The Automobile Club of Egypt

6

Every night Bahr the barman would stand behind the bar in the dim light. Behind him were various bottles and shelves with downturned wineglasses. A man in his fifties, in his gleaming suit, white shirt and red bow tie, he looked for all the world like a born barman. Indeed, the few times that some of his customers saw him outside the bar, walking in the street and out of uniform, he seemed somehow out of place.

Bahr plied his profession with the precision and absorption of a concert pianist. He would take an order, bow and smile, and then prepare the drink. If a customer ordered a cocktail, he would make a performance out of its preparation. He would twirl around on one leg as he lovingly mixed the ingredients. He did this little dance as he shook the cocktail shaker and then poured the drink into the glass, serving it with another small bow, which he held for a few seconds as if waiting for applause. Patrons in the bar would look at him with amazement, and he was seldom denied a “Bravo. Well done, barman!”

Every day until one o’clock in the morning, Bahr would see to it that service in the bar was entirely up to scratch. He would scour all the corners of the bar, watching the staff like a hawk as they served drinks to the members. At the first sign of a mistake, his face would start to twitch in a way the staff noticed immediately. Then in the same code, a signal only the staff understood, he might scowl, raise his eyebrows, shake his head or gesture with his hands, and his men would put things to right. If he was gesturing hurriedly, they would speed up, and if he was indicating to the contrary, they would slow down. He might have been a conductor beating out the tempo with his baton. When it came to the customers, Bahr showed them utmost care and sensitivity. Drinkers could be fickle and their mood highly changeable, but Bahr knew exactly when a customer needed to talk and when he needed to be left in silence, when Bahr should offer a pleasant anecdote or keep his distance. He could uncannily tell from the very first moment if a customer was drinking to forget his sorrows or to celebrate or simply out of habit. He could discern with one glance whether the lady sitting with a customer was his wife or mistress, and he knew immediately whether a drink would further improve a customer’s good nature and generosity, or in the case of a foul-tempered man, only make him more aggressive. Bahr was never upset by the slights uttered by drunkards, as he knew that they were no longer in control of themselves, and in fact he would always tell his staff, “Never be offended by a drunk…You must look after a drunk!” If someone was completely out of control, Bahr would follow a strict professional protocol, refusing to serve the man any more or in a pinch giving him a glass of ice water with a drop of whiskey in it for a touch of color. Bahr would then help the drunk out by summoning his driver, or if none was waiting, Bahr would prevent the drunk from getting into his car, and then he would call a taxi, paying the fare in advance so that the club’s patron would not be fleeced.

Unlike most of the other staff, Bahr the barman showed no humility. He did not consider himself a servant. His work was on a different level than simple cleaning or carrying out orders. It cannot be denied that he too was subject to Alku’s authority along with the other staff, but he felt himself a professional. He was the master of a sophisticated craft, and his pride in this enabled him to uphold his dignity. He could put up with all sorts of drunken antics, but he would not countenance slights from sober customers. These he would answer with certain effective and safe acts of retribution — effective because they were a satisfying form of vengeance, safe because they could not be interpreted as anything other than acts of politeness. For example, Bahr might take a long time to respond to an order from an offensive customer, apologizing as he served him with obvious insincerity in his voice, thereby registering his resentment but providing no pretext for complaint.

Another way of getting even was to treat the customer with the utmost respect but call him by the wrong name, a method that caused even more chagrin if the customer was in the company of a lady who was not his wife! If the customer failed to notice that he was being wrongly addressed, Bahr would repeat himself until the customer corrected him, whereupon he would apologize profusely but too late since the message would have already been delivered — that the customer was a man of such insignificance in the Automobile Club that the barman did not even know his name.

The third method was to make a big show of welcoming the customer and bowing to him, but as soon as the customer looked at him, he would look back with an expression of disgust for a fleeting moment before carrying on with the unctuous welcome as if nothing were amiss.

Finally, there was a fourth method, which Bahr had only resorted to once. This had happened two years ago during a visit from Abd el-Al Pasha Hafiz, minister of justice, who was known for his sharp tongue and for the enjoyment he derived from humiliating anyone who worked for him, whether of high or low rank. Bahr tried as hard as he could to avoid any conflict, but in vain. The pasha treated him from the first with sneering arrogance. Bahr served him a chilled bottle of beer, and when Abd el-Al Pasha finished it, he called out in a voice so loud that everyone in the bar could hear him, “When I finish my drink, you are supposed to come and ask me if I would like another one. Am I supposed to do your job? You’re not a barman. You’re a bloody donkey!”

Bahr could not remember ever having felt as humiliated as he did that night. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He grabbed a bottle of beer and left the bar. He crossed the hallway, making sure that no one saw him, and still clutching the bottle, went into the toilets, returning quickly to the bar and putting the bottle back on the shelf behind the bar. When the Pasha ordered his third bottle of beer, Bahr served him and watched with some pleasure as the bloated Abd el-Al Pasha Hafiz, minister of justice, drank beer that had been diluted with the barman’s urine.

To be fair, that event was an exception, a small blot on Bahr’s otherwise unstained escutcheon. Usually, Bahr took pleasure in honoring his customers, and his name was often mentioned in expressions of praise reserved for those at the peak of their professions. Perhaps the most fabled example was the visit of Colonel William Caldwell, an English aristocrat and close associate of Field Marshal Montgomery. Colonel Caldwell had a particularly pompous and abusive manner hidden under a veneer of forced politeness. The moment he sat down at the bar, Bahr knew that he was a tricky customer and started serving him with the utmost care in order to give the colonel no chance to get the better of him or create any problems. Colonel Caldwell drank a gin and tonic, then put his pipe in his mouth and, in his upper-crusty English stammer, asked Bahr an obviously supercilious question, “You there, barman. Do you know how to make cocktails?”

“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.