The Automobile Club of Egypt

32

News of the meeting spread quickly among the staff, who whispered in tones of disbelief and confusion, unwilling to celebrate until they received confirmation from the triumvirate of Abdoun, Samahy and Bahr.

“Has Alku really ordered the beatings to stop?” they asked.

“Alku has promised us,” they answered, “that henceforth no one will be beaten. If anyone falls out of line, his pay will be docked instead.”

The staff stood there as their bafflement turned into a stream of questions: “How come Alku agreed so easily? What exactly did you say to Alku, and what did he say to you?”

Abdoun and his two colleagues could give no clearer answer than to say that they were just as astonished at Alku’s easy assent. Their meeting had lasted only a few minutes. At first they had panicked and could hardly get their words out, but then they had asked him to stop the beatings and, to their surprise, he agreed. There was not a great deal more that they could tell their colleagues, who kept prodding them for additional details, until some of the staff came up with apocryphal details, which they repeated enthusiastically to one another: “Alku told Abdoun, ‘You are all my children, and if the beatings are upsetting you, I’ll stop them.’ ”

The image of a kindly Alku, by which some tried to explain what had happened, gave them a sense of security and self-worth. For the first time, they no longer felt like tools to be used and then discarded willy-nilly but like respected employees of the Club. They had duties and they had rights. No one could beat or humiliate them. If they did something wrong, there would be an investigation and administrative sanctions.

Most of the staff did not see things that way, nor did they believe in the new and kindly Alku. Happy as they might have been about the end of the beatings, they were still apprehensive, and their joy was not unalloyed. Five or six had sympathized with Abdoun and his two colleagues from the outset, and when the delegation achieved its aim, they felt bold enough to declare their support for them. In the café, however, the arguments raged on between those who had supported them and those who were dubious.

Someone said, “I can’t believe that Alku would suddenly turn over a new leaf.”

“Well, aren’t we flesh and blood and entitled to our dignity?” another asked.

“So Alku just discovered our dignity yesterday?”

“It was our mistake. We stayed silent and accepted all the humiliation. The moment we demanded our rights, he had to comply.”

“So now Alku’s afraid of us?”

“He needs us just as we need him. If we stay united, he can’t get the better of us.”

“That’s just Abdoun’s delusion. Alku can do what he wants with us and with our families.”

“You’re a coward. You’ve just got used to being made of jelly.”

“By God, you’ve all suddenly turned into heroes! Abdoun has brainwashed you.”

“Abdoun got us our rights.”

“Did he perform a miracle? Any one of us could have gone and complained to Alku.”

“Then why didn’t you? Why did you put up with the beatings for years without opening your mouths?”

“That Abdoun’s got too big for his boots. It’s all going to end badly. You’ll see.”

The workers carried on exchanging sharp words and accusations, and had calmer heads not prevailed, it might have ended in a fistfight. The latent aggression turned into bickering, which everyone knew served no useful purpose. The department managers were gravely concerned, and when Samahy gave him the news, Rikabi the chef let out a long groan.

“Alku has put a stop to the beatings? How lovely. You must be stoned, Samahy, my lad.”

“I’m not stoned, Uncle Rikabi,” Samahy retorted. “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.”

Talking back to Rikabi would usually have merited some punishment, but the chef managed to contain himself and walked over to the sink to wash his face with hot water before giving instructions to his kitchen staff and then rushing off to the still empty restaurant. There he found Maître Shakir sipping a glass of tea. He greeted him quickly, sat down next to him and told him what had happened. At first Shakir could not believe it, but when Rikabi assured him it was true, they both went off to see Yusuf Tarboosh, who, upon being informed, asked God for forgiveness, shook his head and then wondered aloud, “How is it that Alku would listen to a lad like Abdoun? It’s some sort of farce.”

The three managers waited until midnight and then headed off to Alku’s office. Hameed met them with a frown, but he treated them politely, and without saying anything, he gave them to understand that he knew why they were there and that he was with them. They found Alku in his office smoking a cigarette. Shakir was the first to speak.

“Your Excellency Alku. You know just how much we love you and are devoted to you.”

“Get on with it,” Alku said nervously. “I don’t have much time.”

They were not sure how to continue, but Yusuf Tarboosh spoke up. “We have heard a strange piece of news, and we have come to ask Your Excellency if it is true.”

“You heard right. I have abolished the punishment of beating,” he said, looking at them provocatively.

“If Your Excellency has done away with beatings,” Rikabi said brusquely, “there’ll be repercussions for the standard of work.”

“The staff will only work properly,” seconded Shakir, “if they live in fear of beatings.”

Yusuf Tarboosh said nothing for a few moments, and then, fingering his prayer beads, he spoke up, “Your Excellency Alku, with all due respect. Administrative sanctions are meaningless to the staff. If there are no beatings, they’ll run amok, and we won’t be able to control them.”

“Your Excellency Alku,” Rikabi suddenly piped up, “the staff will neglect their work, and Your Excellency will hold us responsible.”

The three of them stopped speaking, as if realizing that they had gone too far. Alku inhaled and then blew out a thick puff of smoke.

“All right. Our little meeting is over. Get back to work.”

They fidgeted a little, but Alku shot them a look that brooked no defiance, and they headed back to the Automobile Club. Their frustration quickly turned into a sense of resentment toward Alku. They felt let down. He had stripped them of their power. Now how would they manage their subordinates? There was no longer any deterrent. Their staff would now become more obstreperous, neglecting their work, talking back. As it became clear that Alku would not change his mind, they had to change their modus operandi. Maître Shakir stopped upbraiding the waiters, Rikabi stopped swearing so much at his assistants and Yusuf Tarboosh no longer exchanged small talk with his staff in the casino. The three managers now barked out their instructions in a gruff way that left no room for discussion or comment. They avoided doing anything that could cause friction among the staff, knowing that they no longer had the high card. If their staff answered them back, they had no practical recourse. At the same time, the managers watched over them more closely than ever, just waiting for the right moment. They expected, and deep down they hoped, that the staff, in their breezy new attitude, would commit some serious mistakes that would upset the smooth operation of the Club. At that point, they would go off to see Alku again, saying, “Didn’t we tell you, Your Excellency Alku, that without the beatings everything would go to pot? Now you can see for yourself.”

Except that, contrary to all expectations, everyone worked so hard that they had nothing to complain of. The staff were punctual and carried out the most exacting instructions to the letter. Their performance improved so much that on three inspection visits, Alku too could not find the slightest fault. The Club was cleaner than ever, the men all immaculately turned out with ironed caftans, smoothly shaved faces and neatly trimmed fingernails. Everything was functioning so well that many Club members noticed the difference, some even making positive comments. Hassan Pasha Kamel, for example, gave Maître Shakir a generous tip, telling him, “Thank you, Shakir. Service at the Club has improved by leaps and bounds.”

Maître Shakir accepted the tip and the praise with a scowl, muttering a few words of thanks. The three managers were unnerved at being undermined in their belief that only the threat of a beating motivated the men. But it was undeniable that something fundamental had changed. The staff were more efficient and more obedient than ever. They bowed politely and carried out orders superbly, even having thrown off their abject submissiveness. The servile, ingratiating smiles disappeared, and instead they wore polite and friendly smiles exuding confidence, a sense of responsibility and pride. Even when receiving a tip, instead of being humbly grateful, they now thanked the members in a clear and forthright tone of voice, as if to say, “Your generosity is not charity but recognition of the value of our work, and we thank you for that.”

This new regime lasted for a month, a month that the staff would remember for its uniqueness, but it ended as suddenly as it had started. Perhaps it had been too good to last.

One morning, after they had finished cleaning the Club and had washed up and put on their caftans and were going to their stations, Maître Shakir suddenly appeared, out of breath. He had not used the lift but had dashed up the stairs like a man possessed. He ran from the restaurant to the bar and the casino, shouting ominously, “Come down to the first floor now!”

“Is everything all right?” they asked apprehensively. “Has something happened, God forbid?”

“Am I not making myself clear?” he growled. “I’ve told you, get to the first floor. Now!”