The Automobile Club of Egypt

KAMEL

“Please come down.”

I just about managed to control myself, and I gestured to her to wait. I flung my clothes on and flew down the stairs. I was out of breath by the time I reached her. “Mitsy. What’s happened?” I asked.

“Can we go and sit somewhere?”

Fortunately, it was the first of the month, and I had a reasonable amount of money in my pocket. I took her by the hand, and we walked toward Sayyida Zeinab Square. After a few moments, a taxi appeared on the other side of the road, and I flagged it down. We got in, and I told the driver, “Semiramis Hotel, please.”

I knew that the café there was open all night. We did not exchange a word the whole way. It would have been pointless to sit there chatting when I did not know what had happened. We went into the hotel lobby and chose a table which looked out onto the Nile. When a waiter appeared, I ordered coffee and Mitsy ordered a lemonade. I looked at her face in the light. She had circles under her eyes, a look of exhaustion and the pallor of someone who had not slept for days. She lit a cigarette and looked at me.

“I have left home.”

“Couldn’t you have waited until daylight?”

“I can’t stand it anymore.”

“All because you didn’t go with the king?”

“The matter of the king is just one of the reasons. My troubles with my father go back a long way. If there ever was someone with whom I differ on absolutely everything, it’s my father.”

She shook her head and sipped her lemonade.

“It saddens me to say,” she continued, “that I have no respect for my father.”

She looked down for a moment, and then raised her head to say something, but suddenly she burst out crying. I reached over to stroke her hand.

“Mitsy,” I said, “please calm down.”

“I’m tired of it all. My father orders me around because he pays for my keep. He’s always trying to belittle me. I feel humiliated.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll wait until daylight, and then you are coming home with me.”

“You don’t need more problems. You have enough to do with your work and studies and your sister’s problems with her husband. I will not let myself be a further burden.”

At that moment, I wanted to take her in my arms.

“You will never be a burden on me,” I whispered.

“Thank you!” she said with some emotion.

“I’ll work out how you can thank me later!”

Mitsy smiled for the first time. How beautiful she looked at that moment. Her smile changed her pale, exhausted face and her tired, sad eyes into something surreally beautiful and magical. We asked for two coffees. I tried to distract her, and we talked until five in the morning. When I had paid the bill and we went out onto the street, I felt, in spite of everything, supremely happy at having her walking beside me.

We took a taxi home. I held her hand as we walked up the stairs. Suddenly, everything was strange and dreamlike. Here I was taking Mitsy to live in our apartment. I opened the door with my key and asked her to sit on the sofa in the sitting room. I walked down the corridor to my mother’s bedroom. I found her sitting on her prayer rug and reading the Quran, having finished her morning prayers. I greeted her and kissed her on the head, but she gave me a concerned look and asked, “Where’ve you been?”

I sat down next to her and explained the situation, about Mitsy’s having left home and how as a foreigner she did not know anyone in Egypt and had no money for a hotel. I will always be in awe of my mother’s capacity to cope with bad situations. She was by turns surprised, then astonished, before thinking it over and finally looking at me sternly, “Since she has come to take refuge with us, she can stay with us as a respected and honored guest until she is reconciled with her family.”

“I don’t think she’ll ever make up with Mr. Wright.”

“The girl cannot just cast off her father.”

“Mother, I know some details that I can’t share with you. Her father does not have her best interest at heart.”

“Good God!”

“I think we should let her stay with us for a few days until she has found a job and an apartment.”

“Then she is welcome. But there’s something I have to say to you.”

My mother was silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“I have noticed, Kamel, that you seem to be fond of her. That’s up to you, but you must understand that our house must remain as unsullied as a mosque. Mitsy will share Saleha’s room, and you are to keep your distance from her as long as she is in our home.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

She sighed as if my compliance with her demand had dispelled her anxieties. Then she stood up and went into the sitting room with me. My mother gave Mitsy a big, warm welcome, putting her arms around her and then leading her off by the hand. When I tried to follow them, my mother stopped and smiled. “Leave Mitsy to me. You can go off and busy yourself elsewhere.”

I left the two of them and went to my bedroom. I did not even try to sleep, knowing I would not be able to. I lay on the bed, smoking and staring at the ceiling. My exhaustion was playing havoc with my feelings. I suddenly felt a surge of violent hatred toward James Wright. That man was a total bastard. Could I ever have imagined that he would behave in such a vile manner? Could I ever have predicted his actions from my few interactions with him? This question led me to think about the relationship between a man and his character. What was the first impression that someone like Wright or Abd el-Barr made? From the first, I had not felt comfortable with either of them. When we first see someone, we have a fleeting impression which fades as we get to know him. If we were able to interpret that first impression carefully, it might well give us a detailed insight into his character.

That was the last thought I had before falling into a deep sleep from which I woke up late. I ran into the bathroom, flung my clothes on and took a taxi from al-Sadd Street to the Club, where I found Monsieur Comanus waiting for me in his office. He greeted me reproachfully, “And what time do you call this?”

“I’m so sorry for being late.”

“You cannot be late! Work is work. Go and fetch the empty beer crates from the bar.”

I carried the crates back to the storeroom. Then I did a few chores and sat down to go over the inventory. I was so tired that I had to do the simple arithmetic over and over again. I became aware of a hand touching my shoulder and saw Monsieur Comanus standing there, smiling.

“Monsieur Comanus,” I said quietly, “I apologize again for being late. I stayed up late studying and couldn’t wake up.”

He looked at me sympathetically and said, “Don’t be late again!”

“No, sir!”

I quickly started reading the lists again in order to avoid further conversation. I did not want to talk to Comanus about Mitsy, even though I was fond of him and trusted him. At that moment, I somehow considered him a foreigner and expected him to be angry if he knew about the presence of Mitsy in my home since she was a foreigner like him. I then felt ashamed at that stupid and racist assumption. Comanus had been a devoted friend to my father and had helped us out by giving Mahmud and me a chance to work in the Club. When it was time to go home, I shook his hand and told him, “I want to thank you for everything that you have done for me and my family.”

Monsieur Comanus gave an embarrassed smile and replied, “I haven’t done anything. Your father was like a brother to me.”

I felt better for having thanked him. After all he had done for me, he did not deserve to be treated like a stranger. I was about to go back and tell him about Mitsy, but then I realized that would be stupid. I was exhausted and could not think straight. I went for a walk down Soliman Pasha Street and then suddenly had an idea. I called the prince from the telephone in the tobacco shop.

The moment I heard his voice, I blurted out, “Your Royal Highness! I would like to come and see you now.”

“Is everything all right?” he asked worriedly.

“I can’t discuss it over the telephone.”

He hesitated a moment and then said, “All right. Come over.”

Half an hour later, the head footman was leading me to the studio. The prince was in his work clothes, seated at a table cropping some photographs, just like the first time I’d come to see him.

He gave me a warm welcome and invited me to sit.

“You’ve got me worried, man!” he said. “What’s going on?”

That was all the prompting I needed. I told the prince about Saleha and Abd el-Barr, as well as about Mitsy staying with us. I did not keep anything from him. The prince listened calmly, occasionally asking questions. When I finished, I felt as if I had freed myself from some heavy burden. The prince got up and poured himself a whiskey, adding a few ice cubes, and as he sipped it, a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

“Are you in love with Mitsy?”

I said nothing, and the prince gave an enormous chuckle.

“Looks like you are!”

“Mitsy is a very lovely person,” I mumbled.

“Have you ever been in love before?” His eyes twinkled with glee.

I shook my head, and the prince called out, “Ah, le premier amour, cher poète! You must set down your feelings for Mitsy in poetry!”

There was silence again, and then the prince became serious and said, “With regard to the other matter, if you want my opinion, your sister must get a divorce. She can’t live with a man like that.”

“He’s refusing to grant her one.”

The prince said nothing, thinking it over. Then he handed me a sheet of paper.

“Write down for me,” he said, “the name and full address of the gentleman in question.”

I did as requested. He glanced at it, then placed it on his desk. Shortly afterward, as I was taking my leave, he grasped my hand and said, “I can’t promise anything, Kamel, but I shall do all I can to help you.”