Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

The woman screamed even louder, and Samahy shouted, “Shame on you, you heathens.”

The investigator made a gesture, and the agents dragged Samahy and his wife off. I could not hold myself back.

“You’ll pay for this!” I shouted.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” the investigator smiled. “We’re protecting the throne and defending the country.”

“Torture is a crime punishable by law.”

“The law,” he said, “is something you study at college, my lad. You graduate and then you have to forget it. Let me tell you, Kamel, that if you were in my shoes you’d do exactly the same.”

“I could never,” I retorted, “be a criminal like you lot.”

The agents gave me another round of kicks, and then the investigator said calmly, “Now, I would counsel you again to start talking. When did you join the organization?”

“I don’t join organizations.”

“All right, Kamel.” The investigator shook his head. “I’m trying to help you here, but you won’t help yourself.”

That was a signal to the agents to set about giving me another beating, after which they returned me to my cell. I felt like I had hit rock bottom, used like a laboratory animal. Everything they did was directed at extracting a desired result. The spectacle of Samahy and his wife both screaming was seared into my memory, and I kept reliving the scene in my mind, replacing Samahy’s wife with Saleha. What if they were to do the same to her? I put all my strength into not falling apart. That night, for the first time, the voices and torture stopped, no more screaming to be heard. Had one of the detainees died? It was quieter than I had ever known it there, and I fell into a deep sleep.

The following day, there was a slight improvement in my treatment. They emptied the slop bucket twice and gave me more food, disgusting as it was. The investigator called for me again, but this time he was wearing a smile, and I was astonished at how those bastards’ moods could swing from one extreme to the other.

“Mr. Barsoum, your lawyer,” he said in an affable tone, “would like to speak with you.”

He gestured toward a stocky man, who introduced himself, “I am Gameel Barsoum, a lawyer. Mrs. Aisha Hamama has retained me to defend you. With your agreement, naturally.”

“Good to meet you.”

Gameel then asked the investigator, “Could I speak to him outside?”

The investigator gestured toward the door.

“As you like, Mr. Barsoum. I’ll give you half an hour.”

I followed Gameel out of the room, and we stopped in the middle of the courtyard, where he heaved a sigh of relief.

“It’s safer here,” he said. “His office will be bugged. Listen, Kamel. We don’t have much time. Speak to me. I’m your lawyer, and I need to know the truth.”

I recounted everything in detail, from joining the Wafd cell and the organization up to my arrest.

“Have you confessed,” he asked me in a serious tone, “to membership of the organization?”

“No.”

“Well, don’t even think about it.”

“They have beaten me up to within an inch of my life.”

“I know, and we’ll get that corroborated tomorrow during the questioning. Anwar Bey Makki, head of state security, is interested in your case and has taken personal charge of it.”

“What do you think they’ll do to us?”

“Actually, there are two investigations in the Automobile Club. The striking workers have been arrested and are also being tortured. The second investigation is that of the organization of which you are accused of being a member. I must inform you that your case is a difficult one, with rather dangerous implications.”

“Has Prince Shamel really been thrown into prison?”

“He has been released. But his having been held three days while the investigations took place is a dangerous sign. Prince Shamel is the king’s cousin and could only be sent for trial by order of the king. The fact that the king had his cousin thrown into prison will only serve to make the investigators and the judges deal more harshly with this case.”

I looked at him and said nothing. I was thinking about my ordeal, wondering how this nightmare would end, when I would be able to go back to my home, my own bed and my books.

As if he could read my thoughts, Gameel smiled sympathetically and said, “Whatever we do, I expect the directorate to try you in court. At that point, I will do whatever I can to get you out.”

The next day, Gameel came to the interrogation with me and, pointing out my injuries, demanded my release, but I was ordered to be held for another two weeks.

On Friday, I had my first visit from my family. I tried to hold myself together. I told them that I felt optimistic and that I would soon be released, but their eyes told me they knew I was lying. My mother managed to keep her composure but then broke down crying. I was moved by Mahmud’s teary eyes and Saleha’s loving and sympathetic glances, Aisha’s prayers and Mitsy’s sad smile. I went back to my cell feeling slightly uplifted, comforted to know that I was no longer entirely alone in the hands of those bastards. At the very least, my family knew where I was and would be able to glean information about what was happening to me. But how was it all going to end? Was I nearing the end of the tunnel? Would I ever see the outside world again, or would I spend the rest of my years in prison?

The orders were plain enough: arrest the strikers with as little fuss as possible in order not to disturb His Majesty inside the Club. The soldiers succeeded in doing so and dragged the staff down the street, waiting until they had them in the police vans before raining down on them a torrent of punches and kicks. Those not detained remained busy at work, but some had caught a glimpse of the sorry scene. They would always remember their colleagues’ futile attempts to wriggle out of the soldiers’ grasp and would forever hear the screams and calls for help issuing from the police vans. Alku had sent orders to the staff not to go home after the end of their shifts, and so at four in the morning, they all assembled on the roof in their work caftans. As they stood there waiting, those who had seen the arrest operation told their colleagues about it in low impassioned tones. It had all been child’s play until that night. Abdoun protesting the beatings and Alku’s stance, his no-tips regime. It was as if all the foregoing events had been no more than a pantomime. All those who had opposed Alku were now under arrest, and no one knew what their fate would be. After a while, Alku appeared, followed by Hameed, and the staff all bowed and kowtowed. Alku stood there looking like a triumphant hero.

“Abdoun and that lot are getting what they asked for,” he announced.

“Send them to the gallows!” some of the staff called out. “They can go to hell! Slit their throats! We don’t want to see them again!”

Alku let them go on a little, allowing them to disown the strikers and declare their loyalty to him. He was staring into the distance as if gathering his thoughts. And then he asked them, “Does anyone here object to anything I do?”

They all stayed silent, so he asked again in a louder voice, “Speak up. Is there anything you’re not happy about?”

“You are like our father, Alku,” they started muttering submissively. “We’re here to serve you! You’re too good to us. May God bless you.”

Alku scrutinized them, as if trying to make sure that he was back in control. Then he took two steps forward and announced, “From tonight, I am lifting your punishment. I am allowing you to have your tips again.”

Shouts of joy rang out, the staff showering him with prayers for his well-being, and, when he turned to leave, clustering around him to express their gratitude. The next day, it was as if a new leaf had been turned over. They went to work with gusto, putting their all into the job, serving the customers as if performing for the camera, doing their best to show their loyalty and devotion, to affirm that they were the children and servants of Alku, who would never disobey him and who had nothing to do with those upstarts, already on their way to oblivion for their just reward, never again to sully the benevolent atmosphere of, or created by, their master, Alku, to whom they pledged themselves.