The Automobile Club of Egypt

by Alaa Al Aswany

  “Most certainly!” Suleyman nodded. “We have ostracized Abdoun and his gang. None of us would even exchange a word with them.”

  Alku said nothing. He made no comment. He held the cigar in his fingers as he checked the carefully manicured nails of his left hand. He looked like the cat who got the cream. Karara and Suleyman took Alku’s taciturnity as a good omen, and encouraged by this, Karara took another step forward and said, “Your Excellency. We are at your disposal. If you want to beat us, beat us, but by the Prophet, please allow us to earn a living.”

  KAMEL

  “Please come down.”

  I just about managed to control myself, and I gestured to her to wait. I flung my clothes on and flew down the stairs. I was out of breath by the time I reached her. “Mitsy. What’s happened?” I asked.

  “Can we go and sit somewhere?”

  Fortunately, it was the first of the month, and I had a reasonable amount of money in my pocket. I took her by the hand, and we walked toward Sayyida Zeinab Square. After a few moments, a taxi appeared on the other side of the road, and I flagged it down. We got in, and I told the driver, “Semiramis Hotel, please.”

  I knew that the café there was open all night. We did not exchange a word the whole way. It would have been pointless to sit there chatting when I did not know what had happened. We went into the hotel lobby and chose a table which looked out onto the Nile. When a waiter appeared, I ordered coffee and Mitsy ordered a lemonade. I looked at her face in the light. She had circles under her eyes, a look of exhaustion and the pallor of someone who had not slept for days. She lit a cigarette and looked at me.

  “I have left home.”

  “Couldn’t you have waited until daylight?”

  “I can’t stand it anymore.”

  “All because you didn’t go with the king?”

  “The matter of the king is just one of the reasons. My troubles with my father go back a long way. If there ever was someone with whom I differ on absolutely everything, it’s my father.”

  She shook her head and sipped her lemonade.

  “It saddens me to say,” she continued, “that I have no respect for my father.”

  She looked down for a moment, and then raised her head to say something, but suddenly she burst out crying. I reached over to stroke her hand.

  “Mitsy,” I said, “please calm down.”

  “I’m tired of it all. My father orders me around because he pays for my keep. He’s always trying to belittle me. I feel humiliated.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll wait until daylight, and then you are coming home with me.”

  “You don’t need more problems. You have enough to do with your work and studies and your sister’s problems with her husband. I will not let myself be a further burden.”

  At that moment, I wanted to take her in my arms.

  “You will never be a burden on me,” I whispered.

  “Thank you!” she said with some emotion.

  “I’ll work out how you can thank me later!”

  Mitsy smiled for the first time. How beautiful she looked at that moment. Her smile changed her pale, exhausted face and her tired, sad eyes into something surreally beautiful and magical. We asked for two coffees. I tried to distract her, and we talked until five in the morning. When I had paid the bill and we went out onto the street, I felt, in spite of everything, supremely happy at having her walking beside me.

  We took a taxi home. I held her hand as we walked up the stairs. Suddenly, everything was strange and dreamlike. Here I was taking Mitsy to live in our apartment. I opened the door with my key and asked her to sit on the sofa in the sitting room. I walked down the corridor to my mother’s bedroom. I found her sitting on her prayer rug and reading the Quran, having finished her morning prayers. I greeted her and kissed her on the head, but she gave me a concerned look and asked, “Where’ve you been?”

  I sat down next to her and explained the situation, about Mitsy’s having left home and how as a foreigner she did not know anyone in Egypt and had no money for a hotel. I will always be in awe of my mother’s capacity to cope with bad situations. She was by turns surprised, then astonished, before thinking it over and finally looking at me sternly, “Since she has come to take refuge with us, she can stay with us as a respected and honored guest until she is reconciled with her family.”

  “I don’t think she’ll ever make up with Mr. Wright.”

  “The girl cannot just cast off her father.”

  “Mother, I know some details that I can’t share with you. Her father does not have her best interest at heart.”

  “Good God!”

  “I think we should let her stay with us for a few days until she has found a job and an apartment.”

  “Then she is welcome. But there’s something I have to say to you.”

  My mother was silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

  “I have noticed, Kamel, that you seem to be fond of her. That’s up to you, but you must understand that our house must remain as unsullied as a mosque. Mitsy will share Saleha’s room, and you are to keep your distance from her as long as she is in our home.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She sighed as if my compliance with her demand had dispelled her anxieties. Then she stood up and went into the sitting room with me. My mother gave Mitsy a big, warm welcome, putting her arms around her and then leading her off by the hand. When I tried to follow them, my mother stopped and smiled. “Leave Mitsy to me. You can go off and busy yourself elsewhere.”

  I left the two of them and went to my bedroom. I did not even try to sleep, knowing I would not be able to. I lay on the bed, smoking and staring at the ceiling. My exhaustion was playing havoc with my feelings. I suddenly felt a surge of violent hatred toward James Wright. That man was a total bastard. Could I ever have imagined that he would behave in such a vile manner? Could I ever have predicted his actions from my few interactions with him? This question led me to think about the relationship between a man and his character. What was the first impression that someone like Wright or Abd el-Barr made? From the first, I had not felt comfortable with either of them. When we first see someone, we have a fleeting impression which fades as we get to know him. If we were able to interpret that first impression carefully, it might well give us a detailed insight into his character.

  That was the last thought I had before falling into a deep sleep from which I woke up late. I ran into the bathroom, flung my clothes on and took a taxi from al-Sadd Street to the Club, where I found Monsieur Comanus waiting for me in his office. He greeted me reproachfully, “And what time do you call this?”

  “I’m so sorry for being late.”

  “You cannot be late! Work is work. Go and fetch the empty beer crates from the bar.”

  I carried the crates back to the storeroom. Then I did a few chores and sat down to go over the inventory. I was so tired that I had to do the simple arithmetic over and over again. I became aware of a hand touching my shoulder and saw Monsieur Comanus standing there, smiling.

  “Monsieur Comanus,” I said quietly, “I apologize again for being late. I stayed up late studying and couldn’t wake up.”

  He looked at me sympathetically and said, “Don’t be late again!”

  “No, sir!”

  I quickly started reading the lists again in order to avoid further conversation. I did not want to talk to Comanus about Mitsy, even though I was fond of him and trusted him. At that moment, I somehow considered him a foreigner and expected him to be angry if he knew about the presence of Mitsy in my home since she was a foreigner like him. I then felt ashamed at that stupid and racist assumption. Comanus had been a devoted friend to my father and had helped us out by giving Mahmud and me a chance to work in the Club. When it was time to go home, I shook his hand and told him, “I want to thank you for everything that you have done for me and my family.”

  Monsieur Comanus
gave an embarrassed smile and replied, “I haven’t done anything. Your father was like a brother to me.”

  I felt better for having thanked him. After all he had done for me, he did not deserve to be treated like a stranger. I was about to go back and tell him about Mitsy, but then I realized that would be stupid. I was exhausted and could not think straight. I went for a walk down Soliman Pasha Street and then suddenly had an idea. I called the prince from the telephone in the tobacco shop.

  The moment I heard his voice, I blurted out, “Your Royal Highness! I would like to come and see you now.”

  “Is everything all right?” he asked worriedly.

  “I can’t discuss it over the telephone.”

  He hesitated a moment and then said, “All right. Come over.”

  Half an hour later, the head footman was leading me to the studio. The prince was in his work clothes, seated at a table cropping some photographs, just like the first time I’d come to see him.

  He gave me a warm welcome and invited me to sit.

  “You’ve got me worried, man!” he said. “What’s going on?”

  That was all the prompting I needed. I told the prince about Saleha and Abd el-Barr, as well as about Mitsy staying with us. I did not keep anything from him. The prince listened calmly, occasionally asking questions. When I finished, I felt as if I had freed myself from some heavy burden. The prince got up and poured himself a whiskey, adding a few ice cubes, and as he sipped it, a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

  “Are you in love with Mitsy?”

  I said nothing, and the prince gave an enormous chuckle.

  “Looks like you are!”

  “Mitsy is a very lovely person,” I mumbled.

  “Have you ever been in love before?” His eyes twinkled with glee.

  I shook my head, and the prince called out, “Ah, le premier amour, cher poète! You must set down your feelings for Mitsy in poetry!”

  There was silence again, and then the prince became serious and said, “With regard to the other matter, if you want my opinion, your sister must get a divorce. She can’t live with a man like that.”

  “He’s refusing to grant her one.”

  The prince said nothing, thinking it over. Then he handed me a sheet of paper.

  “Write down for me,” he said, “the name and full address of the gentleman in question.”

  I did as requested. He glanced at it, then placed it on his desk. Shortly afterward, as I was taking my leave, he grasped my hand and said, “I can’t promise anything, Kamel, but I shall do all I can to help you.”

  37

  It was after midnight when the two friends left Tafida al-Sarsawy’s apartment on the Lambretta. They disappeared at top speed, saying nothing, as if stunned into silence by what had just happened. After a while, Fawzy started humming a song by Abd el-Wahab, and Mahmud noticed that he was not heading home to the Sayyida Zeinab district.

  “Where are you going?” he shouted.

  “Somewhere nice,” Fawzy shouted back, laughing the laugh of someone in a good mood. Fawzy headed to the citadel district, then turned right into a narrow alley and parked the Lambretta. The friends went into an ancient building and climbed a narrow, winding staircase to the roof. Mahmud had never been to this smoking den before. The customers were seated on wooden benches against the wall. In the middle of the roof terrace, there was a large metal drum with lumps of glowing charcoal, and the serving boys were rushing to and fro carrying water pipes and small braziers. The customers seemed to know Fawzy, as did the proprietor, who got up and greeted him with a big hug. In the brash voice he used when trying to seem important, Fawzy asked the proprietor, “How are you, boss? It’s been ages!”

  The two friends took a seat in a corner, and one of the serving boys scurried over with a water pipe and some glowing pieces of charcoal. Fawzy took a lump of hashish out of his pocket and bit off small pieces from it, placing a small lump on each of the prepared tobacco bowls. He lit the first one and took a deep drag, making the water gurgle in the pipe. Then he handed the mouthpiece to the serving boy, who drew in deeply and exhaled a cloud of smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Then Fawzy turned to Mahmud.

  “We have to distract ourselves after what happened with that Tafida woman.”

  Mahmud preferred the delightful rush he got from wine to the heavy-headedness and dullness he got from hashish, but he took a few short drags on the water pipe anyway. Handing it back to the boy, who finished off what was left and then started fitting another bowl of tobacco and hashish to the pipe, Mahmud sat back on the bench and asked Fawzy, “And just what were you doing with Madame Tafida? I was sitting there embarrassed as hell.”

  Fawzy guffawed and said, “Listen to me. You’ve got to be rough with women like that.”

  Mahmud nodded but remained unconvinced. Fawzy reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded two pound notes.

  “My high and mighty attitude got us double what you get with all your politeness!”

  Mahmud sat there with a vacant smile, saying nothing. Yet again, Fawzy had managed to outdo him. Yet again, he had shown him that he knew more about life and people. Mahmud had been expecting Tafida to blow her top at any second and tell them to leave, but to his amazement, while Fawzy’s vulgar moves upset her at first, in the end, she gave in to him. After Fawzy had been to bed with her, she came out looking less wrinkled and much more relaxed. Fawzy had taken her in his arms one last time and nibbled her ear, at which she let out a girly shriek most unbecoming in someone of her age. Fawzy told her, “Tafida, I’ll be back on Wednesday.”

  She nodded, looking at him dreamily as he placed his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him, as if to head-butt her.

  “I’ll make sure you’re satisfied like tonight.”

  That was how Fawzy instigated a new type of relationship with women. Mahmud might have frenetic sex with his two lady friends, but he still treated them with some respect. He thought of Rosa as a good friend, and even with Dagmar, for all her sharpness and severity, he was gentle and tried not to hurt her feelings. When she told him that her daughter had given birth to a baby girl in Germany, he congratulated her and asked her to write the baby’s name down on a piece of paper so that he could learn how to pronounce it. Mahmud, it could not be denied, was selling sexual favors, but he did so with polite gentility. Fawzy’s coarse behavior with his mistress was naked machismo, but perhaps he needed to be that way. He had acted outrageously with Tafida; it was as if he did not want her to forget that she was paying for sex. Unlike Mahmud, Fawzy was offering sex-with-humiliation. He had made Tafida look at herself. He had shattered any illusions she might have had. While caressing her body, he gave her gentle goading slaps whose subtext was, “You can’t fool me into thinking you are anything but a cheap frustrated old hag who’ll pay anyone to go to bed with her. That’s how it is. If there is any pretending or lying, I’ll be the one doing it.”

  Fawzy felt nothing but contempt for Tafida and did everything he could to show it. When he was servicing her, his face took on an aggressive and vengeful look. Oddly though, Tafida rather liked this treatment and his roughness, but the way she simply let Fawzy toss her around like a rag doll was mystifying, as she was neither a sophisticated woman nor a battered wife. Her sharp features and hostile expressions made her look like a shrew, but Fawzy managed to tame her, and each harsh word or coarse gesture made her only more submissive. But why did Tafida, otherwise so dignified and standoffish, not reject Fawzy’s humiliating treatment and instead became only fonder of Fawzy? Was it that being over seventy, she would seek out pleasure at any price? Or did the humiliation absolve her somehow in her mind from guilt? Tafida, after all, was an Egyptian, not a foreigner like Mahmud’s two mistresses. As such, she was the product of an Eastern culture which condemned extramarital relations. Much as she might yearn to give herself over to sexual pleasure, deep down she must have felt a measure of shame. And so, perhaps Fawzy’s humiliations were the punishment she inflicted
upon herself, a way to scourge her of sin. Whatever the reason, Fawzy’s relationship with Tafida was so crude that Mahmud could neither understand nor approve of it, even if Fawzy insisted on dragging him along to Tafida’s apartment. His presence encouraged Fawzy’s braggadocio, turning his actions into a theatrical event performed for an audience of one. Tafida, wearing a silk dressing gown over her nightdress, would open the door for the two boys. She would first shake hands with Mahmud, then give Fawzy a hug, and attempting to make her voice sound gentle and seductive, she would ask him, “How are you, my darling?”

  At which point, Fawzy would retort coldly, “What are you doing still up? It’s bad for you to stay up so late.”

  She would ignore his impudence and sit next to him, snuggling up and whispering, “I’ve missed you.”

  The sight of Tafida prancing about like a teenager, with her thinning dyed hair and makeup plastered over her crumbling face, her forced coquettishness and her abortive attempts at being soft and gentle, all of this simply provoked Fawzy. He would move to caress her, for example, but then instead grab her by the nape of her neck and pull her dyed hair until she screamed. Then he would guffaw and say, “Get up and get to work. Mahmud and I are hungry.”

  “I’ve got kebab and kufta for you,” Tafida would say as she scuttled off to the kitchen, with Fawzy shouting after her, “Don’t forget the wine!”

  Tafida would come back with a tray of kebabs and a bottle of French wine, and Mahmud would jump up to help her set the table while Fawzy just sat there smoking.

  Fawzy never thanked her or complimented her on anything she did. He never made a comment unless it was to criticize. He would inspect the table laid with heaps of food and then look cross. “You’ve forgotten the tahina.”

  Or he might test the baguette with his fingers and then throw it down on the table with disgust, complaining, “This bread’s stale.”

  Tafida would rush to fix the mistake. Fawzy would eat with gusto and drink glass after glass of wine. Then he would get up and go to the bathroom, where Tafida had laid out towels and perfumed soap for him, as well as a brush and comb so he could groom his curly hair. He would take a bath and reappear wearing a dressing gown over his naked body. Tafida would be sitting there waiting, her face flushed, her breathing quick with excitement. Fawzy would sit down and put his arm around her without uttering a word. Then he would lean forward over the table, smoking a spliff as he drank more wine. During that lust-laden silence, Mahmud could not bring himself to say anything. He would just look straight ahead with a fixed smile, embarrassed at being there. Fawzy would carry on as if he were on his own, disregarding Mahmud. He would take a big drag on the spliff, hold the smoke in for maximum effect, then cough, take a glug of wine, wipe his hands across his broad hairy chest, belch loudly—a sign of manliness—and turn to Tafida, who was sitting there on tenterhooks. He would make no show of friendliness nor smile or whisper sweet nothings, instead simply dragging her by the hand into the bedroom when it was time.