Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

When the news reached the Club, all the staff felt deeply saddened, telling each other dolefully, “Abd el-Malek was such a fine, upstanding man. He never hurt a fly his whole life long.”

His colleagues went to his funeral mass. As Muslims, they were a little nervous at finding themselves in a church, and their ignorance of the liturgy meant that they were not quite sure when to stand up or sit down. Notwithstanding, many of them were so overcome that they burst out in tears. They weren’t just distressed about their friend Abd el-Malek’s death, but were also terrified that death had come upon them, out of the blue, twice, with a second colleague having died suddenly so soon after Abd el-Aziz Gaafar. Not only had Abd el-Malek’s sudden death hit them hard, but what happened afterward did not allow them the opportunity to mourn. They needed some time to absorb it. They would have felt better had they been given the chance to shake their heads, bite their lips and recall their fond memories of him with pride and grief, ending with words of consolation, “We are from God and we return to Him. All men are mortal. Men are just shadows on the face of the earth. We are all mortal but care not to think of it.”

Fate, however, had ordained otherwise. For, just two days later, before they had recovered from the blow, they were shocked to see Mur’i the lift attendant rushing off to the toilet again and again. A very short while after that, exactly as with Abd el-Malek, they saw him reeling around, throwing up and falling unconscious to the ground. They rushed over, picked him up and laid him on a sofa, shouting for someone to call an ambulance, which arrived within minutes and took him to Qasr el-Ayni Hospital. He was dead upon arrival.

When this news reached the Club, the staff became hysterical. They threw down their cleaning equipment and ran around screaming like terrified mice in a trap. And for good reason. Before they even had time to reckon with Abd el-Malek’s death, Uncle Mur’i had now gone and died before their eyes in exactly the same way. What was going on? Was there a curse on the Automobile Club? Had the Grim Reaper, intent on culling their souls one by one, made a den for himself at the Club?

This time, when the news reached Mr. Wright, he took it with the utmost seriousness. He made some telephone calls, and about an hour later, a military vehicle stopped in front of the Automobile Club. Out stepped four British officers, three male and one female, whose uniforms indicated that they were three doctors and a nurse. They had two large cases with them, which the staff rushed out to carry. In the casino, in the presence of Mr. Wright and Alku, who had sped over to the Club, they set up a field clinic. The staff, lined up outside the casino door, stood in silence, their terror at the succession of events having rendered them unable to comment or react. The doctors summoned them in one by one. They examined each staff member carefully, giving him a plastic bag and asking him to bring a stool sample the next day. The atmosphere was heavy and doom-laden. It felt like a curse had fallen upon everyone. Some of the staff wanted to bring the sample back that same day, as if that would put a speedy end to their nightmare. They rushed off to the only toilet they were allowed to use, on the roof. It was a strange sight to see, as they went into the stall, one after another, and came out each clutching a plastic bag full of excrement. If one of them was taking a long time inside, the others started shouting at him to hurry up. The doctors did not exclude anyone from their examination. Having checked all the serving staff and the other employees, they then insisted on examining Alku and Mr. Wright. They left the nurse to accept any samples and write up her notes. Those who had not yet provided a sample were reminded of the urgency of bringing it the following morning.

In the meantime, the head doctor had gone with Mr. Wright to his office. There was no time for small talk. Mr. Wright knitted his eyebrows.

“Dr. Frankham, thank you so much for all your effort.”

“No need to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”

“Can you give me some understanding of what is happening here?”

Dr. Frankham looked down for a moment. Then he raised his head and said calmly, “Unfortunately, I am not very optimistic.”

“About what?”

“There is a high chance that the staff member who died today and perhaps also the one who died two days ago…were suffering from cholera. We have sound information that cases have occurred in Cairo and Alexandria.”

“How is it I haven’t heard about that until now?”

“The Ministry of Health does not wish to publicize cases of cholera in order to avoid an outbreak of panic. We had hoped that they were isolated cases, but unfortunately every day there are new ones. I think that the government is going to make a statement about the outbreak tomorrow.”

Wright knitted his brows.

“Cholera outbreak? Can’t be! We have meticulous procedures for hygiene here at the Club. I supervise everything myself.”

“They cannot prevent cholera, they can only slow down the rate of infection.”

Wright lit his pipe, drew on it and blew out a thick cloud of smoke.

“Dr. Frankham,” he barked, “are you sure about this?”

“Naturally we have to analyze the samples first, but after thirty years of practicing medicine, I think I know what the results will be.”

There was silence between them. Then Wright sighed heavily, “Please understand my position. This will have terribly negative repercussions for the Automobile Club.”

“I do understand your concern, but our duty is to deal with a far graver reality. If it is confirmed that your man died from cholera, as unfortunately seems almost certain, then everyone at the Club is in mortal danger, the rate of infection is very quick in such settings.”

“And in that case, what must we do?”

The doctor shook his head and looked at Wright.

“There is no alternative. The Club will have to be closed.”

“I should like to introduce myself,” Mitsy said in English with a smile.

“Mr. Wright has told me about you,” I replied quickly.

“My father doesn’t know me,” she said dejectedly. I felt a little embarrassed.

“Then tell me who you are,” I said.

“My name is Mitsy, and I am studying drama at the American University. I have studied elementary Arabic with a private teacher here in Cairo, but I didn’t like his method. He just taught grammar, but I want to learn Arabic, whether classical or colloquial, in order to be able to get along with people.”

“Why are you so interested in learning Arabic?”

“I want to be able to understand Egyptians. I can’t understand them if I don’t speak their language. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Kamel, and I work here at the Club. I am also studying law at the Fuad I University, and I like writing poetry.”

Her blue eyes widened, and she shrieked, “Oh! You’re a poet. Fantastic. I’d love to read your poems.”

“That would make me very happy, Miss Mitsy.”

“Please, let us dispense with titles.”

So I started calling her Mitsy. I loved the way she pronounced my name, drawing out the “a” so that it sounded like “Kaaaamel.” During the lesson, the way she looked imprinted itself onto my consciousness: she was so elegant and tall, with smooth brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She had smooth skin, bluish eyes, finely shaped lips, beautiful dimples, a broad gleaming forehead and the sort of long, lean fingers you could not take your eyes off, not to mention that adorable area between her upper lip and her nose. She was beautiful, but her spirit was even more attractive. There was something impetuous and instinctive about her. She overflowed with vitality. Everything she did was special, unexpected, even shocking, but also pleasant. She was like a princess who had fled her palace in rebellion and had come to live among the lower orders.