Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

“It was the only way.”

“But you went to see the king of your own accord…”

“I only went to make you happy.”

“Nonsense. Are you stupid or just mad?”

“If you’re just going to insult me, I’ll go!”

Wright was breathing heavily, as if trying to control his feelings.

“As usual,” he said, “you never think of the consequence of your actions. You have put us all in a tricky situation. Botticelli called to ask about your health. The king is not stupid, and if he discovers that you lied, both you and I will pay a heavy price. Don’t you realize that the king has stalked women so tenaciously they’ve had to flee the country with their husbands…?”

“Just because he is the king, it means he can do whatever he likes?”

“Have you never heard of an oriental despot? He is not a constitutional monarch as we have in Britain. He is a potentate in the Turkish mold. He owns the country and everyone in it. He can crush anyone who opposes his will.”

“But you are English. The king cannot harm you.”

“He can make it impossible for me to stay in Egypt.”

His visible anguish only provoked her more.

“Well, how do you suggest we calm the situation down?” she asked him. “Should I sleep with him?”

“Don’t be so vulgar.”

“Well, if the only way to make the king happy is for me to sleep with him, wouldn’t that be the clever thing to do?”

“Shut up!” Wright shouted angrily, taking a large drag on his pipe.

“Mitsy,” he continued, “what happened, happened. We have to think calmly and proceed prudently. I suggest that you talk to Botticelli.”

“I’m not going to see that pimp again,” she retorted.

“I can organize a meeting in my office. I just want you to explain to him all about the infection and reassure him that you are on the mend.”

“I don’t owe anybody any explanations.”

“You’re the one who got us into this mess. You will have to do something to get us out of it.”

“Oh, stop it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

She turned and marched toward the door. Wright darted after her and grabbed her by the hand, but she snatched it back.

“If I were in your shoes,” she snapped at him, “I’d be ashamed of myself.”

He raised his hand and gave her a slap on the face. She screamed. He reached out to try to grab hold of her, but she rushed out of the study, slamming the door behind her.

Abd el-Malek the waiter looked the part. He was short and wiry, had an enormous bald pate and a moustache so small it looked like a dark speck under his nose. He looked like an old caricature of a “native Egyptian,” and his colleagues never stopped joking about it. There was a lot to joke about, including the fact that he was Christian. They only had to hear his footsteps in the distance before one would shout out, laughing, “Praise the Lord, my son!”

Abd el-Malek would laugh and reply, “Glory be to God on High.”

“Pray for us, Saint Abd el-Malek!”

“I pray to God to carry you all off!”

They all chuckled, but Abd el-Malek, turning serious again, replied, “I’ll have you know that I am a Muslim.”

“How can you be a Muslim, Abd el-Malek?”

“You are all such ignorant children,” he said in a learned tone of voice. “Do I, the Copt, have to explain your religion to you? O children, children. Islam means submitting yourself to God, relying upon Him for everything. That’s what I do, so I’m a Muslim like you even though I am a Copt.”

“God is great,” his colleagues shouted.

“What a nice bit of philosophizing!”

The fun continued.

“Abd el-Malek! Why don’t you announce that you have accepted Islam so that you can marry a nice girl as a second wife.”

“I can’t. My wife would kill me!”

“How long have you been married, Abd el-Malek?”

“Twenty years.”

“Twenty years with one woman? Aren’t you tired of her?”

“Of course I am.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll just have to put up with her.”

This playful banter fostered such a happy and tolerant atmosphere that the men would then repeat to themselves little expressions showing the convergence of their religious outlooks, such as:

“Leave religion to the pious!”

“We are all guided by God.”

“Religion is how you treat other people.”

The workers all loved Abd el-Malek and were greatly influenced by his enthusiasm, his openness and his devotion to his friends. If he was absent from work, they would walk around saying, “That Abd el-Malek. He’s a Copt, isn’t he? But by God Almighty, he’s a better person than many Muslims.”

Had they known that morning that he was so ill, they would have rushed to help him, but he appeared perfectly normal. He chatted with some of them, and, as usual, they joked around. He did not complain of anything. He carried out the tasks given him by Rikabi the chef, then excused himself and went to the toilet. When he returned, he washed his hands in hot water and soap (in accordance with Alku’s strict rules) and went back to peeling potatoes. Except that fifteen minutes later, he excused himself again.

“What’s going on, you bastard?” shrieked Rikabi the chef. “You just went to the toilet five minutes ago. Just what are you doing in there?”

The other staff laughed, but Abd el-Malek did not. He looked pale and worn out.

“Chef Rikabi, please excuse me,” he said meekly. “There’s something really wrong with my insides.”

“All right. Go. But make it quick,” said Rikabi, busy checking a pan on the stove. This time, Abd el-Malek ran to the toilet, and when he returned a few minutes later, his colleagues noticed the sweat running down his pale face. He seemed to be having difficulty walking and was tottering about. The staff clustered around him.

“What’s the matter?” they asked him anxiously. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Abd el-Malek looked at them in gratitude and forced a smile. He raised a hand as if to reassure them and was about to say something, but when he opened his mouth, white liquid ran out. His colleagues recoiled, terrified, and one of them shouted, “God help us!”

Abd el-Malek was vomiting in a way that no one had ever seen before. He knelt on the ground with his head forward, his facial muscles contracted amid spasms of vomiting as if some invisible iron hand were squeezing his innards out of him. He knelt there panting, unable to stand up. His colleagues tried to lift him by the arms, but he sank back down to the ground, and his limbs started trembling. Then he had a fit of convulsions and lay groaning weakly. The news was conveyed at lightning speed to Mr. Wright, who did not deem the illness of a member of staff any reason for him to leave his office. He thought it over for a moment and then peremptorily told Khalil, his office assistant, “Tell Mustafa the driver to take him home. Most importantly, clean up after him. I will go and check the kitchen area myself.”

Indeed, half an hour later, Wright went to the kitchen to check that it had been cleaned up properly. He ordered one of the staff to give the area a good scrub with some disinfectant from the storeroom. As the smell of disinfectant spread around the kitchen area, the whole affair was over as far as Mr. Wright was concerned. A servant had fallen ill, thrown up and been sent home. An everyday event that did not merit further attention.

When Alku came to hear of it in Abdin Palace, he ordered Hameed to visit Abd el-Malek that evening to check on him. Abd el-Malek had made it home to his apartment in Shubra, dragging his legs and leaning heavily on his colleague Kaylani the waiter, who had accompanied him in the car with Mustafa the driver. The two had helped him up the stairs to his apartment on the third floor and then spent a while calming Abd el-Malek’s wife, who had started panicking when she saw how his condition had deteriorated. They sat him down on the first chair in the sitting room. His wife had rushed off to the kitchen to prepare a glass of hot lemon juice, but when she came back a few minutes later, she let out a scream and dropped the glass on the floor. Abd el-Malek’s body was heaving up and down, and he was foaming at the mouth. He gave a few groans and then fell back, dead. His wife started wailing, and Kaylani and Mustafa burst out crying like children.