Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

He had no need of those wise words because he had already decided to work hard. From the very first day, Mahmud felt like he had been born anew. At last he was enjoying the sort of life he had hoped for: he woke up at noon, his mother brought him breakfast in bed and they would chat as he ate. Then he would drink two glasses of tea, one with milk and one with mint, followed by two cups of medium-sweet coffee. After making sure that his mind was clear and his mood settled, he would get out of bed and start his daily routine, which, under whatever circumstances, he had to carry out meticulously before he could leave the apartment and face the world. He would take a shower, washing very carefully every inch of his body. Then he would shave, running the razor over his face a few times until it was silky smooth. Forcing his brush through his wiry hair with the help of Smart’s Brilliantine, he would shape it with a broad part on the right. That done, he would put on his sharpest clothes, add a few sprays of Old Spice, and kiss his mother’s forehead and hands on his way out the door. When he reached the Automobile Club, he would go straight up to the changing room on the roof, where he would fastidiously hang up his clothes and put on his uniform: narrow black high-waisted trousers, which showed off his strong thighs, with a wide red stripe running down the outside leg seams, a tight-fitting embroidered jacket, which showed off his bulging torso and rippling chest, and an elegant red tarboosh on his head. He would walk out of the Club door and strut down Qasr al-Nil Street to the garage, which was in a narrow alley, just off Ismailiya Square. There Mahmud would sit in his embroidered uniform next to Mustafa, the old driver, and the two of them would wait, chatting and drinking one glass of tea after another until the telephone rang and the telephonist gave them details of a delivery to a Club member. At that point, Mahmud would run the order to Rikabi the chef while Mustafa got the Citroën delivery van from the garage, and when Mahmud returned with the order, they would set off. Mustafa started teaching Mahmud the ropes from the first day.

“Mahmud,” he said, “the way you deliver the order is more important than the order itself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“As you hand over the order, you have to smile, lower your voice and bow to the customer, keeping your eyes down.”

“What a performance!”

“Listen, son. The most important thing is to make the Club members feel that they are important. Prestige is more important to them than food and drink. Treat them as VIPs, and they’ll tip you.”

Their deliveries always took them to the homes of Club members in Garden City, Zamalek and Maadi, or sometimes in Heliopolis. People usually ordered hot food or some of Rikabi’s wonderful patisseries. Very often they might be having a drinks party and would order a bottle of whiskey along with hot and cold canapés. Day by day, Mahmud slowly learned the routine. At the member’s apartment, he’d ring the doorbell and then take two steps backward. The servant or maid might open the door, and Mahmud would ask if he could see the master or the lady of the house. When he or she appeared, Mahmud would spring forward, bow respectfully and say reverentially, “Good evening, sir. Delivery from the Automobile Club.”

If it was a foreigner, he would say it in the broken French that he had learned with some difficulty from Mustafa: “Bonsoir, Monsieur. Livraison, Automobile Club.”

The servant would take the delivery from him while the member signed the check. In most cases, a banknote would be tendered to Mahmud by the happy-looking master or lady of the house. His handsome, young face, his ebony skin, his pearly teeth, which glistened when he smiled, his giant frame with its bulging muscles, his embroidered uniform, which made him look more like a matador or a cavalryman on parade, his repeated and majestic bows — this all inspired the admiration of the customers, magnifying their sense of importance and with that their generosity. He would split the tips with Mustafa and then divide his share with his mother, which left him with enough spending money for his outings with Fawzy. Mahmud continued working and helping at home in this way, always making sure to ask his mother if she needed anything. He became more sure of himself and offered his opinions confidently on a variety of subjects. He had become a man with family responsibilities, and no matter how late he woke up every day, his mother would bring him breakfast in bed, which he felt he now well deserved.

But Mahmud’s job at the Automobile Club also opened his eyes to a different reality: there was a world out there quite different from al-Sadd al-Gawany Street and the triangle, the Rimali Mill and the Ali Abd el-Latif School. It was a wonderful, variegated world, heaving with hitherto unimagined delights. He discovered that there were much greater pleasures than playing football, skipping school or kissing schoolgirls furtively in the cinema. The Club members lived in palatial apartments and wore elegant clothes, just like in the movies. Mahmud started to wonder how it was that some people could be so rich. Where did they get all that money?

“They are rich because they had rich parents, Mahmud. They have no idea of the misery we live in,” said Mustafa quietly, half in bitterness and half in scorn. “Their only problem in this world is how to spend their money and have a good time.”

As time passed, Mahmud developed a core group of regular customers. There was Sarwat Bey, who was always hosting poker games for his friends, and when his alcohol ran out, he would order a bottle of whiskey and trays of canapés from the Club. Monsieur Papazian, the old Armenian owner of the famous watch store in Ataba Square, who lived by himself in Diwan Street in Garden City and ordered dinner frequently. There was Ahmad Fadaly, the well-known cinema director and lady-killer, who took his girlfriends to his love nest in Shawarby Street; he would generally order dinner for two and a good bottle of French wine. He sent his servants away and would always open the door himself, in nothing but a silk robe, accepting the delivery while his lady friend waited inside the apartment. The nicest of all was Madame Khashab. She was a short, plump Englishwoman, a little over sixty, who dyed her hair black except for a shock of white hair at the front. She was the widow of an Egyptian landowner named Sami Khashab. They had no children, and after his death, she moved to a spacious apartment in Zamalek. Mahmud liked her from the start. He liked her maternal face, her permanent gentle smile and her hesitant Arabic. Whenever he delivered her favorite fruit tart, she would greet him warmly and exchange a few pleasantries with him as he stood at the door. Madame Khashab would ask after his family, and he would give a detailed answer. She would listen attentively, sigh and give him a large tip.

“Well done, Mahmud,” she would say. “You’re a fine lad. Look after your mother and your brothers and sister.”

When he told her that his sister had passed her half-year exams, she congratulated him warmly, and when she held out the tip for him, there was an extra Egyptian pound as a gift for Saleha, who was delighted but also astonished because Madame Khashab had never met her. Mahmud explained that, despite her being English, she obviously loved Egypt and the Egyptians. Not only that, but she herself had the kind and generous character of an Egyptian.

Then one day Mahmud went to deliver the fruit tart to Madame Khashab as usual. She took it from him, they chatted and she gave him his tip and he thanked her as always. But before he could turn and go, she exclaimed as if she had forgotten something, “Just a moment…”

She went inside, disappearing for a few minutes, and returned dragging a heavy suitcase.