Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Yusuf Tarboosh nodded in agreement and added enthusiastically, “Those base things he said cannot be overlooked.”

There was no response. Both men looked fixedly at Alku, who, contrary to expectation, curled his lips in disgust, waved them off and shouted, “Get back to work, both of you!”

“But Your Excellency…,” Shakir started hesitantly.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Alku interrupted him angrily. “By God, be off with you.”

Perturbed, they both bowed again and hurried away. Alku strode out of the building, trailed by Hameed, and, getting into the car, barked at the driver, “Back to Abdin.”

On my first day of work, Comanus took me to the office of Mr. Wright, who looked at me as if we had never met before.

“We are happy to have you working here,” he said formally.

I muttered a few words of thanks. We left his office and made our way to see Alku at Abdin Palace. En route, Comanus told me, “Kamel, there is something that you ought to know. Alku is the head of all the staff in both the Automobile Club and the royal palaces. I know you will never forget what he did to your father, may God have mercy upon him. I can understand how you must feel, but I would advise you never to look back. Always remember that you are working here in order to complete your studies and to help out your family. You must think of the past as a closed book. Be careful of saying anything at all untoward about Alku, because he has spies everywhere. His reach is long, and the consequences are highly unpleasant.”

I nodded. My meeting with Alku hardly lasted a minute.

“This is the Kamel Gaafar I spoke to you about. He’s the son of the late Abd el-Aziz.”

Alku took a look at me and with a nod muttered a few indistinct words. Then he turned to Comanus and continued speaking as if I were not there. I felt humiliated and a mad thought sprang to mind — that I could grab Alku and slap him as he had done to my father, then simply bolt out of the palace and never return to the Club. The fantasy was so lifelike in my mind that I started sweating and breathing heavily. I shut my eyes and had just about managed to haul myself back to reality by the time we left Alku’s office. On our way back to the Club, Comanus started explaining my job in detail.

I worked as hard as I could from the very first day. I would carry crates up to the restaurant and the bar during the daytime, and then I would sit down and do all the paperwork. How can I describe how I felt working the storeroom? How should you feel stepping right into your father’s work clothes after he passes away? When you sit on his favorite chair and use the same cap, prayer beads and prayer rug? You would have mixed feelings. You would miss your father and want to do your duty toward him. Out of pride, you want to keep his memory alive and find some tangible form of his existence in your memories of his voice and smell. You might even start to feel like him. When there was no work to do, I would ask Comanus’s permission to read my textbooks or study my lecture notes.

On the first of the month, I handed my salary over to my mother. She cried and hugged me and then nagged me until I agreed to keep part of the salary for my own outgoings. As the days passed, I fell into the rhythm of the storeroom until I almost enjoyed it, except that the vision of my father being slapped by Hameed sometimes returned and left me feeling troubled. I felt guilty for not having avenged myself on those who had humiliated him. I kept having the same fantasy of walking into Alku’s office when Hameed was there and thrashing them both. But that would remain only a fantasy. I just needed to work hard enough to keep the job until I graduated. My father had for so long dreamt of seeing me become a lawyer that it was my duty to become one. The other troubling thing was that I was missing the meetings of the Wafd committee. One morning, after asking Comanus for a break, I went to see Hasan Mu’min. We met at the cafeteria.

“I am so sorry, Hasan. I cannot come to the meetings or take on any assignment. At least for the foreseeable future.”

Hasan listened attentively as usual, and said calmly, “So you’re now an employee of the Automobile Club?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry. You can work with us from there.”

“Is there a Wafd committee at the Automobile Club?”

“We’re now operating outside the confines of the Wafd Party. We have formed a democratic front including people of all political leanings.”

“Where do you hold meetings?”

“You’ll know everything in good time. The most important thing is to set up a method of communicating with you in there.”

And so it was arranged: he would ring from the grocer Ali Hamama’s telephone, and giving his name as “Yegen,” he would leave a message for me to call.

When I stood up to take my leave, he embraced me warmly, saying, “Kamel, I admire your patriotism.”

Hasan Mu’min was such an inspiration that I would have dropped everything and done whatever he asked. I went over what he had said. How could I do any political agitating from inside the Automobile Club? The members were all either foreigners, members of the Turkish upper crust or large landowners. I doubted any of them would have any interest in Egypt’s independence. The exact opposite, in fact. The interests of those social classes were closely bound to the British occupation.

Weeks went by. Work at the Club kept me so busy that I forgot what Hasan Mu’min had said. And then, one morning, when I was alone in the storeroom, sitting at my small desk, old Uncle Suleyman surprised me by rushing in to see me. He looked tense as he came over to me and said, “Listen, Kamel. His Royal Highness Prince Shamel is coming for you.”

“Who is he?”

“His Royal Highness Prince Shamel? He is a cousin of the king!”

I had never heard of Prince Shamel, but I jumped to my feet, straightened my clothes and straightened my tie and my tarboosh. Some of the serving staff rushed into the storeroom in excitement and milled around aimlessly. That was their way of showing respect to His Royal Highness, who soon appeared in the doorway preceded by the aroma of his cologne. He was a man of around fifty, very dapper, and handsome with pale skin and combed-back chestnut hair. From the outset, he put one at ease.

I bowed and said, “It is a great honor, Your Royal Highness.”

“Is Monsieur Comanus here?” he asked in good Arabic.

“He is on his way, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Kamel.”

“Listen, Kamel. I’m holding a party at the Club next week, and I want to see what sort of wine you’re going to serve to my guests.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fortunately, I knew where the wine list was kept and rushed to produce it. As I handed it to the prince, I bowed again. He looked over it quickly and said, “Not bad. All quite good, in fact.”

To my astonishment, he kept on talking to me, asking about my family and my studies. I told him that I had taken over my late father’s job while also studying law. I was amazed at his knowledge of the subjects I was studying.

“Very impressive, sir,” I said enthusiastically.

“I studied law at the Sorbonne,” he said with a chuckle. “But that was years and years ago. Talking with you gives me the chance to see how much I remember.”

I was transfixed. I could hardly believe what was happening. The king’s cousin was standing in front of me and chatting to me like a friend.

He reached forward and examined the books on my desk. He found my anthology of the prince of poets, Ahmed Shawqi, and gave me a knowing look. I said shyly that I was fond of literature, and he asked me, “Do you just read or do you write as well?”