Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“Mahmud,” she said. “You are like a son to me, aren’t you?”

Mahmud nodded.

“These are some very expensive shirts, trousers and jackets,” she continued. “They are all your size. Please don’t embarrass me by refusing to take them.”

The offer came as a complete surprise to Mahmud, who didn’t know what to say, but Madame Khashab’s maternal look and her kindly smile won him over, so he bowed and picked up the suitcase with one hand, thanking her warmly. Mustafa put the suitcase in the trunk. When Mahmud got home after work, his mother, sitting up waiting for him, was astonished to see him with a suitcase. Mahmud just smiled. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it as I eat.”

He devoured an enormous quantity of eggs with sliced dried beef, cleaning the plate with a hunk of bread followed by two large rum babas for dessert. He got up to wash his hands and then sat next to his mother, sipping his tea as he told her how kind Madame Khashab was and how much she liked him. Then he explained about the suitcase. His mother made no comment, so he got up to open the suitcase and lay out the contents. Indeed, the clothes were very smart. Shirts, trousers and three suits all in his size. He held up a blue shirt with a white collar and said, “Look how smart this shirt is!”

Only at this point did Umm Said suddenly let out a stifled wail, “It’s between you and God, Mahmud.”

He dropped the shirt and rushed over to her, saying, “What’s the matter, Mother?”

“She has turned us into beggars.”

“What do you mean, beggars? It’s a gift from a lovely lady.”

“A lovely lady from whom you take old clothes.”

“Mother, these are better than new. No one would ever know that they are secondhand.”

“Even if no one knows, how can you make yourself a beggar?”

“Mother, I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

“You’ll never understand because you’re stupid. The most stupid thing God ever created. An oaf.”

The word just slipped out of her. They sat there in silence, Mahmud like a scolded dog beside his mother. Umm Said put out her arms, hugged him and whispered, “I’m sorry, son. Don’t be upset.”

He shook his head and mumbled, “I’m sorry about it.”

His humility only increased her sense of guilt. She kissed him on the forehead.

“My boy,” she explained, the way one might to a baby in a cradle, “we are from a great family. Landowners. People with a sense of pride. We used to be well-off, but that’s over now and we’re poor. We might be miserable and forced to work, but we will never ask for anything from anyone. All we have left is our dignity. Never accept charity, Mahmud.”

Feeling encouraged, Mahmud asked innocently, like a child who wanted to know, “Isn’t the suitcase just like a tip from a customer?”

“No, my boy. Charity and a tip are different things. A tip is a sign of appreciation for something you have done, but charity is something you give to beggars.”

They were silent for a while. Then Umm Said got up and stood facing him. “Do you love me, Mahmud?”

“Of course I do, Mother.”

“If you love me, then take this stuff back to the foreign lady.”

Mahmud stared at her in incomprehension.

“By the life of your late father, do what I tell you and then I won’t be upset.”

The following day, after they had made the first delivery, instead of going straight back to the Club, Mahmud asked Mustafa if they could please stop by his home on al-Sadd Street. And with the suitcase in the trunk once more, they set off for Madame Khashab’s in Zamalek. Mahmud set the suitcase down in front of the door and rang the bell. A short while later, Madame Khashab appeared in a silk dressing gown. Her face betrayed her astonishment at seeing him, but she quickly smiled and asked, “Is everything all right, Mahmud?”

“Madame Khashab,” he answered immediately, “I would like to thank you for the gift, but I cannot accept it.”

“For what reason?”

“Because my mother got upset.”

“Why would your mother get upset?”

“She says that we are not beggars to take charity from you.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed and mumbled a few words in English that he did not understand. Then she leaned over, dragged the suitcase back into the apartment and shut the door without saying anything further. Mahmud knew that she was angry and he felt bad. He almost regretted having brought the suitcase back, but when he recalled his mother’s sad face, he realized that he had had no option.

The following day, his guilt started weighing on him. He ought to speak to Madame Khashab and explain, apologizing and begging her not to be upset with him. He would tell her that he really liked her and knew that she loved him like a son but that he had been obliged to do as his mother said. Days passed as Mahmud waited for Madame Khashab to order her favorite tart, but after a whole week, she still had not ordered a thing, and Mahmud told Mustafa what had happened. He just shook his head as he held the steering wheel. “Naturally,” he said, “Madame Khashab is right to be upset. She did something nice for you, and you threw it back at her.”

“So what should I do, Uncle Mustafa?”

“God knows, your mother is also right. You Gaafars are Upper Egyptian landowners, so how can you accept charity?”

“Uncle Mustafa. Now you’ve confused me. Whose side are you on?”

Mustafa shook his and pondered a while. “Listen, Mahmud,” he said. “You want to make things up with Madame Khashab?”

“Of course I do.”

“All right. Go buy her a nice bunch of flowers.”

Mahmud appeared even more confused. “What are you talking about, flowers, Uncle Mustafa?” he said.

“Just do what I say, Mahmud. Foreign ladies love flowers. The best thing you can give a foreign lady is a bunch of flowers.”

Mahmud trusted Mustafa even though he could not fathom this notion. He waited until Tuesday, his day off, and at around three o’clock in the afternoon made his way to Madame Khashab’s apartment wearing his best clothes, from the downtown store Chaloun: black trousers, a white shirt and a gray velvet jacket. He was holding a bunch of red and white carnations in his hand. He rang the bell. After two minutes, he rang the bell again, but not a sound was to be heard. Mahmud realized that Madame Khashab either was not in or did not want to open the door. He was walking away when he heard the sound of footsteps. He gripped the flowers with his left hand, fixed a broad smile on his face and resumed his pose in front of the door, a little anxious, but ready come what may.

I could not sleep. Why had the rhythm of my life sped up so much?

Why was I lurching from one situation to another? As if against my will, I was being thrust in a certain direction, as if my feet were leading me to a predetermined denouement. It all seemed unfathomable, working at the Club and getting to know the prince. Was it just a coincidence that he had come to the storeroom? Wasn’t it odd that he should come and examine the wines himself? Perhaps not. But why would he invite me for lunch in his palace? Why this interest in me? Who am I that the king’s cousin should care or approach me to give lessons to the manager’s daughter? But the strangest thing is that he knew about my role in the resistance.

“Thanks to what you and your colleagues are doing, the English will evacuate the country.” Was it just innocent wishful thinking, or did he know something? Perhaps recent events were all a matter of coincidence, or could they have been carefully planned? I lay in bed, brooding and smoking, and by the time of the morning call to prayer, I was exhausted and finally dozed off for two hours. My meeting with Mr. Wright was at nine o’ clock that morning. I polished my shoes to within an inch of their life, ironed a shirt, pressed my suit and gave my tarboosh a good brushing. I arrived a few minutes early.