Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Khalil the office clerk greeted me. “May God grant you success.” He smiled and then whispered, “Mr. Wright is one of the meanest men on earth. He hardly ever smiles. He just sits there with a fixed grimace and looks you up and down.”

At nine exactly, I knocked on the door. I heard him call out sharply, “Enter.”

“How are you?” he said in English.

“Very well, thank you, sir.”

He gestured for me to sit down and then lit his pipe, exhaling a heady cloud of smoke.

“His Royal Highness Prince Shamel has put your name forward as someone who could give my daughter Arabic lessons.”

“I’d be happy to, sir.”

“My daughter, Mitsy, received her secondary education in London and then decided, for some unknown reason, to come and live in Egypt. She’s now studying drama at the American University. She has some basic knowledge of Arabic but needs lessons in speaking and writing.”

“Rest assured.” I smiled. “She’ll speak and write Arabic fluently.”

Mr. Wright’s glower made me realize I had overstepped the mark.

“I have decided on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he informed me, “because Mitsy has no morning classes on those days. You’ll start today.”

I nodded in agreement. He looked at his watch and exhaled another puff of smoke, which hung in the air between us.

“I’ve lived in Egypt for twenty years,” he went on, “and yet I still find Egyptian behavior odd. For example, I don’t understand why the Egyptians cling to a complicated dead language like Classical Arabic.”

“Because Arabic,” I answered without thinking, “bears our history and is something all the Arab peoples have in common, as well as it being the language of the Quran.”

“Delusional.”

I said nothing. The conversation was taking a course I had not expected.

Mr. Wright smiled and then shot out another question at me. “Why don’t you write in the everyday language you use for speaking?”

“The colloquial is not a written language. It’s just a dialect. Lots of cultures have a written language and a dialect that they use for every day. The French and Americans also have various local forms that differ greatly from their written languages.”

Mr. Wright shook his head, unconvinced. “The Egyptians will never advance,” he added, “if they don’t let go of that barren classical language.”

“It’s not barren,” I interjected. “It’s one of the richest living languages. Moreover, it is not Arabic that is the cause of Egypt’s backwardness. Egypt is backward because it is under occupation.”

There was a sudden look of disapproval in his bluish eyes.

“Were it not,” he continued, “for what you call ‘the occupation,’ your country would still be in the Middle Ages.”

“We didn’t ask for anyone’s help. And I don’t believe that Britain has occupied Egypt for charitable purposes.”

“And do you think,” he asked with a look of contempt, “that Egyptians are capable of governing themselves?”

“The Egyptians ruled the civilized world for centuries.”

“Yes, of course. You have to look to distant history for your glory because your present is not very inspiring.”

“The deterioration in the quality of life in Egypt is due to the occupation that is systematically plundering our resources.”

“Before the Egyptians start demanding independence, they need to learn how to think and work properly.”

What a nasty, odd man. Just as arrogant as he was when my mother had dealt with him. What makes him talk like that? If he hates Egyptians so much, why does he live in their country? He didn’t even shake my hand. He did not utter a word of thanks. Even if he is paying for the lessons, shouldn’t he at least thank me for being so obliging? I was really irritated and thought that I should stand up for myself, give him a piece of my mind, and to hell with the Club. But I tried as hard as I could to avoid doing anything I might regret. Then I realized that this was not a spur-of-the-moment argument. He was driving at something. Maybe he was trying to take revenge for my mother’s reprimand the first time we met. Perhaps he himself did not want me teaching his daughter and was trying to provoke me into saying something out of line so that he could fire me despite the prince. I decided not to take the bait.

I stood up and asked him calmly, “Mr. Wright, what time should I start the lesson?”

“When Mitsy’s ready.”

“What time will Mitsy be ready?”

“Wait outside,” he snapped. “Khalil will take you there soon.”

I waited for about a quarter of an hour outside his office before Khalil came to collect me. We took the lift to the top floor and made our way to a small room next to the casino. I tried to control my anger and rid myself of the bad taste from our meeting. I swore to myself that if Mitsy exhibited the same vanity and arrogance as her father, I would quit, no matter how much he paid me. Khalil pushed the door, it opened slowly and I walked over to Mitsy, who was sitting at a small round table next to the window.

“Good morning,” I said in English.

She stood up and shook my hand warmly.

“Hello,” she smiled. “I’m Mitsy Wright. Thank you for having agreed to help me with my Arabic.”

A week had passed and no punishment had been meted out to Abdoun. Seeing that he carried on chatting and laughing and doing his job as normal, the other staff kept warning each other nervously:

“Just wait. Alku will crush him like a cockroach.”

“He’ll make an example of him.”

But when another week passed and nothing happened to Abdoun, they were disconcerted and confused. They started looking at the matter from different angles: if Abdoun was able to criticize Alku openly and carry on working for two weeks without being punished, then he was not mad or feckless as they had imagined. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was, however, something that still concerned them: Why had Alku not punished someone who had spoken up against him? After all, he had come to the Club and the fury on his face said he knew what Abdoun had been up to, but for all that, he did not make a move against him. What was the world coming to! If anyone had told them such a thing, they would not have believed him. Had Alku been struck by some debilitating illness, or did Abdoun enjoy the patronage of someone mightier than Alku? There was only one explanation that they could settle on: Abdoun had been planted by Alku himself. It was entirely plausible, because Alku was known for playing no end of dirty games, and this could be his latest devilish plot. He had planted among them someone to speak up against him, letting him go unpunished in order to check their loyalty. Karara the waiter took up this notion in the coffee shop.

“Be careful,” he told his colleagues. “That lad Abdoun’s a spy. Don’t let him fool you into saying anything that could land you in the shit.”

“You’re right,” some of those present responded. “Of course we can see that!”

Bahr the barman wagged his finger. As usual he was sitting there smoking a shisha. He blew out a heavy puff of smoke and told them, “Listen, all of you. Use your brains. Would Alku need to send Abdoun? He knows everything about us. He already has spies who report every last detail.”

“Then you’re on Abdoun’s side?” Karara asked dejectedly.

“It’s not a question of sides.”

“How do you mean?”

“The guy is just doing what he thinks is right.”

“Impossible!”

“Listen, all of you,” Samahy the kitchen boy chimed in. “Abdoun is standing up for what’s right. We are all taken aback because we’re not used to someone speaking up.”