Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

He thought a moment and answered, “In practical terms, we have a number of tasks: we have to print a large number of copies of the photograph, and we have to make sure the printers are secure and decide on the distribution point in each province. All that will take time. We will not be able to do it for a least two weeks.”

The meeting went on for two hours, and at the end, Odette reviewed the security precautions with us. I rushed home to al-Sadd Street, which was thronged with people as usual. I climbed the stairs to our apartment and rang the bell rather than using my key because I knew that my mother would still be awake, and I wanted to see her opening the door. Just seeing her and giving her a hug would make me feel better. It was the same feeling I used to have when I came back from school to find her standing at the door as if she had been waiting there ever since saying good-bye in the morning. My mother implored me to eat a meal, but I refused, so she made some sandwiches and put them on my desk. I took a shower and made my ablutions, then said the evening prayers and sat down to study. I was so absorbed in my books that I did not notice the passage of time. Suddenly, I thought I heard a voice coming from the street. It was after two in the morning. I tried to ignore it and concentrate on my reading. After a few moments, I heard the voice again but more clearly. Someone was calling my name. I got up and went over to the open window and looked. There was Mitsy standing in the street in a blue coat with her curls falling over her face.

“Mitsy? What’s happened?”

She made a gesture with her hand and shouted in a voice that reverberated strangely in the quiet of the night, “Kamel, can you come down? I need to speak to you urgently.”

Fawzy primped for the evening. He combed his hair meticulously and plastered it with hair cream. He dabbed half a bottle of eau de cologne all over his body and squeezed the bulging muscles of his chest and arms into a tight T-shirt that made him look like a pale-skinned giant walking alongside the black giant who was Mahmud Gaafar. They took the Lambretta, Fawzy in front and Mahmud riding pillion, all the way to the sugar factory in Garden City. It was seven in the evening, and the street was quiet and almost empty. Fawzy seemed as self-assured as if he’d done this quite often, but Mahmud was typically uneasy and distracted. He had been of more than two minds about coming along, but Fawzy had nagged him to come. Now, he was afraid. This was different from his times with Rosa and Dagmar. Madame Tafida al-Sarsawy had asked him bluntly to sleep with her.

“I’ll pay you what Dagmar does,” she had said.

He could not understand how these women knew about his activities. They must get together somewhere and exchange secrets. When he telephoned Tafida to tell her that he was coming over, she was overjoyed. He’d also told her that he would be bringing Fawzy along. At that, she fell silent for a moment and then said, “He’s most welcome. He can come with you, but then he must make his excuses and leave us.”

Mahmud, feeling embarrassed, said, “Fawzy is a friend of mine, and he would like to spend time with you, madame.”

“Well, he’s most welcome,” she answered quickly. “What matters is that you and I do what we talked about.”

Mahmud was again taken aback by her forthrightness. What a dreadful woman! The closer they came to her building, the greater his anxiety. There was no telling how she’d react to Fawzy. Whenever he tried to imagine the situation, he just became more unnerved. Before they went into the building, Mahmud suddenly stopped and implored Fawzy, “For my sake, let’s skip this. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Fawzy snorted in disbelief.

“It’s child’s play,” he said. “Get a grip on yourself, man!”

Mahmud knitted his brow and held his hands up.

“How am I going to tell her that you’ll be filling in for me?”

Fawzy grabbed Mahmud by his enormous arm and dragged him forward, telling him, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

“Fawzy! The woman’s old and looks terrible, like a bad dream!”

“Listen, I told you I can do it. What’s your problem?”

Mahmud gave in. As the two of them went into the entrance, the doorman stopped them. This shook Mahmud, but Fawzy took the matter in hand. He cleared his throat and said, “We are here to see Madame Tafida al-Sarsawy.”

Fawzy discerned the suspicion in the doorman’s eyes, and he said brazenly, “Well, why are you just standing there? I said we have an appointment with Madame Tafida.”

The doorman looked at them for a moment and then stepped back to clear the way.

“Madame Tafida,” he said, “is apartment seventeen on the fourth floor.”

Mahmud almost told him that he knew which apartment she lived in but chose to remain silent. They got in the lift, but at the door of the apartment, Mahmud was still hesitant. Fawzy reached out and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later, the door opened. It is difficult to give a faithful description of Madame Tafida. She was scrawny and wrinkled, and her skin was covered in liver spots. Her wide eyes were rimmed with eyeliner, and she had drawn on thin eyebrows. She had angular features and thin, red-painted lips, which gave the impression of a febrile personality. Although her face seemed to be fixed in a frown, from time to time it would break into a supercilious smile with a hint of bitterness. Tafida observed everything suspiciously as if looking for the hidden lie or plot behind it all. All who knew her found her to be disconcerting, an arrogant, argumentative cynic who never stopped causing problems. On top of all that, she had a certain bygone-days quality to her, as if she had just stepped out of a time machine or a black-and-white movie, the sort of look you find in a photograph from an old album.

“Good evening, Madame,” Mahmud said.

“Nice to see you, Mahmud,” Madame Tafida said and then gestured at Fawzy and asked brusquely, “Who’s that guy?”

“Have you forgotten, Madame?” Mahmud answered quickly. “He’s my friend Fawzy. The one I told you about.”

She nodded and fixed a suspicious look on him. She still had not invited them in. Mahmud just stood there while Fawzy boldly took a step toward her.

“Good evening, Madame Tafida,” he said. “I asked Mahmud to bring me along. When I heard what a lovely person you are, I wanted to meet you. I already had a picture of you in my mind, but now that I have seen you, you are lovelier than I imagined.”

The words sounded odd, and Fawzy looked at Tafida with complete insolence. Tafida’s face turned the colors of the rainbow. Her facial expressions changed. She looked a little anxious, but then she gave a startled blink as if she had just had a thought, and she took two steps backward, “Please come in.”

The two boys went into the high-ceilinged and spacious sitting room. Madame Tafida lived alone in a twenties-era six-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms. She sat down on the sofa and looked at them as they sat on armchairs next to each other. The whole situation was weird, and Mahmud kept wondering how she could receive them in her apartment without having uttered a single word of welcome.

Someone had to make the first move, so Mahmud mumbled, “How are you, Madame Tafida? Please God you are well.”

Tafida did not answer. She looked carefully at him, as if she could see through his words. Then she looked at Fawzy, and now for the first time, in the light of the lamp, she could see his svelte body and his brawny muscles. Fawzy picked up on this and smiled.

“My name is Fawzy, and I’m at your service, Madame. Anything you want from Mahmud…I can do it for you.”

Tafida seemed frozen. She stared at them as if unable to take in the strange turn of events, but then her gaze lost its harshness, and she said, “Would you like something to drink?”