Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

She reached over and pushed the pound into his breast pocket. He thanked her profusely, but she suddenly came right up to him, and in a lascivious whisper, she said, “I want you.”

The situation had become tricky. Mahmud barely managed to stutter in response, “At your service, Madame.”

She reached out and started feeling up his broad shoulders, then her face froze, and in a serious tone of voice that did not seem quite appropriate for the situation, she told him, “I want you to come and visit me the way you go and visit Rosa Khashab.”

Mahmud blinked. He was speechless. He gave her a worried look, and all he could think about was how she could possibly have known about his relationship with Rosa. Dagmar was still smiling when she asked him nervously, “So what do you say?”

He had a whole pound in his pocket, which he could use for going out and having fun, but at the same time, the woman was the furthest thing he could imagine from sexually attractive. She had the body of an old soldier. Lank and dried out. No juicy backside or anything up front. Had he not feared her wrath, he might have turned her down, but he was just a delivery boy at the Automobile Club, and she was a rich, foreign lady who could cause him a lot of trouble.

“At your service, Madame,” he said weakly.

“Come and sit down,” she told him affectionately. “We can have dinner together…”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to get back to work.”

She gave him a peeved, almost angry, look. “Then finish work and come back.”

“I finish quite late.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Could we do it tomorrow?”

“Okay. Tomorrow, finish work and come to me.”

The moment Mahmud got out of her apartment, he heaved a sigh of relief. He needed to think over this bizarre development. He carried on working absentmindedly, and when he got home, he tried to think some more, but it was all too much for him, and he fell into a deep sleep.

The following day, before going to work, he dropped in on Fawzy. It was Aisha who opened the front door, telling him, “You’ve come just at the right time! It’s one o’clock, and your friend doesn’t want to wake up.”

Mahmud went in and had to smile when he saw Fawzy in his pajamas, snoring away. He woke him and waited while he took a shower. Fawzy came back from the bathroom, towel around his neck, his hair dripping. They drank tea, and as Mahmud told him what had gone on with Dagmar, Fawzy worked his way through a number of bean and egg sandwiches with pickled cucumbers. When he had finished, he lit a cigarette.

“That needs some thinking over, Mr. Mahmud! Of course, you’ll have to go and see her.”

“But she’s a dried-out old lady, not even remotely attractive.”

“It’s work, sunshine! Everything has a price. But this time, my boy, we’ll make a pretty penny.”

The following day, after Mahmud had finished his shift, at two in the morning, he changed out of his work clothes and telephoned his mother from the Club to tell her that he would be staying that night with one of his chums. He went out onto the street, greeted Suleyman and then hailed a taxi to Madame Dagmar’s. He entered the lobby, but the moment he pushed the call button for the lift, the doorman appeared, rubbing his sleepy eyes. He looked at Mahmud with disbelief and asked him officiously, “Going to see whom?”

“Going to see Madame Dagmar on the third floor.”

“And what is the purpose?”

“She asked me to come and visit her when I finished work.”

The doorman’s expression changed into one of suspicion mixed with contempt. He opened the lift door and said to Mahmud, “Come with me.”

They rode up to the third floor in silence except for the loud whirring of the lift. As the doorman knocked on the apartment door, his expression turned to one of respect. Dagmar peered through the small grille in the door, and the doorman greeted her.

“Sorry for the trouble, Madame. This young fellow says he has an appointment with you.”

Her face relaxed and she said, “Yes. Please let Mahmud come in.”

Mahmud gave the doorman a sour look as he bowed and walked off. Dagmar was wearing a red robe and heavy makeup, which made her look like a rag doll. The moment Mahmud stepped inside, she bolted the door and threw her arms around him. She kissed him on the neck and chest, then rubbed her face against his chest, panting, hot to trot. Not knowing what to do with himself, he gently disentangled himself and asked her, “Might I have something to eat? I’m starving.”

“Abdoun is going to see Alku,” the staff told one another excitedly. It beggared belief. Abdoun, the assistant barman, was going to stand before Alku and demand an end to the beatings. Alku would never back down. He’d been having them beaten ever since they started at the Club and not for a day had any of them ever thought to protest. They simply trembled when Alku walked by and thanked God when he ignored them and just carried on. How could one of them now be going to confront him with a demand to stop the beatings? What would be Abdoun’s fate? Alku’s reaction would be ferocious. Whatever Alku’s reasons might have been for ignoring Abdoun’s rebellious talk until now, this time he would grind him into dust. On their breaks, they milled around Abdoun. “Are you still planning to go and see Alku?” they’d ask.

Abdoun ignored their mocking tone and insinuation and said, “Yes. I’m going to tell him to stop beating us.”

Then all the comments would rain down on him:

“So you think that you’re the nation’s leader?”

“We’d better say good-bye then, because you ain’t coming back!”

“Abdoun! Rushing in where angels fear to tread even though God tells us not to throw ourselves headlong into our own doom!”

“God tells us to stand up for what is right and against injustice,” Abdoun would answer.

The exchange would rage on, but Abdoun did not waver, and the staff eventually left him alone. If Alku were to wring his neck, it would be no more than he deserved. What they feared more than anything, though, was Alku’s anger spreading and falling upon them. Should that happen, they would have to disassociate themselves from Abdoun, and they all went over the things they might say:

“Your Excellency, we have had nothing to do with the lad, Abdoun. He’s a lowlife. Utterly mad. Please don’t blame us for him.”

“You are our father, and we’re your children and servants.”

The following night, Alku returned from Upper Egypt. The staff were waiting expectantly, but there was a surprise in store for them. “Abdoun isn’t going to meet Alku on his own. Bahr the barman and Samahy the kitchen boy are going with him.”

“We used to have just one mad guy,” someone jeered. “Now we’ve got three!”

The staff were all aware of the danger. They always knew that Abdoun’s plan was outright insubordination and that it might spread like a contagion. Sure enough, he had recruited supporters. Today it was Bahr and Samahy who had decided to go with him, but who might join tomorrow? The bar was empty except for a man and woman drinking beer at a far table. Karara shook Bahr’s hand and then got straight to the point.

“Bahr, you’re a grown man. And you’ve got sense. How can you go along with Abdoun? As his manager, you should talk sense into him.”

His colleagues echoed the sentiments. Bahr listened, squinting with one eye as he checked the clean glasses and lined them up on the shelf over the bar. Finally, he told them calmly, “I’m going with Abdoun. I can’t let him face Alku alone.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” asked Karara, raising his voice. “You want to go head-to-head with your master, Alku?”