The Automobile Club of Egypt

28

The blood test showed that Mur’i had died from cholera. The samples from the other staff came back negative, except for three who turned out to be carriers: the sous-chef and two of the waiters. They were rushed off to hospital for treatment and their families placed in quarantine. The Automobile Club shut its door for three days during which the whole building was disinfected by the medical corps of the British army. When the Club reopened, unprecedented precautions were instituted. Antiseptic soap was distributed to all the staff, and their caftans were changed daily, returning freshly ironed from Abdin Palace. The tablecloths and napkins and anything that could carry the infection were sterilized in an autoclave installed on the roof terrace. All water was boiled before being used for cooking, and if it was for drinking, lemon juice was added to it. Cold shellfish dishes were taken off the menu in the restaurant. All vegetables were soaked in a dilution of permanganate for a whole hour and then washed in boiled water, and they had to be served piping hot to the members. Even the ice cubes for the whiskey were now being made from boiled water. The staff followed the new precautionary measures to the letter, unable to get out of their minds the memory of Abd el-Malek and Mur’i lying there dying. Dispirited and frightened, they continued to feel that death was stalking them in every nook and cranny of the Club, ready to take them at any moment. Who would be the next victim? How was it possible that a life could just be snuffed out like that? Whoops, and you were gone. All your good times, and your bad ones too. Your voice and breathing just stop, and you turn into a cold corpse honored by a speedy burial. Had Abd el-Malek not been joking with them just a day before he died? Had Mur’i not just celebrated the marriage of his daughter a couple of weeks ago? Had he not seemed to be in good health that night? After the wedding, they had all ganged up to bring him back with them to the men’s apartment, where they sat up all night smoking hashish together. Had any one of them imagined that Uncle Mur’i, such an amusing chatterbox that night, would disappear from the face of the earth a few days later? They were all living on tenterhooks now. Any of them might be next. After all, as Kamel Gaafar had translated the words of the English doctor, “The new precautionary measures must be followed to the letter. Notwithstanding, the cholera microbe remains an ever-present danger. If any of you feels unusual in any way, you must inform us immediately so that we might treat and save you.”

Needless to say, dealing with the imminence of death had not been part of their daily routine. Many now started saying their prayers regularly, beseeching God at length for mercy and forgiveness. Some tried to cope otherwise with alcohol and hashish. After the night shift, instead of going to the Paradise Café, they would go to the men’s apartment to get drunk or light up a water pipe with hashish and brood. But despite persistent effort, there was no forgetting their ordeal. Their attempts at laughter sounded hollow, and they would slowly sink back into grief and hopelessness. It was no use. The fates were ranged against them. They were living like shadows. Before they had been merely abused and fleeced by Alku and flogged by Hameed, as they tried to put aside a few meager piastres for their families. They bore this misery with a vague and lingering hope, which they hardly dared even verbalize, that their lives might suddenly improve, that some unexpected event might release them in one fell swoop and lead them to a happier life, that God in His mercy would have a change of mind and lift their cloud of wretchedness. How could anyone resist what God had in store for him? Take Yusuf Tarboosh. He had been just as desperate, but by God’s blessing, the king found his presence at the gambling table lucky and showered him with money. Does God Almighty not bring things into existence with a single word? Does He not provide sustenance to whomsoever he wishes?

That vague hope was one of the reasons for their opposition to Abdoun’s rebelliousness. They believed that wisdom dictated that they should bend with the wind, bear all the humiliations and live with injustice while they dreamed of salvation. That was better than starting up all sorts of hopeless arguments with Alku, who in any case would end up on top. Reason dictated that they should just be patient until God provided salvation.

As time passed, they believed less that Abdoun might be Alku’s stooge and started considering him no more than a stupid waste of space. Although a few were still prepared to speak up for Abdoun, most remained opposed. If he got worked up about dignity and rights, they would refute him or just ignore him or stare at him with the sort of sympathetic smile you might give a child imitating an adult. In any case, the daily discussions with Abdoun had now been overtaken by the recent succession of sorry events: the deaths of two colleagues, the discovery of cholera, the shutting of the Club and the new sanitary measures.

Every day brought them a worrisome new development. Even with the Club disinfected and operated with new precautions, its reopening was a flop. The king, who was meticulous about his own health, stopped coming. His example was followed by the princes, pashas and most of the members. For the first time, the Club shut its doors at one a.m. The paucity of customers meant that the staff’s real source of income, tips, dried up. Their salaries were low, and without gratuities, their children would surely starve. The Club was in the doldrums, but Mr. Wright came up with a solution to the crisis. He asked Dr. Frankham, the senior medical officer in the British army, to stamp, sign and issue a certificate stating that the Automobile Club had received the all clear and was free of the cholera microbe. Dr. Frankham hesitated, explaining that on the practical level, it was impossible to confirm that any locale was completely microbe free. But after a long conversation, they reached a compromise. Dr. Frankham would issue a certificate stating that the Club had been disinfected to the highest possible standard. Mr. Wright had scores of copies made and ordered them to be posted to every member.

Soon, they started gradually coming back. Whenever a member turned up, Maître Shakir, following Mr. Wright’s instructions, would explain in great detail how the Club had been disinfected. He would take him to the kitchen to see the precautions for himself and then take him up in the lift to see the giant autoclave on the roof. To seal the deal, Maître Shakir would then sit him down at a table and, with a reassuring smile, tell him, “The Club has been disinfected under the supervision of the British army medical corps, and as Sir must already know, English doctors are the best in the world.”

Within a month of the issuance of the medical certificate, most of the members had returned, and finally, His Majesty honored the Automobile Club with his first visit since its closure. That night, the staff were all in a festive mood. The king seemed to be in tip-top form, his companions joking with him and each trying to outdo the next to keep him in good cheer. The moment he saw Yusuf Tarboosh, the king told him, “Joe, reste à côté de moi. J’ai besoin de chance ce soir.”

Yusuf gave a deep bow and mumbled, “At your service, Your Majesty.”

Thus life at the Club returned to normal. The tips started to flow again, and there was an atmosphere of cautious optimism. But would the staff’s lives go back to normal or was there still more tragedy in store? One morning, the late Abd el-Malek’s widow came with her two little angelic boys, Michel and Raymonde. It was very moving to see them with their mother. The men clustered around them, welcoming them with a sorrowful warmth. She had brought along the little ones to ask for financial assistance from Mr. Wright, who peremptorily refused to meet with them, leaving a very blunt message for them with Khalil the office clerk, “There is nothing to discuss. You have already received the end-of-service payment.”

Abd el-Malek’s widow asked him, “Did you ask him about a pension, Uncle Khalil?”

Khalil cast his gaze downward and mumbled, “I did ask him, Umm Michel, but he told me that there are no pensions for Egyptians.”

“But, Khalil, the end-of-service payment will only keep us going a month or two. After that, how will I be able to feed my children? Please go and talk to the Englishman again, or let me go and talk to him.”

Her pleading tone so aroused Khalil’s sympathy that he flung caution to the wind. He went off again to Mr. Wright’s office. Wright said nothing but picked up his newspaper and carried on reading while gesturing to Khalil to get out. Downcast, he returned to Umm Michel, who realized from his expression that his efforts had failed and she started crying. The staff then took up a collection and handed the cash to Suleyman, the doorman and oldest member of staff, who then pressed the sum into the widow’s hand.

“The late Abd el-Malek was our brother and dear friend,” he told her. “The same goes for his family and children. Please, Umm Michel, if you need anything, call us and we’ll bring it over to you.”

The widow’s feelings of gratitude exacerbated her grief, and she burst out sobbing as she muttered some words of thanks and then left, taking her children with her. Two days later, the scene was repeated with the widow of Mur’i the lift attendant, who tried her luck with Alku. She went to his office in Abdin Palace to request assistance, but Alku reaffirmed that the Club bylaws did not allow the payment of pensions. Mur’i’s widow neither broke down nor begged but became angry and started shouting, “What do you mean, no pensions? How are we going to eat? If someone dies, are his family supposed to starve to death?”

She was a hard-nosed Upper Egyptian woman who had married Mur’i late in life, after the death of his first wife. They had produced three children, who were still of school age. Her sense of injustice only inflamed her anger. She was completely unaware that shouting at Alku was considered completely taboo.

His eyes bulged in disbelief as he gestured at her and barked, “Get out!”

Mur’i’s widow held her ground, shouting back at him, “So you would send me away like some beggar! I just want what my children are entitled to!”

At this, Alku gave a look to Hameed, who got the hint and grabbed Mur’i’s widow by the arms, dragging her out of the office. Two palace guards were called to help him, and she did not stop screaming as they frog-marched her out, “Shame on you, you heathens! Do you want me to go begging in the streets?”

She put up a struggle, trying to slip out of their grip, but Hameed thumped her on the back and shouted breathlessly, “Listen, woman! We’re treating you nicely out of respect for the late Mur’i. If you don’t leave, I’ll have the guards arrest you and throw you into prison.”

She now became aware of the danger of the situation, and her shouting turned into tearful imploring. Hameed realized that her will had now been broken and stepped back a little, gesturing to the guards to eject her. Then he turned around and walked slowly back to Alku’s office.

News of this incident spread among the staff, and they felt a sense of consternation. How could you throw the widow of your colleague out onto the street? How could Hameed give her a thump and threaten her with prison for simply requesting a pension so that she could feed her children? It was the same as had happened with the family of the late Abd el-Malek. The children of the late Abd el-Aziz also would have been reduced to begging had Comanus not have been kindhearted enough to take on Kamel and his brother Mahmud at the Club. The staff were well aware that what had happened with the families of their late colleagues could happen to their own families at any time. Should they die, fall ill or be incapacitated, their own children might end up having to beg in the streets, and if they came to the Club to request assistance, Mr. Wright would also refuse to meet them, and Hameed might thump them and have them thrown out.

The staff now started exchanging angry whispers:

“How much would it cost the Automobile Club to pay pensions to the families of the deceased?”

“Nothing! Peanuts compared to the Club budget.”

“They have losses of hundreds of pounds every night in the casino, but there’s nothing when it comes to the families of the deceased!”

“It’s just plain wrong!”

Their resentments increased to the point where they could no longer remain silent. They decided to do something about it, and to speak to one of the department heads. After thinking it over and discussing it among themselves, they went off to see Maître Shakir, who, vile as he might be, did have a shred of decency, unlike Rikabi the chef. They felt they could talk to Shakir, and they knew that, moreover, he was on good terms with both the management and the membership. After the usual formalities and questions about one another’s health, they came straight to the point, “Surely you can’t be happy about what has happened with the children of the late Abd el-Malek and Mur’i.”

Maître Shakir said nothing, eyeing them cautiously.

“We have to have a pension, Shakir,” they said variously. “How can we work for years in the Club and then when we die our children are left to rot?”

Shakir let them fire out their questions. Then he asked them calmly, “How can I help you?”

“Go and see Mr. Wright and tell him.”

“He’ll just tell me that the bylaws don’t allow it.”

“Then tell them to change the bylaws. They’re not written in stone!”

Shakir thought it over a little and then told them, “My advice is to forget the whole thing. Mr. Wright will never change the bylaws.”

“It’s an injustice. A sin. They’ll have to answer to God.”

“You’ll have to live with it. If Alku gets wind of what you’ve been saying, it’ll be a catastrophe for you all.”

They tried to continue the conversation, but Maître Shakir cut them off and left them standing there. After a little further discussion, they decided to go see Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh. He had just finished saying his afternoon prayers. He shook hands with them one by one, his hand still wet from his ablutions. They repeated what they had told Maître Shakir. He bit his lip and shook his head, and as if fearful of being overheard, he spoke quietly, “By God, if it was up to me, I would have given you all pensions, but my hands are tied.”

They stood there looking so crestfallen that Hagg Yusuf added in a conciliatory tone, “Why don’t you put a little aside every month?”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” they countered. “Where do we get the money from, Uncle Yusuf? It’s not like we’re rolling in it.”

Tarboosh gave them a look of irritation and retorted, “You seem to have forgotten yourselves. You don’t know how lucky you are. Praise God and avoid the devil!”

They did not stay and argue with Yusuf but went back to inform their colleagues on the results of their efforts. Their bitterness was turning more and more to indignation, until Suleyman the doorman surprised them with his idea. Suleyman was in his seventies, the oldest member of the staff, and all his teeth were gone. He could hardly drag himself along due to the pains in his joints. For all that, he came up with something completely unprecedented in the history of the Automobile Club.

Alku had come for an afternoon inspection tour. He had climbed out of his car as usual and made his way to the entrance with Hameed scurrying along behind him. Suleyman had walked over to him and bowed, but just as Alku walked past him, he suddenly grabbed the sleeve of his embroidered jacket. Alku jerked his hand away and looked at Suleyman in disbelief, but the latter just called out in a tremulous voice, “Master Alku! The families of Abd el-Malek and Mur’i are begging you!”

“Begging me for what?” Alku roared.

“For a pension from the Club.”

“We don’t have pensions.”

“How are they supposed to live, Master Alku?”

“What’s it got to do with you, Suleyman? Mind your own business.”

“How is it not my business?” Suleyman was starting to get angry. “We are all one big family.”

This was more than Alku could stand. He made a gesture to Hameed and shouted to some of the servants standing in the entrance hall, “Grab hold of him!”

Such a call usually ended up with the offender being immediately restrained, but this time the servants stood their ground. They made no movement, seemingly refusing to carry out the order. Suleyman was their senior and held an elevated status in their eyes. Moreover, he was not a well man and could hardly walk. Hameed could not possibly beat him as he had the others. One of the servants walked over to Hameed, with an ingratiating smile on his face. He was about to ask Hameed to overlook the matter, but before he could utter a word, Hameed’s flabby body started quaking with anger, and he roared thunderously, “I said grab hold of him! Are you deaf!”

There was nothing they could do. Two of the servants went over to Suleyman and grabbed him by the arms. Hameed’s eyes bulged as he walked over to him and started slapping him. Suleyman put up no resistance and looked confused. The blows rained down on the old man’s face as the servants tried to hide their dismay, averting their gaze and trying to hold their breath lest some sound betray their feelings of disapproval or sympathy. They waited until the punishment was over and Alku, with Hameed following him, had gone into the Club, before rushing over to Suleyman, who stood rooted to the spot with a sad smile on his face. They kissed him on the head and tried to comfort him.

“Never mind, Uncle Suleyman.”

“Alku will get his punishment from God.”

“He’ll answer for this one day.”

Uncle Suleyman dragged himself over to the bench. He listened to their words of consolation with a grateful yet absent look. He did not seem able to take in what had happened. It seemed incredible that he could be set upon like that at his age, and his look of startled bewilderment remained until he finished his shift and went home. The following day, after evening prayers, when Abdoun went to the café, he noticed Suleyman at the table by the window. Some of the staff had brought him there to take his mind off things before his next shift. Abdoun went over to him and shouted angrily, “How dare anyone lift up his hand against you!”

Suleyman looked down and muttered a few words of thanks to Abdoun, who then looked at the men sitting with him and asked, “So who’s going to be next?”

They became flustered and retorted:

“Shut up, Abdoun. You’re all we need now.”

“Yes. Here’s another misfortune for you to crow over!”

“Alku had Abd el-Aziz beaten up,” Abdoun responded. “And he just lay down and died. Abd el-Malek’s and Mur’i’s children have nothing to eat. And now, to round it off, Uncle Suleyman, the oldest among us, has been smacked about like a child. All that and you sit there doing nothing. What are you afraid of? What worse could happen?”

No one said anything, so Abdoun continued, “As long as you stay terrified of Alku, you’ll live like dogs.”

“Abdoun, we’re not sitting here doing nothing. We went to see Maître Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh to ask them to go and speak to Alku about the pensions. But they won’t.”

“Of course they won’t,” Abdoun smiled. “Shakir, Tarboosh and Rikabi — they’re all in on it with Alku. They won’t take our side against him. You seem to have forgotten how it works here in the Club — the big guys share the bonus with Alku. He lets them fleece us, and they pay him off.”

The other staff knew deep down that Abdoun was speaking the truth. They were about to ask him what they should do, but then they remembered that his way of thinking was fraught with danger. So they sat there saying nothing. Abdoun sat there downcast too for a while. Then he looked up at them and said, “Listen. We need to get what we deserve. I’m going to go and see Alku.”

“Go and see him?”

“Yes. I’ll go and see him and demand that he put an end to the beatings. I’ll tell him that we are not animals or children to be beaten.”

They looked at him incredulously, and one of them said, “You’re certifiable.”

“If Alku had Uncle Suleyman beaten over just a word he uttered,” another added, “then what do you think he’ll do to you?”

“We’ll see,” Abdoun smiled. “I’ve made my decision. Alku has gone to Upper Egypt, but he’ll be back in two days’ time. The moment he gets back, I’m going to go and see him.”

There was some agitated muttering, and someone asked, “Is anyone going with you?”

“If anyone wants to come along with me,” Abdoun announced, “then he is most welcome. If no one wants to, then I’ll go and see Alku on my own.”