eyes, finely shaped lips, beautiful dimples, a broad gleaming forehead and the sort of long, lean fingers you could not take your eyes off, not to mention that adorable area between her upper lip and her nose. She was beautiful, but her spirit was even more attractive. There was something impetuous and instinctive about her. She overflowed with vitality. Everything she did was special, unexpected, even shocking, but also pleasant. She was like a princess who had fled her palace in rebellion and had come to live among the lower orders.
We would meet twice a week. At every lesson, we would read a topic in the newspaper, and then I would explain some new literary text to her, and we would sit and discuss it. Then I would give her homework. I chose some serious pieces of writing for discussion. Together we read articles by al-Hakim and Ibrahim al-Mazini and plays by Tawfiq al-Hakim. As I was teaching her Hafez Ibrahim’s poem “Egypt Speaks About Herself,” we digressed onto the theme of pride in Arabic poetry and why this was not a subject dealt with by Western poets. I asked her to write her homework in classical Arabic but to speak with me in the colloquial language. If she could not find the right expression in Arabic, I asked her to write down what she would say in English, which I would later translate.
I may or may not be a good teacher, but Mitsy certainly had a sharp mind and remembered new words easily. In the space of just two months, she had shown remarkable progress. She could write in classical Arabic, without too many mistakes, and could speak the colloquial language well enough to be understood, even if with a heavy accent. I looked forward to our lessons. We had long and enjoyable discussions about various topics. Meeting her filled me with feelings of happiness and admiration but also deep concern.
“When I see what the occupation is doing to you Egyptians,” she said one time, “I feel ashamed to be English.”
“You’re not responsible for the policies of the British government.”
“In fact I am. You are not responsible for the dictator-king of Egypt because you didn’t choose him, but we elect governments whose glory comes from occupying and pillaging other countries. It makes me feel so ashamed.”
The gulf between her and her arrogant father was enormous. I could discern the distress on her beautiful face whenever he was mentioned. I could feel that she wa
s skirting around a subject she did not want to talk about. One time, I went to give her a lesson as usual. The Club had just reopened after having been shut for three days because of the cholera. Mitsy had brought some slices of lemon, which she was squeezing into a glass of water.
“I would advise you,” she said seriously, “to purify the water. Cholera has broken out. I believe they have disinfected the Automobile Club, but that won’t stop the disease from spreading.”
I took the lemon from her hand and squeezed the juice into the water.
“We have already lost two of our staff in the Club,” I said. “In less than a week.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Death is not the worst of it! The families of the deceased are left paupers. The Club doesn’t pay pensions to Egyptians. Only to foreigners.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“The Club administration considers Egyptians lesser beings.”
I spoke that sentence with eternal bitterness. But as her father was the general manager, I thought I should be more careful.
“Please give the families of the deceased my condolences,” she said softly.
“I will pass them on. Thank you.”
I started the lesson on Ahmed Shawqi’s poem “O Neighbor of the Valley.” I taught her poems that had been set to music. She would always write down the name of the poem on a piece of notepaper so that she could buy the record on her way home.
When the lesson was over, Mitsy did not get up to leave as usual. She looked hesitant.
“Kamel,” she said. “Thank you so much for all your hard work with me.”
Her words made me uneasy. Why was she thanking me now? Had she decided to stop taking lessons? Had I done something wrong or said something to upset her? I was not concerned about the money I was earning for the lessons. I feared losing her friendship. I pulled myself together and steeled myself for the shock. I decided that I would save her the embarrassment of telling me, so I forced myself to smile as I asked her, “Do you think that you have made enough progress with your Arabic?”
The Automobile Club of Egypt Page 28