The Automobile Club of Egypt

9

At ten o’clock in the morning, when the staff arrived at the Club, there would be a clamor of shouts, greetings and guffaws. It was joviality itself, perhaps because they were starting a new day or because they were simply relaxed before having to deal with their supervisors and the club members. They would go up to the changing room on the roof and get into their work clothes — old galabiyyas whose hem they hitched up and tucked in at the waist, showing their long underwear and their undershirts. Then they would fan out through the Club carrying the tools of their trade: brooms, floor rags, dusters and various cleaning liquids. They would start from the top of the building, working their way down, floor by floor. They worked together so efficiently and rhythmically that they might have been doing a Nubian dance. One would call out a snatch of song, or someone else might tell a joke in a loud voice, and they would all burst out in laughter, working without interruption all the while. They emptied all the cigarette and cigar butts into rubbish bags and removed scores of stains from the seats, the tables, the floor and the walls. Each kind of stain had its own specified treatment. Those on the rugs could be removed with cleaning fluid. The dirty tablecloths were gathered together and sent off to the laundry, but those with burn marks from cigarettes were thrown away. Sometimes they would find bits of vomit from a customer who had had too much to drink. They would cover it with a thick layer of sawdust, give it a good brushing and wash the spot with carbolic soap. They scoured the place like a team of expert mine sweepers, and they often found something valuable a drinker had left behind: a gold lighter or a diamond earring or sometimes a full wallet. They would hand over any item immediately to the office of the general manager, Mr. Wright. This was not so much out of a sense of moral duty but out of fear. Many of them, if they could have got away with pocketing something, would not have hesitated for an instant.

The cleaning took around two hours. After they had finished, they would all return to the roof, shower in turn and put on their clean and ironed work caftans and receive their instructions for the day according to where they worked in the Club, in the bar, the restaurant or the casino, the cleaning crew thus transformed into the serving staff. The Club opened its doors at one in the afternoon. The first shift ended at eight in the evening, and the second shift went on until the last guest left near dawn. It was hard work at the Club, and it usually left everyone exhausted by the end of their shifts. Not that they went straight home, most typically preferring to spend a little time at the Paradise Café, which had many advantages, being close to the Club, large enough to contain all of them and open twenty-four hours a day. Being frequented by the staff, it became known as the “Servants Café,” a name that Abd el-Basit, the owner, found distasteful and worked hard to stamp out. To any customers not on staff at the Club, he offered a warm welcome, sometimes even free drinks to encourage them to stay longer. He had Ramadan calendars printed with the name Paradise Café on them, as well as regular calendars and greeting cards for the holidays of Eid al-Adha and Eid al-Fitr, which he handed out to residents of the area. He had an enormous and expensive illuminated sign reading “Paradise Café” installed above the door at great cost. All these efforts came to nought, however, as the “Servants’ Café” became so well known that, in the end, the owner gave up trying to convince people otherwise. The staff of the Club took great pleasure in spending a little time at the café, with their hot and cold drinks, smoking a nargileh and playing chess, dominoes and cards.

At first, looking at each other in their street clothes they felt slightly odd, like a band of actors who had just removed their costumes following a stage performance. Gradually, though, they would get used to the way everyone looked outside the Club and would start sharing the latest news, gossiping, singing, laughing out loud and chatting with great gusto. For their own entertainment they would also launch into spectacular arguments, which always ended amicably. They had a deep need to affirm that they, like the rest of mankind, were entitled to a normal life out from under their work caftans. They especially enjoyed sitting at the tables and giving the waiter their orders, metamorphosing from servants to customers. Some of the Club staff were easygoing with the waiters at the café, overlooking their mistakes, but others would carry the meticulousness of the Club with them, handing out sharp rebukes should a waiter make the smallest mistake with their order. Sometimes, in fact, there was a silent barrier of resentment between the Club staff and the café waiters such as happens when people dislike what they see of themselves in others, much like the resentful tension that arises when two beautiful women or two film stars run into each other in the same place. Although they were just regular punters in the café, there was something about the Club staff that set them apart; there was something about their demeanor, the way they sat, their voices and their laughter. It was almost imperceptible, but it was something like an indelible sign of submissiveness, which had been stamped upon them during their work as servants in the Club.

At about three p.m. Bahr the barman arrived at the café. Greeting those who were already there, he went over to the table in the farthest corner next to the window, where the managers were seated: Rikabi the chef, Maître Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh the casino manager. They got up to greet him, and he shook hands with each in turn before sitting down. Bahr immediately told them what had happened the previous evening with Alku.

Thinking it over for a moment, Rikabi asked, “Why do you suppose Alku refused to take the bonus from you?”

Bahr answered calmly, “Isn’t it obvious? He must want more money.”

The answer hit them like a thunderbolt. They sat in silence for a while before Rikabi cried out, “More money? He’s already taking all the food from our children’s mouths!”

Rikabi the chef was in his fifties. A short, stocky man, with a huge paunch, he was completely bald apart from a few hairs that still sprouted from the back of his enormous head, and his bushy eyebrows almost obscured his eyes. He was also permanently stoned, as he believed that hashish relieved fatigue, sharpened the senses and enabled him to create dishes he otherwise would not have thought of. He was even convinced that hashish improved his sense of taste and helped him to perfect the seasoning of his preparations. He was a talented chef but a selfish one. He would never speak of any but the most rudimentary principles of cooking. As to his best recipes, he would never divulge to his assistants the secret ingredients that gave his dishes their zesty flavor. Rather, he would mix the herbs and spices at home and bring them into the Club in jars. If he had to make an important dish from scratch, he would order his assistants out of the kitchen. If an assistant proved reluctant to go, Rikabi would give him a few punches with his puffy-fingered fist and then yell, “Get out, you bastard! I’ve slaved for hours learning how to do this. You think I’m just going to hand it over to you?”

Nothing in the world could embarrass Rikabi. His modus operandi was shamelessness itself. He would shout, scold, curse, argue and gesture obscenely with his fat fingers as if proud of his utter lack of discretion. His insolent indignation was that of a man who felt himself wronged, and he seemed to derive pleasure from the verbal abuse he heaped onto others. It was as if he were saying: “My life hasn’t been easy. No one has ever treated me kindly or taken my feelings into consideration. I have only ever known harshness and scorn. Now it’s my turn.”

Rikabi was, in short, a bully. The moment someone responded in like manner, he would back down. He was from the school of hard knocks but a coward at the same time. He never went on the attack unless he was sure of the outcome, and the least opposition was enough to deter him. But if he got the better of his opponent, he would take it out on him mercilessly.

When Rikabi finished work, late in the night, he would put together a generous tray of food and send it to Bahr the barman, who would return the compliment by sending him a quarter bottle of leftover whiskey. Rikabi would wrap the bottle carefully in layers of newspaper, and with the package under his arm, he’d tell his assistants, “Good night. I’m off to ride the ferry now.”

The ferry was, in fact, his wife. Rikabi was in the habit of regaling his friends and colleagues with the intimacies of his married life, giving them all the details of the frequency of his copulation and the sexual positions he favored but never once mentioning his wife by name — this he omitted out of respect for her, only referring to her instead as the ferry or the old lady or sometimes the missus.

Rikabi was equally frank with those around the table about his adamant refusal to increase Alku’s bonus.

Maître Shakir plucked up his courage and asked in his usual unctuous manner, “How can Alku expect us to pay him more? It’s very odd.”

Maître Shakir was a man of sixty-two, a paragon of slippery ways and backstabbing, a master of deceit who specialized in fleecing the customers. He had made an art out of exaggerated shows of respect and reverence, which wore the customers down and ended with them tipping him lavishly. A customer had only to appear in the distance for Shakir to scurry over, bowing and uttering his praise and welcome, inquiring as to his health and the well-being of his children, whose names he knew. Shakir could always convince a customer of his importance at the Club, especially if the customer had come with a lady, in which case, after a lengthy welcome speech, Shakir would bow to the lady and say as if in confidence, “You know, Madame, it’s my job to look after everyone here at the Club. However, as God is my witness, His Excellency the Bey is the Club’s favorite member and one of our most respected guests.”

How could a member then fail to give him a large tip! It was barefaced flattery but it had magical effects. Shakir was in fact so popular that before reserving a table for dinner, members would often first make sure he was to be on duty, as his presence alone guaranteed good service. Maître Shakir’s comrade-in-arms was Rikabi the chef. Neither could do without the other. They got together at least once a day to consult and exchange thoughts. They understood each other and worked in such harmony that they were like two men rowing the same boat or playing musical instruments in unison. There was honor between them: they shared with each other the kickbacks they received from the grocers, the butchers and the poulterers from whom they ordered provisions for the Club. They had a very refined system for manipulating the bills from the restaurant. Sometimes, when circumstances allowed it, and with special permission from Morqos the accountant, they would run the restaurant for an hour or two for their own benefit, reaping rich rewards. There was in fact nothing that Rikabi or Shakir would stop at in order to make money. They were supremely inventive crooks. If there were specific ingredients piling up in the kitchen, they would pass them on to the customers in “operation fridge empty.” Maître Shakir would announce that there was going to be an open buffet for Club members, and Rikabi would then use all his wiles to present the old food as if it were a special offering. If there was an ingredient that was on the turn, such as shrimps, Rikabi would peel them, dip them in breadcrumbs, fry them and inform Maître Shakir, who would nod his head in agreement and wait for a customer to ask him: “Shakir, what do you recommend this evening?”

The question was academic, but it afforded the customer the pretense of fine dining. A person who asked a question like this wanted only to confirm to himself and to those around him that he was an important personage and that Shakir was so devoted to him that he would indeed recommend only the finest and steer him away from the ordinary. Maître Shakir would bow his head to this sort of customer and whisper in the most tantalizing tones of conspiracy, “Your Excellency, the crevettes panées are excellent, but I’m not sure if chef has any left.”

At this, the customer would feign dismay and press him, “Are you sure there are none?”

“Ah, I’m certain that the chef must have saved a plate or two for you, Your Excellency!”

An expression of gratitude would appear on the customer’s face, and he would feel so special that he would order the shrimps. The order would be brought by the waiters, but served by Maître Shakir himself, who would whisper, “Bon appétit, Your Excellency. May God forgive me, but I had to lie to the other diners and tell them we were out of the crevettes so that chef could prepare some for our best customer.”

Thus did Maître Shakir kill two birds with one stone: he got rid of the shrimps about to spoil and guaranteed himself a tidy tip.

Next to Maître Shakir sat Yusuf Tarboosh, who knew that he would have to say something. “Praise be to the noble Prophet!”

Everyone then uttered his own praise and prayer for the noble Prophet, and Yusuf continued, “Increasing the bonus is an injustice, and injustice is forbidden because Allah has commanded us to act justly.”

Hagg Yusuf was sixty-five. He was a nervous man whose wiry body never stopped shaking, so he could never hold his head still, something that made his colleagues poke fun at him when he first started working at the Club. It was for this reason that they gave him the nickname Tarboosh, because his head shook like the tassel on a tarboosh or fez. He had worked in the casino since the Club opened and eventually became the longest-serving employee. His life changed completely when His Majesty the king started spending his evenings at the Club. The king came to believe that Yusuf’s presence at his side brought him luck at the gambling table. The notion became so firmly fixed in His Majesty’s mind that often, when immersed in a game, he would call out in French, “Joe! Bougez pas!”

Yusuf Tarboosh would bow reverently as his heart pounded with joy. Whenever the king won, he pushed some of the chips toward him with the croupier’s stick, saying, “Ça c’est pour vous, Joe!”

Tarboosh would take the chips and put them to one side, never in his pocket, as it would be unseemly to do such a thing in the presence of His Majesty. The following day, Yusuf Tarboosh would go to see Morqos the accountant and cash them in. Even on the rare occasions when the king lost, His Majesty would take the stick and rake some of the winner’s chips over to Joe. That is how the money started piling up for Yusuf, slowly at first, but then in a torrent that changed his life completely. He became a man of means. He kept his scrawny and haggard Upper Egyptian wife, the mother of his children, but took as a second wife a beautiful, pale widow from Mansoura in the Delta, who was a quarter century younger and revived his licit sexual appetite. Then he had a large house with a garden built in his hometown in Nubia and bought a three-story building in Abdin, which brought in a significant amount each month in rents. Life had smiled upon him, granting him more than he had ever hoped for: a deep sense of satisfaction, a comfortable income, health and property. But can any contentment ever be complete?

Before long, Yusuf Tarboosh had fallen into a religious quandary, and his happiness started succumbing to a profound sense of having transgressed. And his sin was so enormous that he was sure he would end up in the fires of hell. All the jurists were clear about that. Would God, may He be praised, listen to his prayers and accept his fasting while he was living on the immoral wages of gambling? He was getting on a bit now and might drop dead at any moment, as happened to people all the time. One night he might just go to bed and never wake up again. At such a time what would he do, and what would he say to God Almighty on the Day of Judgment?

Yusuf Tarboosh went off to speak to some of the renowned religious scholars, and when he told them about his situation, he received various responses: one shaykh advised him to leave his job in the casino immediately, and after keeping back just enough to feed his children, give the rest of his money to charity and look for some un-sinful work. Another opined that he should leave his job in the casino but purify his savings by giving a portion to charity. A third shaykh was more comforting: until he could find a religiously lawful job that offered the same income, he might continue in the casino. Yusuf anguished over the conflicting opinions of the learned men. Feeling out of sorts and so unhappy, he performed the hajj. In front of the Kaaba, he cried for a long time, calling upon God to set him on the right path. When he returned, he felt the great sense of ease of a man who has been shown the answer. He did not leave his job in the casino nor rid himself of his savings, but he paid for a mosque and an orphanage to be built in his hometown and started sending funds to help a large number of poor families. At the beginning of each month, he would put the money in sealed envelopes with names on them and leave these with the Club receptionist. That was how he overcame his feelings of guilt. God knew that he had not chosen to work in a casino and that his advanced age and dodgy health did not allow him to look around for another job. God Almighty is forgiving and merciful, and should He call him to Himself now, all those poor people he supported would intercede to pray for him.

Yusuf also now busied himself reading religious books, and after some complicated negotiations with Alku and Mr. Wright, he managed to win their agreement to use a corner of the roof, next to the changing room, for a room where the staff could go and pray — outside working hours of course. By virtue of his religious devotion, Yusuf Tarboosh gained some status among the staff even though they did not trust him completely, for, when all was said and done, he was still one of the managers who supported Alku against them, and the contradiction between his newfound piety and his job in the casino did not do much to help his credibility.

The moment Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh declared his opposition to the increased bonus, a new wave of objections rang out.

Maître Shakir said, “He’s gone too far this time. God Himself can see how unfair it is.”

Rikabi the chef was so worked up that he made an obscene gesture with two of his fingers. Then with a loud grunt, in piece with the bestial hugeness of his body, he cried out, “Brothers! It’s our livelihoods and children that are at stake here. I am not going to give Alku a cent more.”

Bahr was listening to them, saying nothing as he smoked a shisha. Suddenly, Rikabi turned on him and shouted, “What’s with you, all calm and relaxed? Aren’t you worried about your income?”

Bahr smiled and responded, “Rikabi, you are all hot air, and I really don’t like men who run off their mouth.”

Rikabi shouted back, “All right. You tell us what we should do?”

“Either refuse to pay the increase, or pay it and shut up.”

They all started voicing their objections, but Bahr sat straight up in his chair, lay down the mouthpiece of the shisha and looked at them. “So you refuse to pay the increase?”

In a jumble of voices, they answered in the affirmative. Bahr then stood up and said matter-of-factly, “All right then. I’ll go see Alku and I’ll tell him.”

Rikabi called out, “Wait, Bahr. Just a minute.”

Bahr ignored him and made as if to leave the café. The three others at the table called out to him. Rikabi rushed after him and grabbed him by the arm to stop him. Bahr knew his colleagues through and through; their anger was just so much hot air, nothing they dared act on. Even at the peak of their fury, they made certain to keep their voices down lest the other staff members in the café hear them. It was this sort of posturing that so irked Bahr. One minute Rikabi, Maître Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh were huffing and puffing so much that anyone would have thought that Alku could suffer a good drubbing were he to appear there in front of them. But Bahr’s mere threat to go and tell Alku was enough to turn them into quivering rodents. He looked at them contemptuously and said, “Fine, I won’t go. But if you are so bold, then go and tell Alku yourselves!”

They made no response, at which Bahr responded, “Just as I thought. Now shut up and go on being Alku’s playthings and pay him his bonus.”

That very day, just before midnight, the four managers were lined up in Alku’s office, where as usual he was smoking his fat cigar and leafing through his papers. He gave them a quizzical glance, and Shakir cleared his throat, made a small bow and stated, “Your Excellency! We owe what we are to your Excellency. It was you who brought us from Upper Egypt, helped us to establish ourselves and turned us into decent human beings…”

Alku looked at them, his expression turning from quizzical to weary. Now Shakir took a step forward and placed on the desk a large envelope visibly stuffed with banknotes. Then, with a quaking voice, he said, “Out of gratitude to you, Your Excellency, we have increased the amount of the bonus. May God keep and preserve you. It is small recompense for all your kindness.”

Alku exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke, which hovered around his face, and then he sat back in his chair and stared off into space as if they were not standing there. Bahr was observing the scene calmly, but his three colleagues were terrified by the thought that Alku might again refuse to accept even the increased bonus, and they would be at a complete loss. They could not possibly pay more. Perhaps Alku was angry about something else. The worst thing would be that Alku was angry over something they knew nothing about. Shakir bowed again and slid the envelope across the glass desktop as if willing Alku to take it. After an age, Alku nodded with seeming disgust and gestured for them to leave. That, thank God, meant he had agreed to accept the bonus. They left his office sputtering gratitude. The crisis had passed.

Was Alku so unreasonable for wanting an increase in the bonus? He always watched his managers very closely, and his ubiquitous spies fed him daily reports. He knew exactly how much money they were creaming off from the Club, which is why he set the bonus on a sliding scale rather than at a fixed amount. Hence, the amount of the bonus had been carefully calculated, and, after all, there were no exceptions or favoritism. Receiving the bonus always prompted Alku to go on an inspection spree, after which he would harshly rebuke the managers and have their subordinates flogged for the slightest error, all this just to remind them that payment of the bonus would neither absolve them of their responsibilities toward him nor inspire any laxity in his review of their accounts.

That was how Alku had lorded it over the staff for the last twenty years — eagle-eyed and ironfisted. There is, however, usually a gap in even the most foolproof systems.

One morning, Mr. Wright called Alku and asked him to come to his office. Alku demurred, saying he could not leave the palace before seeing to the affairs of His Majesty, who never arose before the afternoon, but Wright’s insistence worried Alku, so he went to see him. Wright greeted him curtly, lit his pipe and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, and then said, “Listen. Tomorrow a lad called Abdoun is coming to see you. Put him in the school until he learns service, and then he will work for us in the Club…”

It was an order. There was nothing to discuss, so Alku bowed and said, “A vos ordres!”

Mr. Wright said nothing more and started reading again as a signal that the meeting was over. Alku asked him whether there was anything else he might do for him. Wright shook his head without raising his eyes from the book. Alku left the office astonished. James Wright, the English general manager who treated Egyptians like muck, was now intervening personally to appoint a waiter! Alku ordered his ubiquitous spies to get to the bottom of this, and a few hours later he received a report. Abdoun was the son of the doorman of the Lycée where James Wright’s lover, Odette Fattal, taught. Alku smiled and muttered to himself, “Cherchez la femme!”

The following day, Abdoun came for an interview with Alku. He was a sinewy boy with a mocha complexion. Tall and polite. He had wide, dreamy eyes, and his pleasant smile revealed pearly white teeth. He was so handsome that Alku detected on his assistant Hameed’s part nervous tension as he brought the lad into his office. Alku gave Abdoun a cold, sullen look and said, “Mr. Wright’s intervention on your behalf has clinched the matter, but you should know that there are thousands who dream of getting a job at the Automobile Club. If you show you can work hard, we will take you on.”

“I shall do my utmost.”

“First, you will go to our school so that we can see how much training you’ll need.”

Abdoun smiled and said, “I hope to live up to your expectations.”

The boy seemed polite enough, but he left Alku feeling slightly uneasy. In all his sixty years, and having dealt with hundreds of servants, Alku had hardly ever erred in appraising a new servant. This Abdoun was clever, he acted politely and appeared eager, but there was something unsettling Alku could not put his finger on. He had a recalcitrant edge to his voice and was hiding something. Alku gave orders for a background check and discovered that his record was completely clean. Abdoun made good progress at the school, passing all the tests without any of the usual beginner’s mistakes, and after just two months, he could execute the royal protocol so skillfully that he reminded Alku of his own younger self. All that should have left Alku feeling content, but something kept nagging him and he said to himself, “I’ve got a strange feeling about that lad.”

Alku decided to implicate Abdoun in some misdemeanor that would lead to his dismissal, so he appointed him assistant barman. Bar work, for a new employee, was very risky. The most important personages in Egypt frequented the bar, and one slipup with them could be catastrophic. Moreover, one had to be very sensitive when serving the inebriated, because alcohol made people both fickle and tetchy. Weeks passed without Alku hearing about any issues with Abdoun, and when he asked Bahr about him, the barman only sang the boy’s praises. This astonished Alku because Bahr took immense pride in his work, and his assistants hardly ever lived up to his expectations. Abdoun’s presence continued to gnaw away at Alku, who finally decided to go on the attack. He went off to see Mr. Wright.

Standing in front of the Englishman, he feigned confusion and hesitancy to speak. Wright asked him to spit it out, but Alku stuttered as if from the awkwardness of a bad situation. “Mr. Wright, please do not be angry with me.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it you want?”

“That lad Abdoun keeps making mistakes.”

“He’ll learn,” Wright answered peremptorily.

Alku sighed, “I have tried and tried to teach him, but to my chagrin it has no effect.”

“What are you driving at?”

Alku now had his goal in sight and so he took his shot. “In all honesty,” he muttered, “that lad Abdoun is not fit for service. I could find him another job outside the Club at a better salary.”

Wright shook his head and said, “No, he stays with us at the Club.”

Alku tried to object, but Mr. Wright had returned to his paper, signaling the discussion was over.

Giving Mr. Wright a look of disbelief, Alku bowed, turned and walked out.