Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Alku decided to implicate Abdoun in some misdemeanor that would lead to his dismissal, so he appointed him assistant barman. Bar work, for a new employee, was very risky. The most important personages in Egypt frequented the bar, and one slipup with them could be catastrophic. Moreover, one had to be very sensitive when serving the inebriated, because alcohol made people both fickle and tetchy. Weeks passed without Alku hearing about any issues with Abdoun, and when he asked Bahr about him, the barman only sang the boy’s praises. This astonished Alku because Bahr took immense pride in his work, and his assistants hardly ever lived up to his expectations. Abdoun’s presence continued to gnaw away at Alku, who finally decided to go on the attack. He went off to see Mr. Wright.

Standing in front of the Englishman, he feigned confusion and hesitancy to speak. Wright asked him to spit it out, but Alku stuttered as if from the awkwardness of a bad situation. “Mr. Wright, please do not be angry with me.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it you want?”

“That lad Abdoun keeps making mistakes.”

“He’ll learn,” Wright answered peremptorily.

Alku sighed, “I have tried and tried to teach him, but to my chagrin it has no effect.”

“What are you driving at?”

Alku now had his goal in sight and so he took his shot. “In all honesty,” he muttered, “that lad Abdoun is not fit for service. I could find him another job outside the Club at a better salary.”

Wright shook his head and said, “No, he stays with us at the Club.”

Alku tried to object, but Mr. Wright had returned to his paper, signaling the discussion was over.

Giving Mr. Wright a look of disbelief, Alku bowed, turned and walked out.

Some things in life seem so natural that it is difficult to imagine when they began. Such was the intense friendship between the two strapping young men, Mahmud, son of Hagg Abd el-Aziz Gaafar, and Fawzy, son of Ali Hamama the grocer. But in fact there was every reason why they should get on with each other: their age — Mahmud was just a few months older than Fawzy; they lived in the same building in al-Sadd al-Gawany Street; and they were both in their third year at the Abd el-Latif college. Beyond all that, they had an identical outlook on life. Fawzy and Mahmud were both convinced that studying was a waste of time.

Fawzy would ask his friend, “Can you tell me what use are all those trivial facts that they try to cram into our brains?”

“Yeah. It’s just a load of old nonsense.”

Fawzy, the more excitable, would work himself into a lather and ask, “Take calculus. If all those complicated equations don’t help us with simple calculations, then why do we have to study it at all?”

At this point, Mahmud assumed a look of forbearance and mused calmly, “Anyway, calculus is a piece of cake compared to geography, with all those tedious maps and crops and precipitations. God alone knows why we should have to know the varieties of crops grown on Sumatra! We live in Egypt and we’re never even going there!”

According to the boys’ way of looking at things, school was simply a place set up to torment you. Whoever said that success in life depends on success in school? There were lots of wealthy and successful men who had never gone to school, whereas some spent long years studying and then could not find a job. In addition to their dislike of studying, the boys shared four hobbies. First, cutting class — they had thought up many tricks for getting out of school, from jumping over the wall to bribing the doorman, old Shazli, with cigarettes to unlock the gate for them after the first lesson. Second, playing soccer on the “triangle,” a patch of empty ground in front of the Rimali Mill in Sayyida Zeinab. Third, chatting up girls, going out with them and trying to snatch a cuddle or a kiss. Fourth: weight lifting, on which they spent all their free time trying to bulk up their bodies.

That life was secret, their real life, far from the stupidity and boredom of school. Fawzy could still remember how they’d become friends. One day, he had cut class as usual and gone to play soccer on the triangle. Having left his books on the pavement, he was dribbling a bit on his own to warm up for the game. Then the ebony-skinned, svelte and muscular Mahmud suddenly appeared. In that first time the two played football together, as a result of some well-judged passes from Fawzy, Mahmud scored two out of their side’s four goals. At their victory celebrations, everyone stood around drinking iced soda paid for by the losers. As Mahmud was happily sipping his bottle of Sinalco Orange, with a satisfied and grateful look that said, “I wish that I could drink it all the time,” Fawzy walked over and introduced himself. They exchanged a hearty handshake and eyed each other slowly up and down like a pair of animals sniffing each other. Then Fawzy cried out, “Well done, Captain Mahmud! A great match. You were great on the attack. And those killer strikes!”

“May God keep you, Captain Fawzy. Thanks!”

Fawzy took a step closer to Mahmud and said, “Looks like you do a lot of lifting.”

“As much as I can.”

Fawzy reached out and felt his musculature, commenting admiringly, “Great shoulders and traps!”

“Well, I’ve been working on them a lot. God knows!”

“I’ve been trying forever but with no results. I just end up tired and then I stop.”

A serious look came over Mahmud’s face, and he offered to help Fawzy. That same day, Fawzy visited Mahmud at home for the first time. He greeted Mahmud’s mother, Umm Said, and kissed her hand, and then Mahmud took him off to his bedroom at the far end of the large apartment for his first lesson in how to put on some muscle. Mahmud pulled two- and five-kilo dumbbells out from under his bed, with which he demonstrated a few exercises that Fawzy tried. Next, Mahmud lay flat on the floor and disappeared under the bed, and when he reappeared he was dragging something Fawzy had never seen before: one of those big sturdy wooden poles like the one peasants used for stirring the laundry; at either end were attached two identical cans labeled “Authentic Sultan Ghee.”

Fawzy looked astonished, but Mahmud chuckled and said, “Well, real metal weights are expensive. I made these myself.”

“How?”

“Simple. Just get a heavy wash pole and two empty cans full of cement when it sets. You’ll have a perfect set of barbells. Just watch!”

Mahmud dipped his hands into the round tin of talcum powder under the bed and got himself into position. With his feet together and his back straight, he took a few deep breaths and then gracefully leaned over, gripping the pole with both hands. He stayed in that position for a few seconds as he focused himself, before letting out a loud cry, “By the strength of God, let me do it, O mother of miracles!” In one movement he snatched the weights and held them above his head for a few seconds as his face reddened and his arms and neck bulged. Fawzy clapped and cheered, “Bravo, Mahmud. You’re really something!”

Mahmud lowered the weights to the ground and let out such a loud roar of victory that Umm Said came rushing in to see what the matter was, but Mahmud simply asked her if she would bring them some mint tea with lots of qaraqeesh and cheese. Mahmud promised to give Fawzy a training session at least twice a week, and soon the results of organized and proper weight lifting started to show. Fawzy’s biceps got bigger and his abdominals became tighter. After that, the two lads became inseparable, doing everything together. They would meet in front of the school gate in the morning, then slip away to a café far enough from school to be safe, and they would sip tea with milk and smoke a nargileh, trying to decide whether they should see a film, take the tram to the zoo and try to chat up some schoolgirls or just play some soccer on the triangle. They even tried to convince their respective families to let them do their homework together. Aisha agreed immediately, but Umm Said said she would not allow it.