Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Soon, they started gradually coming back. Whenever a member turned up, Maître Shakir, following Mr. Wright’s instructions, would explain in great detail how the Club had been disinfected. He would take him to the kitchen to see the precautions for himself and then take him up in the lift to see the giant autoclave on the roof. To seal the deal, Maître Shakir would then sit him down at a table and, with a reassuring smile, tell him, “The Club has been disinfected under the supervision of the British army medical corps, and as Sir must already know, English doctors are the best in the world.”

Within a month of the issuance of the medical certificate, most of the members had returned, and finally, His Majesty honored the Automobile Club with his first visit since its closure. That night, the staff were all in a festive mood. The king seemed to be in tip-top form, his companions joking with him and each trying to outdo the next to keep him in good cheer. The moment he saw Yusuf Tarboosh, the king told him, “Joe, reste à côté de moi. J’ai besoin de chance ce soir. ”

Yusuf gave a deep bow and mumbled, “At your service, Your Majesty.”

Thus life at the Club returned to normal. The tips started to flow again, and there was an atmosphere of cautious optimism. But would the staff’s lives go back to normal or was there still more tragedy in store? One morning, the late Abd el-Malek’s widow came with her two little angelic boys, Michel and Raymonde. It was very moving to see them with their mother. The men clustered around them, welcoming them with a sorrowful warmth. She had brought along the little ones to ask for financial assistance from Mr. Wright, who peremptorily refused to meet with them, leaving a very blunt message for them with Khalil the office clerk, “There is nothing to discuss. You have already received the end-of-service payment.”

Abd el-Malek’s widow asked him, “Did you ask him about a pension, Uncle Khalil?”

Khalil cast his gaze downward and mumbled, “I did ask him, Umm Michel, but he told me that there are no pensions for Egyptians.”

“But, Khalil, the end-of-service payment will only keep us going a month or two. After that, how will I be able to feed my children? Please go and talk to the Englishman again, or let me go and talk to him.”

Her pleading tone so aroused Khalil’s sympathy that he flung caution to the wind. He went off again to Mr. Wright’s office. Wright said nothing but picked up his newspaper and carried on reading while gesturing to Khalil to get out. Downcast, he returned to Umm Michel, who realized from his expression that his efforts had failed and she started crying. The staff then took up a collection and handed the cash to Suleyman, the doorman and oldest member of staff, who then pressed the sum into the widow’s hand.

“The late Abd el-Malek was our brother and dear friend,” he told her. “The same goes for his family and children. Please, Umm Michel, if you need anything, call us and we’ll bring it over to you.”

The widow’s feelings of gratitude exacerbated her grief, and she burst out sobbing as she muttered some words of thanks and then left, taking her children with her. Two days later, the scene was repeated with the widow of Mur’i the lift attendant, who tried her luck with Alku. She went to his office in Abdin Palace to request assistance, but Alku reaffirmed that the Club bylaws did not allow the payment of pensions. Mur’i’s widow neither broke down nor begged but became angry and started shouting, “What do you mean, no pensions? How are we going to eat? If someone dies, are his family supposed to starve to death?”

She was a hard-nosed Upper Egyptian woman who had married Mur’i late in life, after the death of his first wife. They had produced three children, who were still of school age. Her sense of injustice only inflamed her anger. She was completely unaware that shouting at Alku was considered completely taboo.

His eyes bulged in disbelief as he gestured at her and barked, “Get out!”

Mur’i’s widow held her ground, shouting back at him, “So you would send me away like some beggar! I just want what my children are entitled to!”

At this, Alku gave a look to Hameed, who got the hint and grabbed Mur’i’s widow by the arms, dragging her out of the office. Two palace guards were called to help him, and she did not stop screaming as they frog-marched her out, “Shame on you, you heathens! Do you want me to go begging in the streets?”

She put up a struggle, trying to slip out of their grip, but Hameed thumped her on the back and shouted breathlessly, “Listen, woman! We’re treating you nicely out of respect for the late Mur’i. If you don’t leave, I’ll have the guards arrest you and throw you into prison.”

She now became aware of the danger of the situation, and her shouting turned into tearful imploring. Hameed realized that her will had now been broken and stepped back a little, gesturing to the guards to eject her. Then he turned around and walked slowly back to Alku’s office.

News of this incident spread among the staff, and they felt a sense of consternation. How could you throw the widow of your colleague out onto the street? How could Hameed give her a thump and threaten her with prison for simply requesting a pension so that she could feed her children? It was the same as had happened with the family of the late Abd el-Malek. The children of the late Abd el-Aziz also would have been reduced to begging had Comanus not have been kindhearted enough to take on Kamel and his brother Mahmud at the Club. The staff were well aware that what had happened with the families of their late colleagues could happen to their own families at any time. Should they die, fall ill or be incapacitated, their own children might end up having to beg in the streets, and if they came to the Club to request assistance, Mr. Wright would also refuse to meet them, and Hameed might thump them and have them thrown out.

The staff now started exchanging angry whispers:

“How much would it cost the Automobile Club to pay pensions to the families of the deceased?”

“Nothing! Peanuts compared to the Club budget.”

“They have losses of hundreds of pounds every night in the casino, but there’s nothing when it comes to the families of the deceased!”

“It’s just plain wrong!”

Their resentments increased to the point where they could no longer remain silent. They decided to do something about it, and to speak to one of the department heads. After thinking it over and discussing it among themselves, they went off to see Maître Shakir, who, vile as he might be, did have a shred of decency, unlike Rikabi the chef. They felt they could talk to Shakir, and they knew that, moreover, he was on good terms with both the management and the membership. After the usual formalities and questions about one another’s health, they came straight to the point, “Surely you can’t be happy about what has happened with the children of the late Abd el-Malek and Mur’i.”

Maître Shakir said nothing, eyeing them cautiously.

“We have to have a pension, Shakir,” they said variously. “How can we work for years in the Club and then when we die our children are left to rot?”

Shakir let them fire out their questions. Then he asked them calmly, “How can I help you?”

“Go and see Mr. Wright and tell him.”

“He’ll just tell me that the bylaws don’t allow it.”

“Then tell them to change the bylaws. They’re not written in stone!”

Shakir thought it over a little and then told them, “My advice is to forget the whole thing. Mr. Wright will never change the bylaws.”

“It’s an injustice. A sin. They’ll have to answer to God.”

“You’ll have to live with it. If Alku gets wind of what you’ve been saying, it’ll be a catastrophe for you all.”