The Automobile Club of Egypt

KAMEL

I could not sleep. Why had the rhythm of my life sped up so much?

Why was I lurching from one situation to another? As if against my will, I was being thrust in a certain direction, as if my feet were leading me to a predetermined denouement. It all seemed unfathomable, working at the Club and getting to know the prince. Was it just a coincidence that he had come to the storeroom? Wasn’t it odd that he should come and examine the wines himself? Perhaps not. But why would he invite me for lunch in his palace? Why this interest in me? Who am I that the king’s cousin should care or approach me to give lessons to the manager’s daughter? But the strangest thing is that he knew about my role in the resistance.

“Thanks to what you and your colleagues are doing, the English will evacuate the country.” Was it just innocent wishful thinking, or did he know something? Perhaps recent events were all a matter of coincidence, or could they have been carefully planned? I lay in bed, brooding and smoking, and by the time of the morning call to prayer, I was exhausted and finally dozed off for two hours. My meeting with Mr. Wright was at nine o’ clock that morning. I polished my shoes to within an inch of their life, ironed a shirt, pressed my suit and gave my tarboosh a good brushing. I arrived a few minutes early.

Khalil the office clerk greeted me. “May God grant you success.” He smiled and then whispered, “Mr. Wright is one of the meanest men on earth. He hardly ever smiles. He just sits there with a fixed grimace and looks you up and down.”

At nine exactly, I knocked on the door. I heard him call out sharply, “Enter.”

“How are you?” he said in English.

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

He gestured for me to sit down and then lit his pipe, exhaling a heady cloud of smoke.

“His Royal Highness Prince Shamel has put your name forward as someone who could give my daughter Arabic lessons.”

“I’d be happy to, sir.”

“My daughter, Mitsy, received her secondary education in London and then decided, for some unknown reason, to come and live in Egypt. She’s now studying drama at the American University. She has some basic knowledge of Arabic but needs lessons in speaking and writing.”

“Rest assured.” I smiled. “She’ll speak and write Arabic fluently.”

Mr. Wright’s glower made me realize I had overstepped the mark.

“I have decided on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he informed me, “because Mitsy has no morning classes on those days. You’ll start today.”

I nodded in agreement. He looked at his watch and exhaled another puff of smoke, which hung in the air between us.

“I’ve lived in Egypt for twenty years,” he went on, “and yet I still find Egyptian behavior odd. For example, I don’t understand why the Egyptians cling to a complicated dead language like Classical Arabic.”

“Because Arabic,” I answered without thinking, “bears our history and is something all the Arab peoples have in common, as well as it being the language of the Quran.”

“Delusional.”

I said nothing. The conversation was taking a course I had not expected.

Mr. Wright smiled and then shot out another question at me. “Why don’t you write in the everyday language you use for speaking?”

“The colloquial is not a written language. It’s just a dialect. Lots of cultures have a written language and a dialect that they use for every day. The French and Americans also have various local forms that differ greatly from their written languages.”

Mr. Wright shook his head, unconvinced. “The Egyptians will never advance,” he added, “if they don’t let go of that barren classical language.”

“It’s not barren,” I interjected. “It’s one of the richest living languages. Moreover, it is not Arabic that is the cause of Egypt’s backwardness. Egypt is backward because it is under occupation.”

There was a sudden look of disapproval in his bluish eyes.

“Were it not,” he continued, “for what you call ‘the occupation,’ your country would still be in the Middle Ages.”

“We didn’t ask for anyone’s help. And I don’t believe that Britain has occupied Egypt for charitable purposes.”

“And do you think,” he asked with a look of contempt, “that Egyptians are capable of governing themselves?”

“The Egyptians ruled the civilized world for centuries.”

“Yes, of course. You have to look to distant history for your glory because your present is not very inspiring.”

“The deterioration in the quality of life in Egypt is due to the occupation that is systematically plundering our resources.”

“Before the Egyptians start demanding independence, they need to learn how to think and work properly.”

What a nasty, odd man. Just as arrogant as he was when my mother had dealt with him. What makes him talk like that? If he hates Egyptians so much, why does he live in their country? He didn’t even shake my hand. He did not utter a word of thanks. Even if he is paying for the lessons, shouldn’t he at least thank me for being so obliging? I was really irritated and thought that I should stand up for myself, give him a piece of my mind, and to hell with the Club. But I tried as hard as I could to avoid doing anything I might regret. Then I realized that this was not a spur-of-the-moment argument. He was driving at something. Maybe he was trying to take revenge for my mother’s reprimand the first time we met. Perhaps he himself did not want me teaching his daughter and was trying to provoke me into saying something out of line so that he could fire me despite the prince. I decided not to take the bait.

I stood up and asked him calmly, “Mr. Wright, what time should I start the lesson?”

“When Mitsy’s ready.”

“What time will Mitsy be ready?”

“Wait outside,” he snapped. “Khalil will take you there soon.”

I waited for about a quarter of an hour outside his office before Khalil came to collect me. We took the lift to the top floor and made our way to a small room next to the casino. I tried to control my anger and rid myself of the bad taste from our meeting. I swore to myself that if Mitsy exhibited the same vanity and arrogance as her father, I would quit, no matter how much he paid me. Khalil pushed the door, it opened slowly and I walked over to Mitsy, who was sitting at a small round table next to the window.

“Good morning,” I said in English.

She stood up and shook my hand warmly.

“Hello,” she smiled. “I’m Mitsy Wright. Thank you for having agreed to help me with my Arabic.”