Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

We would meet twice a week. At every lesson, we would read a topic in the newspaper, and then I would explain some new literary text to her, and we would sit and discuss it. Then I would give her homework. I chose some serious pieces of writing for discussion. Together we read articles by al-Hakim and Ibrahim al-Mazini and plays by Tawfiq al-Hakim. As I was teaching her Hafez Ibrahim’s poem “Egypt Speaks About Herself,” we digressed onto the theme of pride in Arabic poetry and why this was not a subject dealt with by Western poets. I asked her to write her homework in classical Arabic but to speak with me in the colloquial language. If she could not find the right expression in Arabic, I asked her to write down what she would say in English, which I would later translate.

I may or may not be a good teacher, but Mitsy certainly had a sharp mind and remembered new words easily. In the space of just two months, she had shown remarkable progress. She could write in classical Arabic, without too many mistakes, and could speak the colloquial language well enough to be understood, even if with a heavy accent. I looked forward to our lessons. We had long and enjoyable discussions about various topics. Meeting her filled me with feelings of happiness and admiration but also deep concern.

“When I see what the occupation is doing to you Egyptians,” she said one time, “I feel ashamed to be English.”

“You’re not responsible for the policies of the British government.”

“In fact I am. You are not responsible for the dictator-king of Egypt because you didn’t choose him, but we elect governments whose glory comes from occupying and pillaging other countries. It makes me feel so ashamed.”

The gulf between her and her arrogant father was enormous. I could discern the distress on her beautiful face whenever he was mentioned. I could feel that she was skirting around a subject she did not want to talk about. One time, I went to give her a lesson as usual. The Club had just reopened after having been shut for three days because of the cholera. Mitsy had brought some slices of lemon, which she was squeezing into a glass of water.

“I would advise you,” she said seriously, “to purify the water. Cholera has broken out. I believe they have disinfected the Automobile Club, but that won’t stop the disease from spreading.”

I took the lemon from her hand and squeezed the juice into the water.

“We have already lost two of our staff in the Club,” I said. “In less than a week.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.”

“Death is not the worst of it! The families of the deceased are left paupers. The Club doesn’t pay pensions to Egyptians. Only to foreigners.”

“I can’t believe that!”

“The Club administration considers Egyptians lesser beings.”

I spoke that sentence with eternal bitterness. But as her father was the general manager, I thought I should be more careful.

“Please give the families of the deceased my condolences,” she said softly.

“I will pass them on. Thank you.”

I started the lesson on Ahmed Shawqi’s poem “O Neighbor of the Valley.” I taught her poems that had been set to music. She would always write down the name of the poem on a piece of notepaper so that she could buy the record on her way home.

When the lesson was over, Mitsy did not get up to leave as usual. She looked hesitant.

“Kamel,” she said. “Thank you so much for all your hard work with me.”

Her words made me uneasy. Why was she thanking me now? Had she decided to stop taking lessons? Had I done something wrong or said something to upset her? I was not concerned about the money I was earning for the lessons. I feared losing her friendship. I pulled myself together and steeled myself for the shock. I decided that I would save her the embarrassment of telling me, so I forced myself to smile as I asked her, “Do you think that you have made enough progress with your Arabic?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Perhaps you want to continue studying without my help?”

“Of course I still need your help.”

I tried to hide my relief.

“Then what is it?” I asked her.

“I want to get closer to Egyptians.”

“It’ll take a little longer until you can speak Arabic well enough.”

“The language is an important means of getting to know people, but it’s not everything.”

Mitsy smiled with the naughty expression of a child about to do something provocative and dangerous.

“I want to visit the native areas of Cairo,” she said slowly, “so that I can get to know real Egyptians.”

“How will you be able to talk to people you don’t know?”

She looked at me almost reproachfully, as if she had not been expecting that challenge.

“I just need to know exactly what you want,” I added quickly, “so that I can help you.”

She pursed her lips and seemed to be thinking.

“I’m looking for the truth, Kamel,” she said haltingly, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t want to observe from the outside. I don’t want to be just an English girl who lives in Zamalek and has fun in the sun. I don’t want to spend my time in the Zamalek Club and write letters to my friends in London telling them how lovely the weather is. That’s all so shallow. That’s not why I came to Egypt. I want to live a real life with real people. That’s why I thought I would go and see the areas where real Egyptians live. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Will you take me there?”

“Of course.”

“Kamel. You are a student at the College of Law, and at the same time, you also work in the Automobile Club, not to mention the time that you spend giving me lessons. You won’t have enough time.”

“I can always find time to accompany you.”

I was lying. Going out with her would be a pleasure, but I did not know how I would fit it in. I was already struggling, trying to do my studies until late and sometimes studying right through the night. Then in the morning I would take a shower and go to work, not having slept a wink. Even now I have no idea how my body coped. I applied myself to my job at the Club and kind Monsieur Comanus let me study in the storeroom and gave me some free time before my examinations.

I agreed to take Mitsy on an outing the following Wednesday, my day off. Our first trip was to the area around the Sayyidna il-Hussein Mosque. We met in the square in front of it following afternoon prayers, and then we wandered around the square and the neighboring streets.

“Now,” I said, “I’m going to show you al-Muezz’s gates of Cairo.”

“Did they close these gates,” she asked me as she looked at them with childish awe, “every night after the inhabitants of Cairo had gone to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then what would a Cairene have done if he arrived after the gates had been closed?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it would have been up to the guards to let him in or not.”

“Fantastic!” she clapped her hands like a little girl. “I’ve always dreamed of living in a town whose gates were closed at night. Just imagine me turning up at the closed gates and having to wait there all night until the guards opened them, and then I would pad through the gateway like a cat!”

Mitsy suddenly stopped walking and let out a meow, and we both laughed heartily. I was always being surprised by her eccentric behavior. After walking around a little, we sat down in the Fishawi coffee shop. I ordered a glass of green tea for her. As she sipped it, she raised the glass to her nose, closed her eyes and savored the aroma. She was wearing a very smart blue outfit with a white collar. She was leaning back in the old wooden sofa and looking at me.

“Can we go on an outing like this every week?”