The Automobile Club of Egypt by Alaa Al Aswany
“It’s the end of Abdoun. Alku will rip him to shreds.”
“He may even fire him.”
“He’ll have him put in prison like he did to Ishaq when he stole a royal pack of cards.”
After half an hour, Alku marched out of Mr. Wright’s office as resolutely as he had entered it. He stopped in the doorway of the Club and unexpectedly turned around, noticing that the servants had been watching him surreptitiously. He thundered at them, “What are you all standing around for? Get the hell away from here!”
The servants all scattered like chickens, except Maître Shakir and Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh, who walked over to Alku and bowed.
He just stared at them and said, “What do you want?”
“Your great Excellency,” Yusuf Tarboosh answered reverentially. “You are our father and we live in gratitude to you.”
Maître Shakir took a step closer and continued in the same ingratiating tone, “Please, Your Excellency. Please punish that Abdoun severely.”
Yusuf Tarboosh nodded in agreement and added enthusiastically, “Those base things he said cannot be overlooked.”
There was no response. Both men looked fixedly at Alku, who, contrary to expectation, curled his lips in disgust, waved them off and shouted, “Get back to work, both of you!”
“But Your Excellency…,” Shakir started hesitantly.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Alku interrupted him angrily. “By God, be off with you.”
Perturbed, they both bowed again and hurried away. Alku strode out of the building, trailed by Hameed, and, getting into the car, barked at the driver, “Back to Abdin.”
KAMEL
On my first day of work, Comanus took me to the office of Mr. Wright, who looked at me as if we had never met before.
“We are happy to have you working here,” he said formally.
I muttered a few words of thanks. We left his office and made our way to see Alku at Abdin Palace. En route, Comanus told me, “Kamel, there is something that you ought to know. Alku is the head of all the staff in both the Automobile Club and the royal palaces. I know you will never forget what he did to your father, may God have mercy upon him. I can understand how you must feel, but I would advise you never to look back. Always remember that you are working here in order to complete your studies and to help out your family. You must think of the past as a closed book. Be careful of saying anything at all untoward about Alku, because he has spies everywhere. His reach is long, and the consequences are highly unpleasant.”
I nodded. My meeting with Alku hardly lasted a minute.
“This is the Kamel Gaafar I spoke to you about. He’s the son of the late Abd el-Aziz.”
Alku took a look at me and with a nod muttered a few indistinct words. Then he turned to Comanus and continued speaking as if I were not there. I felt humiliated and a mad thought sprang to mind—that I could grab Alku and slap him as he had done to my father, then simply bolt out of the palace and never return to the Club. The fantasy was so lifelike in my mind that I started sweating and breathing heavily. I shut my eyes and had just about managed to haul myself back to reality by the time we left Alku’s office. On our way back to the Club, Comanus started explaining my job in detail.
I worked as hard as I could from the very first day. I would carry crates up to the restaurant and the bar during the daytime, and then I would sit down and do all the paperwork. How can I describe how I felt working the storeroom? How should you feel stepping right into your father’s work clothes after he passes away? When you sit on his favorite chair and use the same cap, prayer beads and prayer rug? You would have mixed feelings. You would miss your father and want to do your duty toward him. Out of pride, you want to keep his memory alive and find some tangible form of his existence in your memories of his voice and smell. You might even start to feel like him. When there was no work to do, I would ask Comanus’s permission to read my textbooks or study my lecture notes.
On the first of the month, I handed my salary over to my mother. She cried and hugged me and then nagged me until I agreed to keep part of the salary for my own outgoings. As the days passed, I fell into the rhythm of the storeroom until I almost enjoyed it, except that the vision of my father being slapped by Hameed sometimes returned and left me feeling troubled. I felt guilty for not having avenged myself on those who had humiliated him. I kept having the same fantasy of walking into Alku’s office when Hameed was there and thrashing them both. But that would remain only a fantasy. I just needed to work hard enough to keep the job until I graduated. My father had for so long dreamt of seeing me become a lawyer that it was my duty to become one. The other troubling thing was that I was missing the meetings of the Wafd committee. One morning, after asking Comanus for a break, I went to see Hasan Mu’min. We met at the cafeteria.
“I am so sorry, Hasan. I cannot come to the meetings or take on any assignment. At least for the foreseeable future.”
Hasan listened attentively as usual, and said calmly, “So you’re now an employee of the Automobile Club?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry. You can work with us from there.”
“Is there a Wafd committee at the Automobile Club?”
“We’re now operating outside the confines of the Wafd Party. We have formed a democratic front including people of all political leanings.”
“Where do you hold meetings?”
“You’ll know everything in good time. The most important thing is to set up a method of communicating with you in there.”
And so it was arranged: he would ring from the grocer Ali Hamama’s telephone, and giving his name as “Yegen,” he would leave a message for me to call.
When I stood up to take my leave, he embraced me warmly, saying, “Kamel, I admire your patriotism.”
Hasan Mu’min was such an inspiration that I would have dropped everything and done whatever he asked. I went over what he had said. How could I do any political agitating from inside the Automobile Club? The members were all either foreigners, members of the Turkish upper crust or large landowners. I doubted any of them would have any interest in Egypt’s independence. The exact opposite, in fact. The interests of those social classes were closely bound to the British occupation.
Weeks went by. Work at the Club kept me so busy that I forgot what Hasan Mu’min had said. And then, one morning, when I was alone in the storeroom, sitting at my small desk, old Uncle Suleyman surprised me by rushing in to see me. He looked tense as he came over to me and said, “Listen, Kamel. His Royal Highness Prince Shamel is coming for you.”
“Who is he?”
“His Royal Highness Prince Shamel? He is a cousin of the king!”
I had never heard of Prince Shamel, but I jumped to my feet, straightened my clothes and straightened my tie and my tarboosh. Some of the serving staff rushed into the storeroom in excitement and milled around aimlessly. That was their way of showing respect to His Royal Highness, who soon appeared in the doorway preceded by the aroma of his cologne. He was a man of around fifty, very dapper, and handsome with pale skin and combed-back chestnut hair. From the outset, he put one at ease.
I bowed and said, “It is a great honor, Your Royal Highness.”
“Is Monsieur Comanus here?” he asked in good Arabic.
“He is on his way, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Kamel.”
“Listen, Kamel. I’m holding a party at the Club next week, and I want to see what sort of wine you’re going to serve to my guests.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fortunately, I knew where the wine list was kept and rushed to produce it. As I handed it to the prince, I bowed again. He looked over it quickly and said, “Not bad. All quite good, in fact.”
To my astonishment, he kept on talking to me, asking about my family and my studies. I told him that I had taken over my late father’s job while also studying law. I was amazed at his knowledge of the subjects I was studying.
“I studied law at the Sorbonne,” he said with a chuckle. “But that was years and years ago. Talking with you gives me the chance to see how much I remember.”
I was transfixed. I could hardly believe what was happening. The king’s cousin was standing in front of me and chatting to me like a friend.
He reached forward and examined the books on my desk. He found my anthology of the prince of poets, Ahmed Shawqi, and gave me a knowing look. I said shyly that I was fond of literature, and he asked me, “Do you just read or do you write as well?”
“I have made a few forays into poetry.”
The prince laughed and called out, “Good Lord, we’ve got a poet in the storeroom!”
That made me laugh. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and there was warmth in his voice as he added, “You’re a young talented chap. I can see a bright future for you.”
He held out a gold pound coin and said, “Here. A small gift.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” I said. “But, thank God, I am not in need of help.”
“My boy, if I had a son, he would be your age now. Imagine me as your late father and don’t stand on ceremony. Please do take it.”
He kept his hand held out with the coin, but I held firm. “Thank you so much, sir, for your kindness, but please forgive me.”
The prince gave a broad smile, as if he had never been surprised by a refusal. He put the coin back in his pocket and turned to leave but stopped suddenly as if he had remembered something. He smiled again and asked me, “Are you here every day?”
“Except for Wednesday. That’s my day off.”
“What time do you finish work?”
“At six o’clock.”
“Fine. On Thursday at six o’clock, I shall send my chauffeur to pick you up and bring you to the palace. Do you have any objection to paying me a visit?”
“It will be a great honor for me.”
As I made a rather deep bow, I said, “At your service, sir,” and Uncle Suleyman and I accompanied him out of the Club, walking behind him until he reached his black Buick. We stood there watching until the car disappeared from view. Uncle Suleyman then grabbed hold of my sleeve. “Get inside. I want to speak to you,” he barked at me with uncharacteristic abruptness.
I followed him into the storeroom. He was limping along and seemed worked up about something. When we were alone, he turned on me furiously, saying, “Are you out of your mind, Kamel? How could you embarrass His Royal Highness like that!”
“I didn’t embarrass him.”
“You refused his gift.”
“I apologized politely.”
“Well, it’s a good thing it was Prince Shamel you did that to.”
“Why?”
“Because he is one of the kindest princes in the ruling family. Didn’t you notice that he himself came to check on the wine? He could have made us all come running to him. But he is a man of humility and tolerance. Had you rejected a gift from any other prince, he would have had you fired on the spot.”
“I’m not a beggar, Uncle Suleyman.”
“Just listen, son. The prince liked you and wanted to give you something. You must never refuse.”
“Well, I just did.”
“Who do you think you are, Kamel? If you carry on like that in the Club, you’ll bring all sorts of misfortunes down upon yourself. We are all servants of the princes. Can’t you understand that?”
I really wanted to tell Uncle Suleyman that I was a law student and not a servant. Even though I had been forced to take a temporary job in the storeroom, that did not make me a servant, but not wishing to offend him, I bit my tongue.
The story spread around the Club. Most of the servants agreed that I was wrong to have refused the prince’s gift. I tried to explain my thinking, but, as one, they clung to their own interpretation, some of them simply incredulous. “Listen, son, it’s a great mistake to look a gift horse in the mouth. Are you better off than the princes?”
I realized that it was pointless pressing the matter. I feigned agreement and bit my tongue. I heard conflicting opinions about Prince Shamel from the staff. Some thought him a great man, pointing out his outspokenness, humility and sympathy for the poor, while others referred to him as an uncontrollable womanizer, a faithless unbeliever who had married an Italian woman and then divorced her before they’d had children. He then flung himself into endless relationships, changing partners as often as his socks. I also learned from them that Prince Shamel’s relations with His Majesty were not good. The king did not care for his self-satisfaction and resented both his liberal way of thinking and his common touch. His Majesty, in fact, considered him a Communist, though he was also jealous of him. Prince Shamel was a gifted artist of international repute whose photography was exhibited in Europe, and as he mentioned, he had received his higher education at the Sorbonne, whereas the king was an unlearned soul, with no university degree, let alone interest in art. The staff recounted two incidents in particular that had caused the chill between the king and Prince Shamel. One time, the king had been sitting with the prince and offered him a cigar, which the prince took and then leaned forward as if waiting for the king to light it for him. It was instinctual and unintended, and he realized his mistake almost immediately, springing to his feet, apologizing, but the king was so angry that he turned his back on the prince, cutting him completely and chatting with the other guests. Finally, the prince made his excuses and left. The other incident occurred when the whole royal family had been invited to a lunch party at Muntaza Palace, and Prince Shamel jumped into the swimming pool before asking the king’s permission, a grave breach of protocol. Some courtiers brought this to the prince’s attention. When he climbed out of the pool, the courtiers gave him to understand, in the clearest but politest of terms, that he was no longer welcome. He left the palace and never again received a royal invitation.
This tale only increased my respect for the prince. I felt that this man, who had no fear of the king himself, would treat me with kindness and respect, insignificant as I was. Still, I wondered why he was interested in me. It seemed odd that he would invite me to his palace when he hardly knew me. Of course I was looking forward to visiting him, but I hoped that the visit would not end badly and spoil my wonderful impression of him.
On Thursday, at the appointed hour, just before I left the storeroom to go wait outside for the prince’s car, Comanus warned me, “Be careful about what you say to the prince. Think twice before you utter a word.”
Uncle Suleyman, on the other hand, took me to the car and whispered in my ear, “Listen, Kamel. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Don’t do anything stupid, like you did the first time you met him.”
Prince Shamel’s palace was on the banks of the Nile in Garden City. The car made two sharp turns and drew up at the entrance. I wondered how just one man could live in this stately house when thousands of Egyptians lived cramped in tiny spaces. The palace was beautiful and elegant, with impressively high ceilings, enormous halls and marble columns. It all seemed unreal to me, as if I had ended up in a movie. A dark-skinned servant opened the door, and I was received in the hallway by an elegant man in a white suit, white gloves and a blue tie. He bowed to me and said, “Good evening, Mr. Kamel. Please follow me. His Royal Highness is waiting for you in the studio.”
I followed him across the hallway. We turned right, and he opened a huge door into an enormous photography studio. The lights were dimmed. I could see scores of photographs on the walls and a number of cameras pointing in all directions. The prince was not dressed as I had expected him to be. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt, a tie and black shoes. He looked tired and was unshaven. He smiled and greeted me warmly, “Welcome, Kamel. I apologize for having been too busy to make myself presentable. We won’t shake hands, because I don’t want to stain your clothing.”
He gave a loud laugh and held his hands out, and I saw that he was wearing rubber
Everything this man did was infused with elegance. He did not walk back over to his desk until I started looking at the photographs, as that would have been improper. As he took an image out of the developing bath, he worked out where the crop marks should be and then trimmed it down with a paper cutter. I carried on viewing the photographs on the wall. I noticed that most of them were portraits of women, peasants and lower-class people as well as foreigners wearing hats. I was transfixed by their faces. They all showed strong individuality.
As I stood there contemplating a photograph of a lower-class woman in an abaya and a sequined scarf wrapped around her hair, I became aware of the prince laughing. He was standing behind me and asked me affably, “Do you like this woman?”
I turned around and noticed that he had removed his gloves.
“I like the portrait,” I answered.
“And why is that?”
“It has authenticity. It has a particular Egyptian seductiveness about it. Does Your Royal Highness know the work of an artist called Mahmud Said?”
“He’s a friend of mine. I see him a lot in Alexandria. Where have you seen his work?”
“At an exhibition in the French Cultural Center last summer.”
“And what makes you think of the work of Mahmud Said?”
“I think that Your Royal Highness expresses with the camera what he does with the brush.”
“What a wonderful thought,” he laughed. “I wish all the critics would adopt that! How wonderful that you follow the arts.”
The prince’s face turned serious and he continued, “I also try to learn by means of photographs, you know. I photograph faces in order to try to understand them. Photography is a wonderful way of recording life. The camera captures a particular moment in time. Our myriad expressions over the course of a single day are all fleeting. They evanesce and we can never bring them back. The camera alone can record them and preserve them for posterity.”