Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

The name Carlo Botticelli on any invitation to a party was an indication of the party’s purpose, just as his appearance anywhere could be only for one reason — it meant that a new woman was on her way to the royal bed. That morning a white Chevrolet had drawn up in front of the Automobile Club. Carlo Botticelli stepped out and seemed to know his way as he walked straight to James Wright’s office. This was a highly unusual event, which the staff whispered about to one another all day: “Why would Botticelli come to the Automobile Club?”

When Abd el-Aziz’s fellow workers at the Club learned of his death, they were plunged into deep sorrow. They were also distressed at the way he had died. Had he gone to sleep and not woken up or been struck by a mortal illness or an automobile, they could have accepted it as his inevitable fate. But to die from humiliation! He had simply been unable to cope with having his dignity shattered in front of everyone. He just dropped dead. The staff kept whispering among themselves, “The shame of it! That Hameed, bastard homo, son of a cheap dancer, that he should have raised a hand against Hagg Abd el-Aziz, of the lineage of the Gaafars, landowners from Upper Egypt!”

Time and again they went over the details of Abd el-Aziz’s death as if they did not want to forget them, as if they were, in some way, trying to make themselves feel pain. The slaps delivered to Abd el-Aziz had brought them face-to-face with their own reality. Usually, they were so absorbed in their private lives that when something happened, they had to reflect and try to piece together the details. The death of Abd el-Aziz, however, in this sudden and humiliating fashion, had made them only too aware that they were themselves like leaves in the wind, liable to be swept away on a whim. They were servants. They were tools to be used and discarded. Their distress over Abd el-Aziz turned into an ardent desire to see that the right thing was done by his family. They delegated Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh to ask Mr. Wright’s permission to attend the funeral.

Mr. Wright answered without a second thought, “You can go wherever you like, provided it is not during work hours.”

As the general manager had declined to make an exception, the night staff went to the funeral, and the day staff went off to visit the condolence tent. Many of them went to the apartment of the deceased to check on the children and offer their services. Umm Said thanked them and stated resolutely, “Thank you all so much. We want for nothing, thank God.”

Two weeks after the death of Abd el-Aziz, another important event took place. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the Paradise Café was flooded with Club staff, with the four heads of department, Rikabi the chef, Maître Shakir, Yusuf Tarboosh and Bahr the barman, sitting in the far corner as usual. The café, as always, was abuzz with chatter, the glug-glug of water pipes, raised voices, laughter, the clacking of backgammon pieces and shouts for the waiter. Suddenly, Abdoun, the barman’s assistant, stood up and walked slowly to the middle of the café. He was as smartly dressed as ever in his carefully ironed white shirt, black trousers and black patent shoes. Abdoun looked at the Club staff sitting there, clapped his hands a few times to quiet them all down and then stated, “I want to say a few words.”

As they looked at him, intrigued, he continued, “What happened to the late Abd el-Aziz could happen to any one of us. Abd el-Aziz was murdered. Alku killed him.”

They just stared at Abdoun in disbelief. He took a deep breath as if trying to control his emotions and then loudly and defiantly declared, “That’s what happened. Alku killed Abd el-Aziz.”

Some of those present sought refuge in silence, while others jumped to their feet to object. They waved their arms around and tsk-tsked in disagreement. They were upset and confused, unable to take in what was going on. What Abdoun was now saying openly had been only intimated previously, surreptitiously, within earshot of trusted colleagues only. First making sure they were not being overheard, they would only then dare whisper some condemnation of Alku’s unconscionable behavior. They had never imagined this could be discussed openly. What a calamity for them all! Abdoun was attacking Alku in public! What had the world come to! It seemed somehow unreal, like a dream or a mystery. Fear shot through everyone. They knew that word would spread like lightning, that every utterance, movement or gesture they made now would be passed on in faithful detail to Alku, who would then exact retribution. Upon learning what Abdoun had said, Alku would make an example of them all. Their crime was having allowed Abdoun to speak like that. They had to disown his words publicly and stop him from going any further. It suddenly occurred to them that Abdoun might be in Alku’s pay, tasked with carrying out this little performance in order to check on their loyalty. This thought raised their emotions to fever pitch, and their anxiety turned to terror.

Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh clapped his hands together and reproached Abdoun in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Abdoun, my son, you are mistaken and trying to sow discord. Ask God for forgiveness. Our lives are in God’s hands, and Abd el-Aziz died at his appointed hour.”

“No, Alku is responsible for his death.”

At this point, Maître Shakir shouted, “If Alku had Abd el-Aziz beaten, then he must have done something to deserve it.”

Upon hearing this, Abdoun appeared to be in the grip of some demonic force. He looked at Maître Shakir and asked firmly, “Then tell me why Alku has us beaten?

Voices rose up in protest at his question, with some people shouting out, “Alku is like our father.”

Abdoun paused, then looked around at them before continuing, “Even if Alku is like our father, we don’t beat our children once they have grown up. How long will Alku go on having us beaten like animals? You are in your forties and fifties. How can you put up with all that? How would you feel if your wives or children saw you being beaten?”

There was complete silence for a while, broken by Rikabi’s hoarse voice, “Abdoun. Just what is it that you want?”

“I want Alku to stop the beatings.”

“And who are you to tell Alku what to do?”

“I am a human being, Uncle Rikabi.”

“You are an impudent child.”

“So clinging to my dignity makes me impudent?”

“Your dignity comes from being lucky enough to earn a living.”

Abdoun stared at Rikabi angrily and was about to retort before Maître Shakir asked him calmly, “So, Abdoun, if someone makes a mistake, is Alku supposed to go easy on him?”

“He should come up with something that does not involve humiliating us. He could treat us like he does the employees in the royal palaces.”

“Listen, son, we are not like the palace employees! They are educated people with qualifications.”

Abdoun interrupted him sharply, “It doesn’t matter that we are not educated. We are flesh and blood and we have our rights.”

The staff were aware of the dangerous implications of this sentiment and shook their heads in disagreement, with Karara the waiter shouting, “His Excellency Alku knows better than we do what is good for us.”

Abdoun shouted back his retort, “Are you really all just willing to be treated like cattle?”

Yusuf Tarboosh nervously fingered his long string of prayer beads and added, “Alku is our master, and were it not for his graciousness toward us, we’d all long ago have been back in Upper Egypt with our buffalos.”

“We wouldn’t have ended up looking after buffalos, Hagg Yusuf!” Abdoun replied. “We were all respected in our hometowns. What we earn here is not thanks to anyone’s charitable heart. We work our fingers to the bone night and day for those wages. They don’t pay us as an act of kindness, and we deserve to be treated like human beings.”