Alaa al-Aswany - The Automobile Club of Egypt

Wright pronounced the word “riffraff” with such contempt that it had an effect on the king. Wright picked up his argument again. “The person who founded the Club was Your Majesty’s late great father, and Your Majesty is the present patron. The Automobile Club is nothing without Your Majesty’s patronage. I would request Your Majesty to give us the opportunity to make amends.”

“Fine,” smiled the king. “I shall think it over. Mr. Wright, it has been a pleasure to see you.”

This was a royal indication that the meeting was over. Wright stood up and nodded with a grateful smile as he left. Was the king really intent on going back to the Automobile Club? The answer was a definite yes. As far as the king was concerned, the Club was a wonderfully diverting place which held happy memories for him. Going to the Club allowed him to break away from rigid court protocol. He was always childishly happy when sitting with his friends in the Club, freed from royal conventions, meeting beautiful women, playing poker and eating to his heart’s delight. The king did not dine in the restaurant but had a never-ending succession of dishes sent over to his table in the casino — sandwiches expertly made by Rikabi, roast beef, cocktail sausages, schnitzel and pastries stuffed with minced meat, chicken and cheese. When the cards were going his way, His Majesty would sit there happily, a sandwich in one hand, his cards in the other hand. He’d joke with his fellow gamblers, “We should all stand for a minute in memory of the Earl of Sandwich. That fellow bestowed a great invention on mankind. Do you know who the Earl of Sandwich was?”

The gamblers would profess their ignorance of the name to give the king a chance to display his cultural knowledge. He would continue with childish pride, “The Earl of Sandwich was an Englishman born in 1718, and he invented the sandwich.”

This was a sign for the gamblers to heap their praise on the king and his refined sense of culture and various other talents. Then dessert would arrive, an assortment of the king’s favorites: basbousa with buffalo cream, crème caramel and compote. He would graze his way through them as he played successive hands. The king missed all these diversions and had been longing to be able to spend evenings at the Club again, but he needed a justification for his decision to go back there, and this was precisely what Alku had provided him with. To anyone who might ask him, the king could say, “The mass distribution of the photograph is proof that the plot against the throne is widespread and was the result of careful planning. The issue is not localized or specific to the Automobile Club.”

Or he might say, “Mr. Wright, the general manager of the Club, has implored me to go back to the Club. I was very moved by him. This Englishman is more devoted to the throne than many Egyptians.” Then His Majesty might add with some emotion, “The Automobile Club belongs to the throne. I shall never allow it to fall into the hands of saboteurs and Communists.”

These, in fact, were the reasons behind his decision. His Majesty’s return to the Automobile Club was a fittingly impressive sight. All the staff came down and assembled in the entrance hall, headed by Alku and James Wright, who was dressed in a natty navy-blue suit, set off by a gleaming white shirt and a red tie. They had been waiting in the entrance hall for approximately half an hour before the king’s red Buick appeared. It drew to a halt in front of the door, the guards and valets running in all directions as His Majesty stepped out.

Wright rushed toward him, bowed deeply and declared, “Your Majesty, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

The king nodded but made no comment. He gave a haughty smile and strode toward the lift. The staff were confused, expecting the formalities of receiving the king to take much longer. But His Majesty was dying to get back to the gambling table which he had missed so much, and words of gratitude, much as they might have gratified him, would have only served to remind him of the painful incident of the photograph. Everything went back to normal. The king took his place at the head of the green felt table with his friends, who were chatting away, drinking and playing cards. The staff felt their gloom lifting and hoped that the king’s return would mean an end to the bad times. Alku could not go on punishing them when His Majesty himself had forgiven them. That night, the staff did all they could to provide perfect service. Over the next days, they were so expectant that Alku would summon them and announce the restoration of their tips that they had even prepared small speeches of gratitude. When a week had passed and nothing changed, they started wondering, “What does Alku want? Why doesn’t he lift the punishment? How long are we going to have to work for nothing?” With every passing day, they were becoming more and more hard up, and their frustration started to affect their work. They would go around fulfilling members’ requests, but their minds were elsewhere. They realized that the situation was more dire than a simple storm they had to weather. Alku seemed intent on ruining them. He seemed to be taking a devilish delight in causing them grief. They could not cover their essential household expenses, much less the rent and their children’s school fees.

What had happened to the Automobile Club? It now seemed cursed, with catastrophe after catastrophe. Every day, a new disaster. At least they had had some protection and security. They had had stability. Rules. Unjust perhaps, but better than this chaos. Abdoun and his friends had opened the flood gates of hell. What had they gained in standing up to Alku? In the past, they could avoid a beating by doing their work properly, but now they were working even harder and for nothing. They used to put all the tips into the green velvet padlocked box in the casino. Every Friday, Maître Shakir would unlock it, separate the folded banknotes and lay out the coins on the table. Then he would total it all up in front of them, setting half aside for Alku and doling out the other half according to seniority. They used to stand like excited children waiting for a treat in front of Maître Shakir as he counted the tips. Friday evenings had been the high point of their week, the moment when, after a week of hard work, the customers’ appreciation would reach them. That was all over now. They dropped their tips into the velvet box in the knowledge that they would see none of it, not a piastre.

The staff could not hide their consternation and anger. Some of them would mutter with exasperation, “Isn’t it wrong, Maître Shakir, to deprive us of the means of supporting our children?”

“Does it please God,” another asked, “that we’re all working for nothing?”

Maître Shakir would ignore their comments and just carry on sorting out the coins. If the grumbling continued, he would yell at them, “Stop this bloody whining. I’m just the messenger. If you want something, go and talk to Alku.”

The mention of Alku was enough to make them fall silent. Despite their resentment, they were still unwilling to stand up to him, and they lived in the hope that he would lift the punishment. They had to try to get back on his good side rather than do anything that might anger him more. Any unconsidered action or word out of place might make the problem intractable. Wisdom dictated that they should just grit their teeth and get on with things, for if Alku saw how much they were suffering, his heart would surely soften. They bore their suffering for two whole months. They waited it out, falling deeper into debt and putting off paying their household bills, clinging on to their hope that at some point Alku would forgive them. This hope was all they had. Most of them were married and had children of school age, and even the bachelors among them used to send postal orders on the first of each month to their families in Upper Egypt.