The Automobile Club of Egypt

KAMEL

“I should like to introduce myself,” Mitsy said in English with a smile.

“Mr. Wright has told me about you,” I replied quickly.

“My father doesn’t know me,” she said dejectedly. I felt a little embarrassed.

“Then tell me who you are,” I said.

“My name is Mitsy, and I am studying drama at the American University. I have studied elementary Arabic with a private teacher here in Cairo, but I didn’t like his method. He just taught grammar, but I want to learn Arabic, whether classical or colloquial, in order to be able to get along with people.”

“Why are you so interested in learning Arabic?”

“I want to be able to understand Egyptians. I can’t understand them if I don’t speak their language. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Kamel, and I work here at the Club. I am also studying law at the Fuad I University, and I like writing poetry.”

Her blue eyes widened, and she shrieked, “Oh! You’re a poet. Fantastic. I’d love to read your poems.”

“That would make me very happy, Miss Mitsy.”

“Please, let us dispense with titles.”

So I started calling her Mitsy. I loved the way she pronounced my name, drawing out the “a” so that it sounded like “Kaaaamel.” During the lesson, the way she looked imprinted itself onto my consciousness: she was so elegant and tall, with smooth brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She had smooth skin, bluish eyes, finely shaped lips, beautiful dimples, a broad gleaming forehead and the sort of long, lean fingers you could not take your eyes off, not to mention that adorable area between her upper lip and her nose. She was beautiful, but her spirit was even more attractive. There was something impetuous and instinctive about her. She overflowed with vitality. Everything she did was special, unexpected, even shocking, but also pleasant. She was like a princess who had fled her palace in rebellion and had come to live among the lower orders.

We would meet twice a week. At every lesson, we would read a topic in the newspaper, and then I would explain some new literary text to her, and we would sit and discuss it. Then I would give her homework. I chose some serious pieces of writing for discussion. Together we read articles by al-Hakim and Ibrahim al-Mazini and plays by Tawfiq al-Hakim. As I was teaching her Hafez Ibrahim’s poem “Egypt Speaks About Herself,” we digressed onto the theme of pride in Arabic poetry and why this was not a subject dealt with by Western poets. I asked her to write her homework in classical Arabic but to speak with me in the colloquial language. If she could not find the right expression in Arabic, I asked her to write down what she would say in English, which I would later translate.

I may or may not be a good teacher, but Mitsy certainly had a sharp mind and remembered new words easily. In the space of just two months, she had shown remarkable progress. She could write in classical Arabic, without too many mistakes, and could speak the colloquial language well enough to be understood, even if with a heavy accent. I looked forward to our lessons. We had long and enjoyable discussions about various topics. Meeting her filled me with feelings of happiness and admiration but also deep concern.

“When I see what the occupation is doing to you Egyptians,” she said one time, “I feel ashamed to be English.”

“You’re not responsible for the policies of the British government.”

“In fact I am. You are not responsible for the dictator-king of Egypt because you didn’t choose him, but we elect governments whose glory comes from occupying and pillaging other countries. It makes me feel so ashamed.”

The gulf between her and her arrogant father was enormous. I could discern the distress on her beautiful face whenever he was mentioned. I could feel that she was skirting around a subject she did not want to talk about. One time, I went to give her a lesson as usual. The Club had just reopened after having been shut for three days because of the cholera. Mitsy had brought some slices of lemon, which she was squeezing into a glass of water.

“I would advise you,” she said seriously, “to purify the water. Cholera has broken out. I believe they have disinfected the Automobile Club, but that won’t stop the disease from spreading.”

I took the lemon from her hand and squeezed the juice into the water.

“We have already lost two of our staff in the Club,” I said. “In less than a week.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.”

“Death is not the worst of it! The families of the deceased are left paupers. The Club doesn’t pay pensions to Egyptians. Only to foreigners.”

“I can’t believe that!”

“The Club administration considers Egyptians lesser beings.”

I spoke that sentence with eternal bitterness. But as her father was the general manager, I thought I should be more careful.

“Please give the families of the deceased my condolences,” she said softly.

“I will pass them on. Thank you.”

I started the lesson on Ahmed Shawqi’s poem “O Neighbor of the Valley.” I taught her poems that had been set to music. She would always write down the name of the poem on a piece of notepaper so that she could buy the record on her way home.

When the lesson was over, Mitsy did not get up to leave as usual. She looked hesitant.

“Kamel,” she said. “Thank you so much for all your hard work with me.”

Her words made me uneasy. Why was she thanking me now? Had she decided to stop taking lessons? Had I done something wrong or said something to upset her? I was not concerned about the money I was earning for the lessons. I feared losing her friendship. I pulled myself together and steeled myself for the shock. I decided that I would save her the embarrassment of telling me, so I forced myself to smile as I asked her, “Do you think that you have made enough progress with your Arabic?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Perhaps you want to continue studying without my help?”

“Of course I still need your help.”

I tried to hide my relief.

“Then what is it?” I asked her.

“I want to get closer to Egyptians.”

“It’ll take a little longer until you can speak Arabic well enough.”

“The language is an important means of getting to know people, but it’s not everything.”

Mitsy smiled with the naughty expression of a child about to do something provocative and dangerous.

“I want to visit the native areas of Cairo,” she said slowly, “so that I can get to know real Egyptians.”

“How will you be able to talk to people you don’t know?”

She looked at me almost reproachfully, as if she had not been expecting that challenge.

“I just need to know exactly what you want,” I added quickly, “so that I can help you.”

She pursed her lips and seemed to be thinking.

“I’m looking for the truth, Kamel,” she said haltingly, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t want to observe from the outside. I don’t want to be just an English girl who lives in Zamalek and has fun in the sun. I don’t want to spend my time in the Zamalek Club and write letters to my friends in London telling them how lovely the weather is. That’s all so shallow. That’s not why I came to Egypt. I want to live a real life with real people. That’s why I thought I would go and see the areas where real Egyptians live. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Will you take me there?”

“Of course.”

“Kamel. You are a student at the College of Law, and at the same time, you also work in the Automobile Club, not to mention the time that you spend giving me lessons. You won’t have enough time.”

“I can always find time to accompany you.”

I was lying. Going out with her would be a pleasure, but I did not know how I would fit it in. I was already struggling, trying to do my studies until late and sometimes studying right through the night. Then in the morning I would take a shower and go to work, not having slept a wink. Even now I have no idea how my body coped. I applied myself to my job at the Club and kind Monsieur Comanus let me study in the storeroom and gave me some free time before my examinations.

I agreed to take Mitsy on an outing the following Wednesday, my day off. Our first trip was to the area around the Sayyidna il-Hussein Mosque. We met in the square in front of it following afternoon prayers, and then we wandered around the square and the neighboring streets.

“Now,” I said, “I’m going to show you al-Muezz’s gates of Cairo.”

“Did they close these gates,” she asked me as she looked at them with childish awe, “every night after the inhabitants of Cairo had gone to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then what would a Cairene have done if he arrived after the gates had been closed?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it would have been up to the guards to let him in or not.”

“Fantastic!” she clapped her hands like a little girl. “I’ve always dreamed of living in a town whose gates were closed at night. Just imagine me turning up at the closed gates and having to wait there all night until the guards opened them, and then I would pad through the gateway like a cat!”

Mitsy suddenly stopped walking and let out a meow, and we both laughed heartily. I was always being surprised by her eccentric behavior. After walking around a little, we sat down in the Fishawi coffee shop. I ordered a glass of green tea for her. As she sipped it, she raised the glass to her nose, closed her eyes and savored the aroma. She was wearing a very smart blue outfit with a white collar. She was leaning back in the old wooden sofa and looking at me.

“Can we go on an outing like this every week?”

“Certainly.”

“How would you feel,” she looked at me mischievously, “if next time I were to put on a headscarf and wear a galabiyya with a wrap around it with Egyptian slippers?”

“Then,” I said without a second thought, “you’d be the most beautiful local girl in Egypt.”

She smiled and made no comment. I felt a little embarrassed at having been so forward.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For what I said just now.”

“Oh, you innocent poet!” she said in English, laughing out loud. “You seem to know a lot more about poetry than you do about women. There isn’t one on the planet who would be angry at being complimented by a man.”

We had entered a completely new realm. The girl sitting opposite me now, with her eyes shut, savoring the aroma of the tea, was different from the one I had seen previously. I was having a sense of déjà vu, as if she were someone I had known in the distant past, someone who belonged to me or was somehow connected with me. Mitsy looked at me as if she could guess what I was thinking.

“I like talking with you,” she said in English.

“Why are you using English with me?”

“Can you just forget that you are a teacher!”

“But I am a teacher.”

She gave me a “don’t be stupid” look, and we spent over two hours in the Husseini district and then took a taxi back. I planned to drop her off in Zamalek first and then take the taxi on to Sayyida Zeinab.

“Why are you protecting me like some Eastern woman?” she asked.

“Does it annoy you?”

“On the contrary,” she enthused. “I dream of being the slave girl of some oriental potentate and living with three hundred other slave girls. And we all dance for the sultan, each hoping to be the one he spends his night with.”

She waved her arms around as if dancing. I looked at the driver’s astonished face in the rearview mirror.

“You really are a great actress,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because at the drop of a hat you can take on any character you want.”

Before she got out of the taxi, she leaned in so close that I could feel her breath on my face.

“I’ll tell you a secret. My idea to go and explore parts of Cairo was not just so that I could mingle with Egyptians but also because I wanted to spend some time with you.”

I was a little confused. For a moment I thought the natural thing to do would be to hold my arms out and hug her. We shook hands as she got out, and I asked the driver to take me to al-Sadd Street. I tried to do some studying, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Mitsy. I went over what had happened between us. I felt like I had walked through a minefield, because I had managed to keep control of myself and made sure to keep a certain physical distance between us. Although we had chatted away and laughed, I had kept myself on the straight and narrow. Even though I forgot myself from time to time, I had managed to keep our relations proper and formal.

If you spend time in the dark and then suddenly come out into the sunlight, it takes a while to adjust. That is how I felt about Mitsy. She was too dazzling for me to cope with. Finding her so wildly attractive, I knew I had to keep away. Had she been less pretty, I might have dared to try to woo her, but what hope could an oaf have to get the attention of a princess? Even if the guards made way for him, the gap between them was something that he would never be able to bridge.

After our trip to the Husseini district, I found myself slipping into a danger zone without a middle course: our friendship could flourish or flounder, we could have a romantic relationship or I could lose her forever. Was I ready for an adventure like that? I kept asking myself that question, but deep down inside me, I knew that all my calculations were useless, mere mental exercises. It was Mitsy’s choice to drag me into the deep end, whether I wanted to or not, and it would be she alone who would determine the tempo, depth and course of things.

At our next lesson, I made a point of being rather formal, imagining her easy familiarity the time before might have been an exception and wanting to allow her the chance to pull back a little.

“Oh, just stop that, Kamel!” she cried out with a look of childish disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t we friends now?”

“Of course.”

“Then why are you wearing an artificial smile again, and why are you using that monotonous tone of voice?”

She came so close beside me that her arm touched mine. I slid away a little, and she laughed, “Are you afraid of me?”

I was in a quandary, but she took pity on me and carried on talking in her usual way. We decided that our next Wednesday outing would be to Sayyida Zeinab.

“You live there,” she said with a smile. “Are you going to invite me home for a cup of tea? Then I could see your mother and complain about you!”

When she laughed, the dimples in her cheeks drove me mad. But I knew that trouble was waiting for me at home, and sure enough when I told my mother that Mitsy wanted to come and visit, her face turned ashen.

“The daughter of that Englishman Wright?”

“Yes, but she is completely different from her father.”

“What does she want from us?”

“I invited her to come and meet you.”

“I don’t want to meet her.”

“Oh, Mother, Mitsy is a lovely girl, and she adores Egypt.”

My eagerness only seemed to worry my mother more.

“Listen, Kamel,” she retorted. “We’ve got enough troubles of our own. We don’t need the daughter of that Englishman Wright along with all her nonsense.”

I tried a different tack. I leaned over and kissed my mother on the head, and then, with feeling in my voice, I told her, “Mother! You brought us up to be honorable people. You’ve always behaved properly with guests, and you’ve never shown me up. Mitsy is my guest, and I have invited her to our home.”

My mother said nothing but heaved an enormous sigh.

“All right, let’s drop the matter,” I said theatrically. “I won’t go on about it. Let’s forget the subject.”

“What do you mean?”

“All’s well that ends well. Mitsy wanted to come and meet you, but you would rather not. I’ll just tell her that you had to go somewhere and I’ll find some way to apologize.”

I stood there looking sad and resigned. After a few moments, as expected, my mother half-apologetically asked me, “When does she want to come and visit?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“All right. She can come, please God. Since you already promised her, it would be wrong to go back on your word.”

Then my mother started firing practical questions at me. Did Mitsy speak Arabic? Should we invite her for lunch or just tea with some snacks?

I hugged my mother and kissed her hands. I always knew how to exploit her good nature. Sometimes my conscience would prick me, but I still have to laugh when I think of the tricks I used to get around her.

At ten o’clock on the Wednesday morning, as we had agreed, I waited for Mitsy in front of the Sayyida Zeinab mosque and then took her on a walk around the district, including the Rimali Mill and Tram Street. Watching the street vendors, she asked me to explain their snatches of song as they hawked their wares. Then I took her to our apartment. She was quite a spectacle walking up the stairs. Her Royal Highness, the princess from the empire upon which the sun never sets, was coming from al-Sadd Street to visit her subjects, the wooden stairs creaking with her every step. I was about to reveal my vision to her, but I thought she might not approve. As planned, my mother was at home alone, looking her best, wearing a beautiful black dress with a new veil. Saleha had gone to school, and Mahmud was still asleep.

“Welcome. Please come in. It’s an honor for us,” my mother said as she shook Mitsy’s hand and then gave her a big hug before leading her to the sitting room. They needed no help to get along. Almost at once, they were sitting there chatting and soon laughing away. My mother offered her a whole range of beverages and snacks and then invited her to stay for lunch, but Mitsy made her apologies.

“Your mother’s so lovely,” she said the moment we were outside in the street.

“Thank you.”

“She has a gorgeous face, very noble features, and she is so nice and kind.”

“I have a biased opinion, being her son, but I agree.”

We reached the square, and I looked around for a taxi, but she smiled and suddenly told me, “I don’t want to go home now. Can we go and sit somewhere?”

“Of course.”

I invited her to Café l’Auberge. At that time of day, it was empty. We sat at a corner table at the back. A waiter rushed over to us and seemed happy at Mitsy’s being there. He proudly repeated the few words he knew in English, and Mitsy told him, “I can speak Arabic quite well!”

“God be praised,” the waiter said, astonished. We ordered mint tea.

I watched the way she put her lips to the glass to sip the hot tea. I did not know what to say.

Without looking at me, as if talking to herself, she said, “You have done so much for me, and I’m such an odd person.”

“You’re different, I’ll admit, but in a positive way. But how do you manage it without alienating the people around you?”

“The truth is I don’t fit in.”

“Don’t you have friends?”

“I do, but they don’t understand me.”

“Then maybe you need new friends.”

Mitsy sighed, and her blue eyes became blurry. It was as if she could not look me straight in the face.

“My relations with my father are very tense.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You and your father are chalk and cheese. I have often wondered how someone like Mr. Wright could produce such a lovely girl like you.”

Having uttered that last sentence without thinking, I immediately felt embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You’re right,” she said softly. Then she fell silent, as if trying to gather her thoughts.

“I’m living a nightmare,” she said.

After some coaxing, she told me in detail what had happened with the king. I listened without saying a word. Finally, she asked anxiously, “What do you think?”

Overcome with emotion, I replied, “I need a little time to take it all in. I’m perturbed by the king of Egypt’s behavior.”

“Well,” she smiled sadly, “I’m perturbed by my father’s behavior.”

“We have to accept our families for what they are…”

“I’m not trying to change my father, but, put quite simply, he has ruined my life.”

“Well, my brother Said is also unbearable, but I try to find a way of getting along with him.”

“Perhaps I would get on better with my father if I got away from him. The problem is that I don’t have a job, and he pays all my expenses, so I have to live in the same house.”

“Have you looked for a job?”

“I have, and I couldn’t find anything. But I’m going to start looking again.”

“How can I help?”

Mitsy smiled and looked at me gratefully.

“If you want to help me,” she said sweetly, “then stay near.”

She reached out and laid her hand on mine. I had an overwhelming desire to hug her, but I controlled myself. I gently withdrew my hand and asked her, “Would you like to go somewhere else?”

Suddenly she became jolly again.

“Oh, what a polite man you are!” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you really need to go. Just look how delicately you put it by asking me if I want to go somewhere else…”

I laughed because she was right. I had some studying to catch up on. I took her home by taxi, and then I continued on to Sayyida Zeinab. I took a hot shower and put on my pajamas, and then sat down at my desk with my textbook, but I could not help thinking of Mitsy. I went over what she said, and my imagination started to run wild. I could see myself battling viciously with her rotten father in order to get her out from under his thumb. James Wright was just a lowdown pimp, but I could not say that to Mitsy. What he had done was unjustifiable. English morals were different from our Eastern customs. English families allowed their daughters to have romances before marriage. So be it, but what Wright had done went beyond that. He had tried to push his daughter into bed with the king for his own benefit. He could not have had any other motivation. If his daughter became the king’s mistress, he would enjoy many privileges and make a fortune. In face of this sordid behavior, his daughter had shown bravery and real nobility of character.

Whenever I thought of what she had done with the king, I had to laugh. What a talented actress. She had turned the drama into a farce. I tried to concentrate on my studies until around three in the morning, when exhaustion overcame me, and I fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning I went to the Club and did my regular day’s work. At around six in the evening, Monsieur Comanus had already gone home, and I was getting ready to lock up when the telephone rang.

“Kamel,” Labib the telephone operator said excitedly. “His Royal Highness Prince Shamel is asking for you. I’ll connect you now.”

The prince greeted me quickly, and before I could respond, he continued, “Listen, Kamel. I need you to do something for me. I hope you’ll be able to do it without further ado.”

“At your command!”

“Tomorrow morning at seven I will be waiting for you at the palace.”

“Seven in the morning?”

“Yes. Seven o’clock on the dot. Don’t be late. I shall be waiting by the side door on Aisha al-Taymouriya Street.”

“Might I be told the purpose of our appointment?”

“I’ll explain everything when I see you,” the prince said and hung up.

I locked up the storeroom and went out onto the street and decided to walk home. I needed to think. First the odd story of Mitsy and the king, and now the prince was calling me out of the blue. Despite his charm, I was now closer than ever to thinking that he might be a little deranged. What could he want from me at seven in the morning? And why the side door? The only explanation was that he did not want anybody to see me going into the palace, I decided that the purpose of this visit had to be unnatural: the prince might be homosexual. There was nothing about the way he held himself or moved that pointed in that direction, but I had heard that some homosexuals look completely normal. The odd thing was that he had a reputation as a lady-killer. Maybe he was insatiable or swung both ways. My concern was starting to turn to terror. I felt put upon from all sides. It seemed most plausible that he was a homosexual. Hence the early morning at the back door. Did he mean to take me off to some side room and try to ravish me? My mind filled with all sorts of upsetting visions. I could see myself trying to wriggle out of his grasp. I could not get the image out of my mind. Even so, I could not wriggle out of the appointment. I had promised the prince, and he had helped me so much. I owed my job with Mitsy to him.

So I woke up at six o’clock the next day and told my mother I had an early lecture before work. I took a taxi from the square, and when we reached Garden City, I got out on the Corniche to prevent the driver from knowing my destination. I continued on foot to the prince’s palace but got lost in the winding streets of Garden City, which all looked alike. I walked past a uniformed guard on the street and was about to ask him where the palace was, when I remembered that the prince was intent on keeping the visit a secret. So I asked him, “Excuse me. Do you know Aisha al-Taymouriya Street?”

He eyed me suspiciously but then gave me directions. Finally, I saw the palace, and when I rushed over, I found the prince standing outside. He shook my hand as I panted and, since it was quarter past seven, gave me an accusatory look.

“I’m sorry for being late,” I spluttered. “But I got a bit lost.”

He laughed and answered, “Ce n’est pas un début encourageant. Viens.”

He made a gesture, and I followed him. After walking along the outside wall, we entered through a small iron gate into the garden, down a few steps, where he produced a key to open another door. To my astonishment, he locked the door behind us. It was a small underground apartment, which must have been for a chauffeur or some servants. I followed the prince further inside, crossing the small living room and down a long, dark, narrow corridor. Finally, we came out into a large, bright room, and what I saw was stranger than anything I could have expected.