The Automobile Club of Egypt

KAMEL

From the look on Mr. Wright’s face, I could see trouble was looming. He answered my greeting with a cold stare and said nothing. But I decided not to let him humiliate me this time.

Without being invited, I just sat myself down in the seat in front of his desk, paying no heed to his look of incredulity.

“Khalil told me that you wanted to see me.”

“I want to ask you about Mitsy,” he said, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“She is progressing in leaps and bounds with her Arabic.”

“I’ve heard,” he said, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke, “that you have been going out with her.”

“That’s correct.”

“Why are you going out with my daughter?”

“Because it will help her to improve her Arabic.”

“Mitsy is an actress,” he smiled nervously. “A talented one. And like most artistic people, she goes through fads and phases. She throws herself into something only to discover that it’s not for her, and then she moves on.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Your job is to teach Mitsy Arabic, not to take her on outings.”

“I treat Mitsy like an adult.”

“You need to understand,” he said, raising his voice, “that you are just Mitsy’s teacher. You give her a lesson, and you get paid.”

“That’s what it was like at the start, but Mitsy and I have become good friends,” I said, now trying to provoke him.

“Oh. Really?” he said with a sarcastic smile on his face.

He put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward as if about to lunge.

“You’re Nubian, aren’t you Kamel?” he asked with ardent disdain.

“I’m Upper Egyptian.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The Upper Egyptians descend from the tribes who came to Egypt with the Islamic conquest. The Nubians are a different ethnic group with their own language.”

He made a hand gesture to show his complete indifference and retorted, “I shall consider you Nubian, whatever the case may be. Have you heard of the German explorer Carl Hagenbeck?”

“No.”

“Carl Hagenbeck was a great wild animal trader in Europe in the nineteenth century. He used to send hunters into forests all over the world to trap animals, which he would then sell to zoos.”

I made no comment. He chuckled and continued, “The topic of Hagenbeck might not mean anything to you, but I’m sure that you will be most interested when you hear the rest of the story.”

I sat there in silence and he went on, “At some point, Carl Hagenbeck wanted to upgrade his inventory. Along with animals, he started hunting natives, whom he displayed in cages. The idea caught on like wildfire in zoos all over the world. Can you imagine that hundreds of thousands of Western visitors, men, women and children, used to go and gawk at the caged Africans?”

“That’s really vile,” I retorted. “Inhuman.”

“That might be how you see it, but millions of Westerners would not have agreed with you.”

“Does your civilization have ethics that allow you to hunt humans and put them in cages?”

“Your question presupposes that all mankind has reached the same stage of development.”

“I would have thought it goes without saying.”

“Well, not exactly. Do you think you could convince me that Shakespeare and Alexander Graham Bell have the same mental capabilities as some primitive Indian or African?”

I stood up and walked over to him. “Mr. Wright,” I said, trying to control myself, “I need to go and unlock the storeroom. Will you allow me to go?”

“No. You can’t go until I’ve explained what connects you and Mr. Hagenbeck.”

“I told you, I’ve never heard of him before.”

He was not listening. He opened his desk drawer and took out an old photograph, which he passed across the desk to me.

“Among Hagenbeck’s human acquisitions was a Nubian family. Doesn’t that arouse your curiosity? Hagenbeck sent his hunters to Nubia, and they managed to capture an entire Nubian family, three generations. They put them all in a cage, and the Berlin zoo acquired the rights to show them. Then the cage made the rounds of all European zoos. That’s the family in the photograph. If you look closely, you can see the grandfather in the cage, next to the son and his wife, who is holding an infant. Unfortunately, it would appear that the grandmother died during capture.”

I averted my gaze.

“I’m not interested in the photograph,” I growled.

“Oh,” he scoffed, still holding out the picture, “and here I was thinking that you might like to see some of your Nubian forebears.”

“Mr. Wright. Are you trying to humiliate me?”

“I can’t see what I have said that might humiliate you.”

“You are saying that my forebears were like animals.”

“You can interpret my words any way you like. I have not made anything up. That is a historical truth. Nubians were hunted, put in cages and exhibited in most of the zoos in Europe.”

“I don’t wish to listen to this.”

I did not wait for him to respond but got up and marched out of the office. When I turned around to close the door, I could see him looking at the papers on his desk with a self-satisfied smile. It was more than I could bear, and I made my way to the storeroom, where I sat and waited for Monsieur Comanus. When he turned up, I told him that my mother was ill, and I needed to be with her. He gave me the day off and made me promise to call him in the evening and tell him if my mother was feeling better.

I wandered aimlessly around the streets downtown, so blinded by rage that I kept bumping into people. The humiliation was torturing me. I had to do something. I wanted to go back and give that racist idiot a thrashing in front of everyone, damn the consequences. That pimp who crowed that my ancestors were animals is the same man serving up his daughter for the king’s pleasure. Is that what you understand by the word “honor,” Mr. Western Civilization? Even if we were animals, at least we would not pimp our daughters. I stopped walking. I could not take it anymore, and I went back to the Club, heading straight for Wright’s office. My appearance seems to have shocked Khalil, because he sprang out of his chair.

“Are you all right, Kamel?” he asked me anxiously.

“I want to see Mr. Wright.”

“Didn’t you just see him?”

“Mr. Wright and I have some unfinished business.” My voice was loud enough for the general manager to hear.

Uncle Khalil grabbed my hand.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Uncle Khalil dragged me out onto the street and away from the Club.

“The last thing you need to do,” he said, “is to go making problems with Mr. Wright.”

“He treated me like a piece of dirt.”

“That’s nothing new with him. He despises all Egyptians, but God gave us brains, and we can think for ourselves. You’re a hardworking lad. Don’t ruin everything that you’ve worked for. If you went in now and had it out with Mr. Wright, you might feel a little better, but both you and your brother would be fired.”

His comment reminded me that my mother depended on our salaries, and I recalled the sight of her stricken face when my father passed away and how relieved she looked when I handed over my pay.

“Just do as I do, Kamel,” Khalil continued. “In one ear and out the other. No matter how humiliating, the pain will fade. What matters is being able to earn a living.”

I was not convinced by his logic, but I smiled and clasped his hand.

“Thank you, Khalil.”

He gave me a quizzical look, as if to be sure he had reached me. Feigning joviality, I told him, “Don’t worry! I won’t do anything stupid.”

I went home and sat at my desk. My stomach was churning over the insult to me and to my family.

The following day, I went to a meeting of the organization. There was a long agenda and a discussion of recent events, including the stance of the nationalist workers and the war against the independent trade unions being waged by the palace, the English, the minority capitalist parties and the Muslim Brotherhood, who were well known for their opportunism. Finally, the prince spoke, “Before I declare this meeting over, I want to inform you that I have decided to assign a mission to Abdoun and Kamel. I briefed Abdoun yesterday. I need to sit down with you today, Kamel.”

Once the others had left, I, now sitting alone with the prince, suddenly blurted out, “Sir, there was an incident with James Wright yesterday. I think you should know about it.”

The prince looked apprehensive as I told him in detail what had happened the day before. I felt humiliated all over again, repeating what Wright had said about the Nubians that he considered my forebears. The prince listened and at last he spoke, “James Wright thinks you’re responsible for his problem.”

“And what’s his problem?”

“His problem is that Mitsy refused the king, and he thinks that you are the reason.”

“He’s wrong. Mitsy has her own mind.”

“I believe you, but he won’t.”

“Even if I were the reason, what right does that give him?”

“None, but don’t forget that James Wright thinks that his daughter’s friendship with an African is an offense to him and his family. A racist is just an ignorant man afraid of people who are different from him. However sickening you may have found his story, he didn’t insult you directly, and he’d defend himself by saying that he was only remarking on a well-known episode from history and that you took it the wrong way.”

“To insinuate that my ancestors were put in cages like animals — how else could I take it?”

Visibly moved, the prince smiled at me. “I’ll have a word with him tomorrow. At the very least, he won’t be repeating it.”

I thanked the prince, then suddenly felt as if I could burst out in tears, and it must have been obvious that I was trying to stop myself. Noticing this, the prince withdrew and played a bit with his photographic equipment. After a while, he came back to see whether I had pulled myself together again.

“You need to learn,” he said affectionately, “how to direct your anger to the larger purpose. Who gave the Englishman the right to insult you? The British occupation makes him feel he has the unquestioned authority to demean Egyptians. His offensive behavior is a direct result.”

“But I can’t just sit saying nothing,” I exclaimed, “until the British evacuate the country.”

The prince raised his hand as if to silence me.

“Kamel,” he said wistfully. “Please. You’ll take us back to square one. I told you that I’ll have words with him. Now, I want to brief you on the mission. I want you to think about it as the appropriate way to respond to Wright’s insults.”

“I’m ready,” I answered at once, “to carry out any orders you give me.”

“Bravo,” the prince smiled.

He got up and went over to a wooden chest at the far end of the room. He came back with a blue package, sat down next to me and opened it, taking out a small glass orb and handing it to me. I rolled it around in my hand, examining it, as he said, “I’ll now tell you exactly what you have to do.”