Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

As the wedding day approached, I was beset by a mixture of both terror and curiosity, like a little girl on a scary fairground ride. The party took place on the roof terrace, with guests both from our street in Cairo and from Upper Egypt. I looked at the scene with a sense of detachment, as if through a murky glass. There was a crowd, food, women ululating, tambourines, shrieks and kisses. All the sounds seemed to be coming from afar, as if I were drugged or dreaming. Abd el-Barr decided that we would spend our honeymoon in Alexandria because I had once told him that I had liked the city ever since first visiting it as a child with my father. We reached Alexandria before dawn and stayed in a hotel fronting the sea in Mahattat al-Raml. I was still wearing my white wedding dress, and the staff welcomed me warmly in spite of the tiredness in their eyes. I greeted them in return, although I was almost fainting with embarrassment. I could not bear the thought that they knew what Abd el-Barr and I were about to do the moment we shut the door. For all their sweet and polite words of welcome, I could see a lascivious look in their eyes as they mentally undressed me.

We had a large room with a balcony overlooking the sea. As Aisha had instructed, I would shower and put on my short low-cut black nightdress. I did what she had said, but despite my best efforts to overcome my shyness, I found myself incapable of standing like that in front of Abd el-Barr, so I put on a full-length silk dressing gown. Sitting at the desk, Abd el-Barr smiled.

“Brava, my bride!”

“Thank you.” I managed to mouth the words as I sat on the edge of the bed. My breathing was shallow. My limbs turned to jelly, and everything Aisha had told me vanished from my mind. Abd el-Barr stood up and started walking toward me. I think I might have aroused his pity, as he suddenly asked me, “Are you feeling embarrassed?”

I did not answer. He laughed and said, “All right. I’m going to take a shower, but I won’t be a moment!”

I nodded and smiled. I noticed that he seemed to be holding something in his left hand, but I could not see what. I sat there in a state of total confusion until I heard the bathroom door open, and he called out with a laugh, “I’m ready, my little bride!”

I said nothing. I heard him come up behind me, but I was frozen to the spot and unable to turn around. I could almost hear my heart pounding. Then I was aware of Abd el-Barr putting his arms around me.

The blood test showed that Mur’i had died from cholera. The samples from the other staff came back negative, except for three who turned out to be carriers: the sous-chef and two of the waiters. They were rushed off to hospital for treatment and their families placed in quarantine. The Automobile Club shut its door for three days during which the whole building was disinfected by the medical corps of the British army. When the Club reopened, unprecedented precautions were instituted. Antiseptic soap was distributed to all the staff, and their caftans were changed daily, returning freshly ironed from Abdin Palace. The tablecloths and napkins and anything that could carry the infection were sterilized in an autoclave installed on the roof terrace. All water was boiled before being used for cooking, and if it was for drinking, lemon juice was added to it. Cold shellfish dishes were taken off the menu in the restaurant. All vegetables were soaked in a dilution of permanganate for a whole hour and then washed in boiled water, and they had to be served piping hot to the members. Even the ice cubes for the whiskey were now being made from boiled water. The staff followed the new precautionary measures to the letter, unable to get out of their minds the memory of Abd el-Malek and Mur’i lying there dying. Dispirited and frightened, they continued to feel that death was stalking them in every nook and cranny of the Club, ready to take them at any moment. Who would be the next victim? How was it possible that a life could just be snuffed out like that? Whoops, and you were gone. All your good times, and your bad ones too. Your voice and breathing just stop, and you turn into a cold corpse honored by a speedy burial. Had Abd el-Malek not been joking with them just a day before he died? Had Mur’i not just celebrated the marriage of his daughter a couple of weeks ago? Had he not seemed to be in good health that night? After the wedding, they had all ganged up to bring him back with them to the men’s apartment, where they sat up all night smoking hashish together. Had any one of them imagined that Uncle Mur’i, such an amusing chatterbox that night, would disappear from the face of the earth a few days later? They were all living on tenterhooks now. Any of them might be next. After all, as Kamel Gaafar had translated the words of the English doctor, “The new precautionary measures must be followed to the letter. Notwithstanding, the cholera microbe remains an ever-present danger. If any of you feels unusual in any way, you must inform us immediately so that we might treat and save you.”

Needless to say, dealing with the imminence of death had not been part of their daily routine. Many now started saying their prayers regularly, beseeching God at length for mercy and forgiveness. Some tried to cope otherwise with alcohol and hashish. After the night shift, instead of going to the Paradise Café, they would go to the men’s apartment to get drunk or light up a water pipe with hashish and brood. But despite persistent effort, there was no forgetting their ordeal. Their attempts at laughter sounded hollow, and they would slowly sink back into grief and hopelessness. It was no use. The fates were ranged against them. They were living like shadows. Before they had been merely abused and fleeced by Alku and flogged by Hameed, as they tried to put aside a few meager piastres for their families. They bore this misery with a vague and lingering hope, which they hardly dared even verbalize, that their lives might suddenly improve, that some unexpected event might release them in one fell swoop and lead them to a happier life, that God in His mercy would have a change of mind and lift their cloud of wretchedness. How could anyone resist what God had in store for him? Take Yusuf Tarboosh. He had been just as desperate, but by God’s blessing, the king found his presence at the gambling table lucky and showered him with money. Does God Almighty not bring things into existence with a single word? Does He not provide sustenance to whomsoever he wishes?

That vague hope was one of the reasons for their opposition to Abdoun’s rebelliousness. They believed that wisdom dictated that they should bend with the wind, bear all the humiliations and live with injustice while they dreamed of salvation. That was better than starting up all sorts of hopeless arguments with Alku, who in any case would end up on top. Reason dictated that they should just be patient until God provided salvation.

As time passed, they believed less that Abdoun might be Alku’s stooge and started considering him no more than a stupid waste of space. Although a few were still prepared to speak up for Abdoun, most remained opposed. If he got worked up about dignity and rights, they would refute him or just ignore him or stare at him with the sort of sympathetic smile you might give a child imitating an adult. In any case, the daily discussions with Abdoun had now been overtaken by the recent succession of sorry events: the deaths of two colleagues, the discovery of cholera, the shutting of the Club and the new sanitary measures.

Every day brought them a worrisome new development. Even with the Club disinfected and operated with new precautions, its reopening was a flop. The king, who was meticulous about his own health, stopped coming. His example was followed by the princes, pashas and most of the members. For the first time, the Club shut its doors at one a.m. The paucity of customers meant that the staff’s real source of income, tips, dried up. Their salaries were low, and without gratuities, their children would surely starve. The Club was in the doldrums, but Mr. Wright came up with a solution to the crisis. He asked Dr. Frankham, the senior medical officer in the British army, to stamp, sign and issue a certificate stating that the Automobile Club had received the all clear and was free of the cholera microbe. Dr. Frankham hesitated, explaining that on the practical level, it was impossible to confirm that any locale was completely microbe free. But after a long conversation, they reached a compromise. Dr. Frankham would issue a certificate stating that the Club had been disinfected to the highest possible standard. Mr. Wright had scores of copies made and ordered them to be posted to every member.