Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

The moment I sat down next to her, she told me excitedly, “The khawaga, Comanus, has come up with a new idea.”

“I heard it all.”

Kamel asked me, “So what do you think?”

“Well, of course, working at the Club is better than having to fight in court.”

My mother seemed happy to hear that I agreed. She sighed. “Thank God. God knows our situation.”

Silence fell on us again. It felt as if my mother was trying to decide for sure. Then she turned to Kamel and Said and told them with a tense smile, “We haven’t got any time to lose. We have to make a decision tonight so I can give Comanus an answer tomorrow.”

They both looked at her in silence as she continued to explain, “Mahmud can do deliveries. Which of you will work in the storeroom with Comanus?”

Said replied, “I will not work at the Automobile Club.”

“And just why not, Lord Said?” asked my mother sarcastically.

“I’m waiting to see about my diploma, and then I will find a better job.”

“And you’ll find a job just like that!”

“God will help.”

“The country’s brimming with qualified people who can’t get a job.”

“I’d rather be out of work than bunged up in the storeroom.”

“And what’s wrong with the storeroom?”

“I want to work in my own field. In carpets.”

“That’s just like you. Can’t think about anyone but yourself.”

“It’s not a sin to think about myself!”

“But it is a sin not to think about us. You should be ashamed to sit there in front of me and turn down the only chance we have of getting through this. Do you never think that your mother and siblings need every piastre we can get? Do you not realize that this job which you are rejecting out of hand is one which your father did for years just to look after us?”

“My father, may God have mercy on him, put up with the misery out of guilt at having squandered his wealth on his relatives.”

“How dare you! How dare you speak about your late father like that!” my mother shouted, her eyes wide with anger.

Said looked defiant and said, “Listen. I can read you like a book.”

“Speak to your mother with some respect!” Kamel warned him.

Said ignored him and carried on shouting at our mother, “You want to throw me into that storeroom so that your darling Kamel can finish his university studies. He’ll be a lawyer and I’ll be a menial. No. Things are different now. You’ve already stopped me from going to university, what more do you want?”

“You are the one who stopped yourself. Did anyone tell you to get such low marks?”

“All right then, I’m a disappointment, a loser. Just let me be. Soon I’ll be able to support myself. I’ll leave home, and then you won’t have to put up with me. Your beloved Mr. Kamel, the lawyer, can get off his backside and do something useful for once in his life.”

“Did I raise you to speak like that, Said?” my mother asked, her voice quivering. It had no effect on Said. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kamel and I sat there in silence. Suddenly my mother burst out in tears. I rushed over to her and started kissing her head and her hands.

Kamel said, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll work in the storeroom.”

“But your studies,” she replied weakly.

Kamel put his hand on her shoulder and said, “With God’s help, I’ll do both.”

James Wright had put aside his usual haughty demeanor and seemed almost to smile at Carlo Botticelli, who was seated in front of him. He offered him a cigar from an ornate mother-of-pearl box, saying warmly, “Mr. Botticelli. How nice to see you.”

“Well, may I say the same to you!”

Botticelli’s bearing reflected that cold, polite formality used when dealing with the lower orders. For all James Wright’s Englishness and his position as general manager of the Automobile Club, the Italian Botticelli was a confidant of the king, and that put him on a higher plane.

With a worried look on his face, Wright spoke, “May I ask as to the health of His Majesty?”

“His Majesty is in good health, but he works far too hard.”

Wright affected a look of sympathy and said dolefully, “Egypt is a complicated country with endless problems. I worry what effect all that pressure has on His Majesty.”

Botticelli gave him a sarcastic look as if to say, “You bloody hypocrite!” but Wright just carried on speaking, “His Majesty should take some rest.”

“I try as hard as I can to convince His Majesty that he should take some time off, even a few days, but he always tells me that he must attend to his country’s needs.”

“Egyptians are ingrates. They will never appreciate the efforts His Majesty expends on their behalf.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. If I were in His Majesty’s shoes, I would enjoy life, but his sense of duty is too strong.”

They exchanged further platitudes on the subject and then suddenly fell silent, as if they had now covered all the preliminaries and it was time for business. Botticelli took a drag on his cigar, blew out a cloud of smoke and spoke, “Mr. Wright. I think you are aware just how much His Majesty likes to feel connected with the various groups of society.”

“Of course.”

“His Majesty always loves feeling close to his people.”

“That has only increased my esteem for His Majesty.”

“If you were offered the chance to make His Majesty happy, would you hesitate?”

“I am at His Majesty’s command.”

Botticelli smiled and continued, “We’re off to a good start.”

Mr. Wright looked at him inquisitively. Botticelli, now twiddling with his hat, continued, “It sometimes happens that His Majesty asks me to organize a small party for him where he can get to know young men and women of the better classes in Egypt. Remember, His Majesty is not over the hill like you or me. He is a young man in his thirties.”

Mr. Wright nodded and carried on trying to see what Botticelli was driving at.

“Next Monday, I am holding just such a small party. All the guests are young men and women of the better classes. I should very much like to invite your daughter, Miss Mitsy.”

“Have you met Mitsy?”

“I saw her in the Gezira Club. She caught my attention, and I thought that I might introduce her to His Majesty.”

“What a great honor.”

“Please ask her if she would be willing to have the king as a friend.”

“She will agree. Of course.”

“I’m happy that you understand and are willing to cooperate.”

“No, I’m the one who should thank you, Mr. Botticelli. Are there any specific requirements regarding the party? Please do bear in mind that Mitsy is a young woman who has never met a king before.”

He spoke that last sentence apologetically, but Botticelli waved the thought away and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. His Majesty is not a stickler for etiquette, and he likes his guests to dress however they wish.”

Mr. Wright smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Botticelli stood up, put his hat on, as Wright stood to bid him good-bye. Just before Botticelli stepped through the doorway, he turned around and looked him straight in the eyes, “I’ll send the invitation to you tomorrow. If fortune smiles, this will be the opportunity of a lifetime for your daughter. You and she will both have a taste of paradise.”

Botticelli was always sure to make it perfectly clear at some point what was going to happen. This was his preferred way of dealing with the families of the king’s love prospects — he could not allow them to build up false hopes. He called a spade a spade and left them fully cognizant that they were sending their daughters, or their wives, to the king’s bed.