Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Hameed stood up slowly and went into Alku’s office. About half an hour later, they were ushered in. As usual, he looked majestic and fearsome in his embroidered chamberlain’s uniform and gold spectacles and smoking a fat cigar. He looked at the two men, and Suleyman addressed him, “Your Excellency Alku. We are your servants. We owe you everything. Abdoun and his gang are completely wrong. We have come to you to disassociate ourselves from him.”

Alku threw a cold, uncomprehending glance at Suleyman. Karara took a couple of steps forward, and with an ingratiating smile and a shaky voice, he added, “By the Prophet, please do not send us away empty-handed. Please don’t be angry with us anymore and let us have our tips. Our families are going hungry, and surely Your Excellency is not happy about that.”

Alku shrugged his shoulders and blew out a cloud of smoke which obscured his face.

“If you have nothing to do with that guy Abdoun,” he asked calmly, “why have you remained silent until now?”

“Your Excellency,” answered Suleyman, “none of us will even speak to him anymore.”

“If that Abdoun were to say a word against Your Excellency,” added Karara, “we’d murder him.”

“Most certainly!” Suleyman nodded. “We have ostracized Abdoun and his gang. None of us would even exchange a word with them.”

Alku said nothing. He made no comment. He held the cigar in his fingers as he checked the carefully manicured nails of his left hand. He looked like the cat who got the cream. Karara and Suleyman took Alku’s taciturnity as a good omen, and encouraged by this, Karara took another step forward and said, “Your Excellency. We are at your disposal. If you want to beat us, beat us, but by the Prophet, please allow us to earn a living.”

“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?”