Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Except that, contrary to all expectations, everyone worked so hard that they had nothing to complain of. The staff were punctual and carried out the most exacting instructions to the letter. Their performance improved so much that on three inspection visits, Alku too could not find the slightest fault. The Club was cleaner than ever, the men all immaculately turned out with ironed caftans, smoothly shaved faces and neatly trimmed fingernails. Everything was functioning so well that many Club members noticed the difference, some even making positive comments. Hassan Pasha Kamel, for example, gave Maître Shakir a generous tip, telling him, “Thank you, Shakir. Service at the Club has improved by leaps and bounds.”

Maître Shakir accepted the tip and the praise with a scowl, muttering a few words of thanks. The three managers were unnerved at being undermined in their belief that only the threat of a beating motivated the men. But it was undeniable that something fundamental had changed. The staff were more efficient and more obedient than ever. They bowed politely and carried out orders superbly, even having thrown off their abject submissiveness. The servile, ingratiating smiles disappeared, and instead they wore polite and friendly smiles exuding confidence, a sense of responsibility and pride. Even when receiving a tip, instead of being humbly grateful, they now thanked the members in a clear and forthright tone of voice, as if to say, “Your generosity is not charity but recognition of the value of our work, and we thank you for that.”

This new regime lasted for a month, a month that the staff would remember for its uniqueness, but it ended as suddenly as it had started. Perhaps it had been too good to last.

One morning, after they had finished cleaning the Club and had washed up and put on their caftans and were going to their stations, Maître Shakir suddenly appeared, out of breath. He had not used the lift but had dashed up the stairs like a man possessed. He ran from the restaurant to the bar and the casino, shouting ominously, “Come down to the first floor now!”

“Is everything all right?” they asked apprehensively. “Has something happened, God forbid?”

“Am I not making myself clear?” he growled. “I’ve told you, get to the first floor. Now!”

My mother put her arms around me and shut the door gently. As we crossed the hallway, she whispered, “Calm down, Saleha, please.”

I felt safe again the moment I went into my mother’s bedroom. I had missed that place so much and the smell of the perfume that filled it. I stopped crying, and my mother sat down next to me. She kissed me and started examining my wounds. I had a cut on my leg, and there were deep scratches all over my thigh. My face had swollen up around my mouth and forehead. My mother disappeared for a few minutes and came back carrying a tray with a bottle of antiseptic, cotton wool and a bowl of ice cubes. She cleaned the wounds and put cold compresses on my face and then made me a glass of tea. Unable to look her in the eye, I told her all about my problem with Abd el-Barr, Aisha’s advice, Abd el-Barr’s violence, the white powder and his attempt to break my hymen with his hand. I told her every last detail. My mother listened with a sad look on her face. Then she put both hands on her head.

“Oh God, that’s all we need. Haven’t we been through enough? God help us.”

She went out of the bedroom and left me alone. I was completely exhausted, and going over what had happened, I felt as if it was someone else’s experience. I do not know how long I sat there before my mother came back with Kamel following her, wiping the sleep from his eyes. I realized that she had told him. He muttered a greeting and then sat down, searching for the right words to say. He lit a cigarette.

“I had a feeling,” he said quietly, “that there was something not quite right about Abd el-Barr.”

We sat in silence again.

“Listen, daughter,” my mother said hoarsely. “A good wife has to stand by her husband in times of crisis. If it’s just a question of behaving badly, that can be fixed. But drugs are a different kettle of fish. You never know where you stand with a drug user. The husband of your cousin Asma was a cocaine user, and your own father did everything he could to make him divorce her.”

Kamel added, “A cocaine user is capable of anything and will end up either going crazy or to prison.”

“Oh, it’s just too dreadful,” my mother muttered. “God help us all.”

After a few more comments in the same vein, they both fell quiet, trying, it seemed, to work out what to do next.

Kamel got to his feet with a sad half smile. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

“Try to get some sleep. Don’t worry. There’s a solution to every problem, God willing.”

He left the room, and my mother put her arms around me.

“Go and take a shower,” she said. “I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

After taking a hot shower and giving in to my mother’s nagging to eat something, I started to feel well again. After all the tension, the fear and pain, I was back home again. I could sleep in my own bed with a sense of complete security. My mother was in the next room, and Kamel and Mahmud were there. I slept well, and the next day I had a long talk with my mother as we sat drinking tea. I busied myself in the kitchen as if nothing had happened. I asked my mother all sorts of little things about the apartment, as if just spending a normal day at home as I had before. It was as if I had just woken up from a nightmare but forgotten the details. I was relishing the feeling, but I knew deep down that I could not just run away from everything. What had happened with Abd el-Barr would stick to me. I would be a woman who had failed in her marriage and come back to her father’s home. Kamel managed to get away from work and came home to eat lunch with us. He tried to put on a happy face and told me little stories that made me laugh. After lunch, I suddenly felt tired. I knew it would take me some days to get over my horrendous experience. I went to my bedroom and slept soundly and woke to the sound of Said’s voice. My mother must have telephoned him, and he had come from Tanta. After a while, I went to the sitting room and found him with my mother and Kamel. He looked uneasy and gave me a curt greeting.

“Saleha, what you have done?”

“What should she have done?” my mother said.

Said ignored her, and in the tone of one imparting words of wisdom, he said, “You should have stayed at home and sorted it out.”

“Do you have any idea what Abd el-Barr did?” I asked him calmly. He gave no answer.

“Said,” my mother said, “Abd el-Barr has been snorting cocaine.”

“How do you know?” he answered sharply.

“Saleha saw him with her own eyes.”

“And what does your daughter know about drugs?”

“There is no God but God! Do you think we would just make this up? We are telling you that Abd el-Barr has not consummated the marriage, he does cocaine and he beats your sister. What else do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still her husband.”

My mother could not contain herself any longer. Waving her hands around, she shouted furiously at him, “So you’re trying to say that your sister is in the wrong?”

“I’m saying it’s a mistake to encourage her to do what she is doing.”

Said looked at me and smiled nervously. “Come on, Saleha. Go and get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

“I can’t go back there,” I said imploringly.

“You will go back,” he raged, “whether you want to or not.”

“You can’t force her,” Kamel shouted, “to go and live with Abd el-Barr.”