Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Abdoun answered immediately, “We are not working, and we want to see Alku.”

Maître Shakir looked at him with incredulity and said, “You want to see Alku? Go to his office!”

“We are staying here,” said Bahr, “until Alku comes to see us.”

As if knowing that there was no point in discussing the matter, Shakir turned and said, “All right. You don’t want to work? Don’t work! But standing here will get you nowhere. His Majesty is upstairs, and the Club members will see you as they come and leave.”

No one answered. They stood their ground. Maître Shakir, in growing confusion, thought it over for a few moments and then said, “Go into one of the offices until Alku arrives.”

The offer was unexpected, and the men looked at each other hesitantly, but Bahr decided the matter by saying, “We are not moving until we see Alku.”

The group muttered support, and Maître Shakir did not argue further. He disappeared inside the telephone cabin for a few minutes, then came out and, without acknowledging the men still standing there, went directly up the stairs and rushed back to the restaurant. Club members coming in through the front door on their way to the lift looked with astonishment at the strikers standing there, immobile and silent, as if they themselves could not believe what they were doing. Were they really refusing to work and waiting to confront Alku? It seemed like a strange dream. They knew that Alku would arrive at any moment, and yet they felt no fear. They were holding their ground to a degree that astonished even them. Where did they get their courage? It was as if, the moment they got over their initial fear, it disappeared completely. At that moment, they felt different. They were not servants, and Alku was not their master. They were staff at the Club demanding their rights, and if they felt so inclined, they could refrain from working. Their self-assuredness manifested itself in a new attitude and tone of voice.

“Listen, men!” Samahy called out. “When Alku gets here, let me talk with him.”

They looked at him and smiled. There was a certain disparity between his skinny build and the audacity he was showing.

“I’ll be doing the talking,” Bahr said. “I know Alku better than you.”

Samahy looked resentful, but Bahr laughed and added, “Don’t get angry, Samahy. I’ll let you talk, but when I’ve finished.”

Samahy nodded, and after a short while, Alku appeared, striding across the threshold, followed by Hameed and Suleyman the doorman. The strikers stood where they were. They did not rush over to greet him as usual.

“Why have you left your posts?” he asked with a breathless scowl.

“Your Excellency,” said Bahr firmly, “we have been working for nothing for three months.”

“It’s the same for your colleagues.”

“We’ve got nothing to do with them,” replied Bahr. “We’re the ones standing here in front of you, and we won’t go back to work until we get what we’re owed.”

Alku looked them over as if unable to believe what was happening, and then in a strange, hoarse voice, he said, “Get back to work.”

“We will only go back to work,” said Bahr, “when you have returned our tips to us, because that’s what we’re owed.”

“Yes!” added Samahy, who could hold himself back no longer. “If you want us to go to work, pay us what we’re owed.”

That did it. Puny little Samahy, to whom Alku usually never addressed a word and whose name he could not bring himself to utter, was standing up to his master! Alku glowered and ground his teeth.

“For the last time,” he announced, “don’t be stupid and go back to work.”

His voice boomed terrifyingly, and then there was silence. He stared at the men, but they just stood there, immovable and unshakable.

“We have made it clear,” said Abdoun. “No pay, no work.”

“What’s come over you, you sons of dogs!” shrieked Hameed, shaking with rage. “Is that any way to speak to your master?”

“Let them be,” Alku said, turning to Hameed. “They can do what they want.”

He spoke that last sentence as if it had some hidden meaning, then turned slowly and walked out of the Club. After a few steps outside, he stopped with his back toward them and addressed someone out of sight. Suddenly, a whistle sounded, and soldiers ran into the Club. There was no way for the strikers to put up any resistance. The soldiers arrested them and violently dragged them out. The strikers shouted out in protest, but the soldiers kept slapping and kicking them until they got them into the police car waiting for them outside the door.

Why did I love Mitsy so much?

Because she was nice and well mannered, and because Kamel loved her, and I loved anyone Kamel loved. Perhaps I liked the experience itself — that I should be friends with an English girl who spoke Arabic and wanted to learn all about Egyptian life. I never felt the passage of time when I was with Mitsy. We would chat and discuss things and laugh a lot. She insisted on helping my mother and me with the housework, asking about everything I was doing. She learned things I never imagined would interest any English girl. The moments we enjoyed the most were when we were having a cup of coffee together. We would sit on the balcony around the large brass table on which we would place the burner, the cups and the cold water perfumed with a few drops of rosewater.

One Wednesday after early evening prayers, as we were getting ready to drink our coffee, Mitsy took the packet of coffee beans from me and said, “I’ll make the coffee today.”

She was wearing a blue dress and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail, revealing her dainty ears. A few minutes later, Mitsy looked at me as I was sipping the coffee, and laughed, “Sometimes I imagine that we’re two women living in an Ottoman sultan’s court.”

“Why at a court?”

With a wave of her hand, Mitsy dismissed my comment and said, “Oh…the sultan’s wives generally didn’t do anything. They spent their days in the bathhouse and making themselves beautiful. We would look after our bodies and get ourselves ready, because the sultan might summon us to his bed at any moment.”

“Would you like to play a role like that onstage?”

“Of course I would! But even if the chance never came, I could always enjoy fantasizing about it! An actor must be able to imagine lives outside his own.”

Mitsy was silent for a moment and then asked me, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

It was so typical of her to change the subject so suddenly.

“I’ve read about it,” I said.

“Could it not be possible that our souls have lived previously in different places and circumstances and that we died and have been reincarnated into this life?”

“It’s possible. But I’m a Muslim, and in my religion God tells us that our spirit is in His hands and that he has sole control of it.”

“Well, I often feel that in a previous life, I was an Egyptian woman. Egypt feels so familiar to me that this can’t be the first time I have been here. Even when I speak with you, Saleha, I feel that I have seen and heard you before.”

Mitsy fell silent for a moment and then added, “I just hope you don’t think I’m mad!”

We both laughed, and then she changed the subject again. “How are you getting on with your studies?”

“I’m trying as hard as I can, but it hasn’t been easy.”

“I’ll remind you of that after you pass the exams with flying colors.”

Then we suddenly heard two light taps on the apartment door: Kamel’s signature knock.

“Come in!” I said.

I had never seen Kamel happier than he was at that moment. He shook hands with Mitsy, kissed me on my cheeks and then said nothing for a while, as if he was trying to control himself. He put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat and took out a folded piece of paper.