Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Mahmud looked down and said nothing. He was waiting for Uncle Mustafa, who had just taken another long drag on the water pipe, to give his opinion.

Uncle Mustafa knitted his eyebrows and said, “I told you to keep away from women, but you didn’t listen to me.”

“The devil has clever ways, Uncle Mustafa.”

“You’ve ended up hurting yourself by ruining your future, you unfortunate lad.”

Mahmud nodded, and a shudder ran down his body. Uncle Mustafa seemed moved and put his hand on Mahmud’s shoulder.

“What we have to do…is go and see a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?”

“The police will uncover everything. Eventually, they’ll come looking for you. Don’t forget that Madame Tafida comes from a family with some power and influence. We have to find you a clever lawyer.”

“I don’t know any lawyers.”

“Leave it to me,” Uncle Mustafa replied. “I’ll find one.”

Mahmud thanked him and then went home. He felt the relief of having unburdened himself. Uncle Mustafa was on his side. Mahmud was too frightened even to think about how difficult it would be when the police came to arrest him, when he was put in prison with criminals, when his mother learned that he had been fornicating with old women, when his sister, Saleha, and Kamel and Said came to know that their little brother was a pervert, when they came to see him in his prison uniform. All these thoughts were going round and round in his head, but at least he could rely upon Uncle Mustafa and the lawyer.

The next day, when Mahmud went to the garage to start his shift, Uncle Mustafa gave him a scowl.

“Come out to the street with me, Mahmud. I need to have a word with you.”

Mahmud followed Uncle Mustafa as he walked from the garage to the street corner and then turned and faced Mahmud.

“Do you realize what a mess you have created for yourself?”

“I do,” Mahmud replied.

There was silence, and then Uncle Mustafa went on angrily, “I just can’t believe that someone like you, from a decent family, could have been carrying on like that.”

“May God punish the one who caused it all…”

“Anyone else would have applied himself to doing decent hard work and not running round fornicating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Mahmud hung his head like a naughty child, but Uncle Mustafa carried on, “God has blessed you with a large body, strong muscles and good health. You should be counting your blessings and using your good health to do God’s work, not to go against Him. God has looked after you and given you more than one chance to repent of your ways, but you insisted on sinning.”

“Oh God, forgive me please,” Mahmud sighed.

Mustafa looked into the distance as if mulling something over and then looked at Mahmud and said, “Listen, Mahmud. Whatever happens, even if they arrest you, do not turn to sin again.”

“I have repented, Uncle Mustafa.”

“Give me your word.”

“I promise.”

“Let’s read the opening verse of the Quran together.”

It was a strange sight to see the enormous Mahmud in the street mumbling the words of the fatiha and wiping his face with his hands.

Suddenly, Uncle Mustafa smiled, and with emotion in his voice, he told Mahmud, “Thanks to your good father, may he rest in peace, God has found it sufficient to issue you with a warning.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s turned out all right.”

Mahmud gave him a perplexed look and shouted, “What are you getting at?”

Uncle Mustafa’s smile spread across his face.

“Thanks be to God, Tafida al-Sarsawy isn’t dead.”

Mahmud stared at him uncomprehendingly and then hoarsely stated, “Tafida’s dead, Uncle Mustafa. I saw her lying there, dead, with my own eyes.”

“She had fainted.”

“Can’t be.”

“I went to her building this morning to see.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Listen, son, would I lie to you? I saw her myself as she was coming out of the building. Do you need any more proof than that?”

Mahmud let out a loud whoop and shouted, “Thank God! Thank God!” Then he gave Uncle Mustafa a big hug and, unable to control himself, burst out crying.

I held out, refusing to confess. I put up with the incessant beatings until I had no idea of what was going on around me, until I could no longer stand up on my own and had to be helped along. It was odd. The men who were beating the shit out of me were the same men who were helping me to get up and supporting me as I walked. Their faces bore expressions of perfect normality, as if they were just doing the sort of routine work that required no particular concentration. They would throw me down on the cell floor, and I cannot describe how it felt as I hit the ground. Every part of my body hurt. The cell was tiny, with only one small window about a foot wide. It was winter, the floor was tiled, I had one threadbare blanket and insects crawled around everywhere. Meals were just two pieces of bread and some indeterminate stew. The toilet was a bucket unemptied for hours so that I could smell my own excrement. They had taken care to put me in a cell next to where they tortured the detainees, and I could hear the screams reverberating all night long, my heart ready to break as I listened. Sometimes, I lost control and shouted and cursed, banging my hands on the walls until, finally spent, I sank back down to the ground. I knew that my protests were in vain. After a few days, I developed a terrifying obsession: What if they decided to torture me like that…would I be able to bear it? No one, no matter how true to his cause, would be able to endure such torture for an extended period. My resistance would crumble, and I would confess to everything or else I might even go mad.

The investigator called for me again. This time, however, the agents did not beat me up. The investigator smiled and asked me with a sneer, “Have you wised up yet, Kamel?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me all about the organization.”

“What organization?”

“Stop playing the fool, my lad!” he shouted as the agents started hitting and kicking me and I screamed. The blows stopped suddenly, and the investigator laughed.

“By the way, we have a most entertaining little performance for you to see. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

He gestured to the agent by the door, and he rushed out. A few minutes later I heard commotion and shouting. The door opened, and agents brought in a short man, badly beaten up, with blood caked all over his swollen face. I recalled having seen him before; he worked at the Club in fact. The Upper Egyptian woman who had been brought in was screaming, and the agents slapped her.

The investigator continued, “This is Samahy, who works as a waiter at the Automobile Club. He caused a lot of problems for us, so we’ve invited him and his wife, Zahra, to stay with us until he wises up.”

Samahy gave a snarl, which led to his being hit again.

“Samahy, my lad!” the investigator said. “Your wife, Zahra, has complained to us that you’re not fulfilling your husbandly duties. What do you think about us getting some of our rough Upper Egyptian soldiers here to help out in that department? I think she’d like that.”

The woman let out a nerve-shattering scream, and Samahy could not stop himself lunging at the agents, which only ended up with his getting another good kicking.

“Don’t play the coquette with us, Zahra,” the investigator sadistically cajoled her. “I’ve got a good strong Upper Egyptian guy here who can satisfy you. Strip her and take her to Abd al-Samad. He’ll give her one and, Samahy, you can watch and learn how it’s done.”