Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

The moment Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh declared his opposition to the increased bonus, a new wave of objections rang out.

Maître Shakir said, “He’s gone too far this time. God Himself can see how unfair it is.”

Rikabi the chef was so worked up that he made an obscene gesture with two of his fingers. Then with a loud grunt, in piece with the bestial hugeness of his body, he cried out, “Brothers! It’s our livelihoods and children that are at stake here. I am not going to give Alku a cent more.”

Bahr was listening to them, saying nothing as he smoked a shisha. Suddenly, Rikabi turned on him and shouted, “What’s with you, all calm and relaxed? Aren’t you worried about your income?”

Bahr smiled and responded, “Rikabi, you are all hot air, and I really don’t like men who run off their mouth.”

Rikabi shouted back, “All right. You tell us what we should do?”

“Either refuse to pay the increase, or pay it and shut up.”

They all started voicing their objections, but Bahr sat straight up in his chair, lay down the mouthpiece of the shisha and looked at them. “So you refuse to pay the increase?”

In a jumble of voices, they answered in the affirmative. Bahr then stood up and said matter-of-factly, “All right then. I’ll go see Alku and I’ll tell him.”

Rikabi called out, “Wait, Bahr. Just a minute.”

Bahr ignored him and made as if to leave the café. The three others at the table called out to him. Rikabi rushed after him and grabbed him by the arm to stop him. Bahr knew his colleagues through and through; their anger was just so much hot air, nothing they dared act on. Even at the peak of their fury, they made certain to keep their voices down lest the other staff members in the café hear them. It was this sort of posturing that so irked Bahr. One minute Rikabi, Maître Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh were huffing and puffing so much that anyone would have thought that Alku could suffer a good drubbing were he to appear there in front of them. But Bahr’s mere threat to go and tell Alku was enough to turn them into quivering rodents. He looked at them contemptuously and said, “Fine, I won’t go. But if you are so bold, then go and tell Alku yourselves!”

They made no response, at which Bahr responded, “Just as I thought. Now shut up and go on being Alku’s playthings and pay him his bonus.”

That very day, just before midnight, the four managers were lined up in Alku’s office, where as usual he was smoking his fat cigar and leafing through his papers. He gave them a quizzical glance, and Shakir cleared his throat, made a small bow and stated, “Your Excellency! We owe what we are to your Excellency. It was you who brought us from Upper Egypt, helped us to establish ourselves and turned us into decent human beings…”

Alku looked at them, his expression turning from quizzical to weary. Now Shakir took a step forward and placed on the desk a large envelope visibly stuffed with banknotes. Then, with a quaking voice, he said, “Out of gratitude to you, Your Excellency, we have increased the amount of the bonus. May God keep and preserve you. It is small recompense for all your kindness.”

Alku exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke, which hovered around his face, and then he sat back in his chair and stared off into space as if they were not standing there. Bahr was observing the scene calmly, but his three colleagues were terrified by the thought that Alku might again refuse to accept even the increased bonus, and they would be at a complete loss. They could not possibly pay more. Perhaps Alku was angry about something else. The worst thing would be that Alku was angry over something they knew nothing about. Shakir bowed again and slid the envelope across the glass desktop as if willing Alku to take it. After an age, Alku nodded with seeming disgust and gestured for them to leave. That, thank God, meant he had agreed to accept the bonus. They left his office sputtering gratitude. The crisis had passed.

Was Alku so unreasonable for wanting an increase in the bonus? He always watched his managers very closely, and his ubiquitous spies fed him daily reports. He knew exactly how much money they were creaming off from the Club, which is why he set the bonus on a sliding scale rather than at a fixed amount. Hence, the amount of the bonus had been carefully calculated, and, after all, there were no exceptions or favoritism. Receiving the bonus always prompted Alku to go on an inspection spree, after which he would harshly rebuke the managers and have their subordinates flogged for the slightest error, all this just to remind them that payment of the bonus would neither absolve them of their responsibilities toward him nor inspire any laxity in his review of their accounts.

That was how Alku had lorded it over the staff for the last twenty years — eagle-eyed and ironfisted. There is, however, usually a gap in even the most foolproof systems.

One morning, Mr. Wright called Alku and asked him to come to his office. Alku demurred, saying he could not leave the palace before seeing to the affairs of His Majesty, who never arose before the afternoon, but Wright’s insistence worried Alku, so he went to see him. Wright greeted him curtly, lit his pipe and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, and then said, “Listen. Tomorrow a lad called Abdoun is coming to see you. Put him in the school until he learns service, and then he will work for us in the Club…”

It was an order. There was nothing to discuss, so Alku bowed and said, “A vos ordres!”

Mr. Wright said nothing more and started reading again as a signal that the meeting was over. Alku asked him whether there was anything else he might do for him. Wright shook his head without raising his eyes from the book. Alku left the office astonished. James Wright, the English general manager who treated Egyptians like muck, was now intervening personally to appoint a waiter! Alku ordered his ubiquitous spies to get to the bottom of this, and a few hours later he received a report. Abdoun was the son of the doorman of the Lycée where James Wright’s lover, Odette Fattal, taught. Alku smiled and muttered to himself, “Cherchez la femme!”

The following day, Abdoun came for an interview with Alku. He was a sinewy boy with a mocha complexion. Tall and polite. He had wide, dreamy eyes, and his pleasant smile revealed pearly white teeth. He was so handsome that Alku detected on his assistant Hameed’s part nervous tension as he brought the lad into his office. Alku gave Abdoun a cold, sullen look and said, “Mr. Wright’s intervention on your behalf has clinched the matter, but you should know that there are thousands who dream of getting a job at the Automobile Club. If you show you can work hard, we will take you on.”

“I shall do my utmost.”

“First, you will go to our school so that we can see how much training you’ll need.”

Abdoun smiled and said, “I hope to live up to your expectations.”

The boy seemed polite enough, but he left Alku feeling slightly uneasy. In all his sixty years, and having dealt with hundreds of servants, Alku had hardly ever erred in appraising a new servant. This Abdoun was clever, he acted politely and appeared eager, but there was something unsettling Alku could not put his finger on. He had a recalcitrant edge to his voice and was hiding something. Alku gave orders for a background check and discovered that his record was completely clean. Abdoun made good progress at the school, passing all the tests without any of the usual beginner’s mistakes, and after just two months, he could execute the royal protocol so skillfully that he reminded Alku of his own younger self. All that should have left Alku feeling content, but something kept nagging him and he said to himself, “I’ve got a strange feeling about that lad.”