The Automobile Club of Egypt, Page 23

  His mother kept at him, and finally, just to end the discussion, he responded, “All right. Let’s see how it goes.”

  After that, two or three times a week at most, he would leave the apartment at the start of the school day, and as was his wont, he would spend the day in the café or playing soccer on the triangle, then grab his school books and go home.

  Gradually, his mother stopped badgering him about school. The sudden death of her husband had drained her so that she no longer had the energy to worry about Mahmud, who she knew would give up school completely sooner or later. Perhaps she thought that the money spent on lazy Mahmud’s school fees would be better spent for something else. So Umm Said stopped badgering and achieved a sort of peaceful coexistence with her son. When Comanus came to ask for two sons of the deceased to work with him at the Automobile Club, Mahmud was enthusiastic, seeing the job at the Club as putting an end to school for good. No one could reasonably ask him to go to school if he had a decent job. Before taking it, Mahmud had listened carefully to his mother’s and his brother Kamel’s advice, and his dark face appeared almost happy.

  “Mahmud, work is not like going to school,” Kamel said. “You can’t skip it. If you don’t turn up, they’ll fire you immediately.”

  “Son,” Umm Said added, “at work you’re going to be around people who don’t know you. You have to be polite and nice to them all. If someone says something you don’t like, take a deep breath. God has given you a strong body, and if you get into a fight, you might kill someone, and what a catastrophe that would be! May God protect you, son.”

  He had no need of those wise words because he had already decided to work hard. From the very first day, Mahmud felt like he had been born anew. At last he was enjoying the sort of life he had hoped for: he woke up at noon, his mother brought him breakfast in bed and they would chat as he ate. Then he would drink two glasses of tea, one with milk and one with mint, followed by two cups of medium-sweet coffee. After making sure that his mind was clear and his mood settled, he would get out of bed and start his daily routine, which, under whatever circumstances, he had to carry out meticulously before he could leave the apartment and face the world. He would take a shower, washing very carefully every inch of his body. Then he would shave, running the razor over his face a few times until it was silky smooth. Forcing his brush through his wiry hair with the help of Smart’s Brilliantine, he would shape it with a broad part on the right. That done, he would put on his sharpest clothes, add a few sprays of Old Spice, and kiss his mother’s forehead and hands on his way out the door. When he reached the Automobile Club, he would go straight up to the changing room on the roof, where he would fastidiously hang up his clothes and put on his uniform: narrow black high-waisted trousers, which showed off his strong thighs, with a wide red stripe running down the outside leg seams, a tight-fitting embroidered jacket, which showed off his bulging torso and rippling chest, and an elegant red tarboosh on his head. He would walk out of the Club door and strut down Qasr al-Nil Street to the garage, which was in a narrow alley, just off Ismailiya Square. There Mahmud would sit in his embroidered uniform next to Mustafa, the old driver, and the two of them would wait, chatting and drinking one glass of tea after another until the telephone rang and the telephonist gave them details of a delivery to a Club member. At that point, Mahmud would run the order to Rikabi the chef while Mustafa got the Citroën delivery van from the garage, and when Mahmud returned with the order, they would set off. Mustafa started teaching Mahmud the ropes from the first day.

  “Mahmud,” he said, “the way you deliver the order is more important than the order itself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As you hand over the order, you have to smile, lower your voice and bow to the customer, keeping your eyes down.”

  “What a performance!”

  “Listen, son. The most important thing is to make the Club members feel that they are important. Prestige is more important to them than food and drink. Treat them as VIPs, and they’ll tip you.”

  Their deliveries always took them to the homes of Club members in Garden City, Zamalek and Maadi, or sometimes in Heliopolis. People usually ordered hot food or some of Rikabi’s wonderful patisseries. Very often they might be having a drinks party and would order a bottle of whiskey along with hot and cold canapés. Day by day, Mahmud slowly learned the routine. At the member’s apartment, he’d ring the doorbell and then take two steps backward. The servant or maid might open the door, and Mahmud would ask if he could see the master or the lady of the house. When he or she appeared, Mahmud would spring forward, bow respectfully and say reverentially, “Good evening, sir. Delivery from the Automobile Club.”

  If it was a foreigner, he would say it in the broken French that he had learned with some difficulty from Mustafa: “Bonsoir, Monsieur. Livraison, Automobile Club.”

  The servant would take the delivery from him while the member signed the check. In most cases, a banknote would be tendered to Mahmud by the happy-looking master or lady of the house. His handsome, young face, his ebony skin, his pearly teeth, which glistened when he smiled, his giant frame with its bulging muscles, his embroidered uniform, which made him look more like a matador or a cavalryman on parade, his repeated and majestic bows—this all inspired the admiration of the customers, magnifying their sense of importance and with that their generosity. He would split the tips with Mustafa and then divide his share with his mother, which left him with enough spending money for his outings with Fawzy. Mahmud continued working and helping at home in this way, always making sure to ask his mother if she needed anything. He became more sure of himself and offered his opinions confidently on a variety of subjects. He had become a man with family responsibilities, and no matter how late he woke up every day, his mother would bring him breakfast in bed, which he felt he now well deserved.

  But Mahmud’s job at the Automobile Club also opened his eyes to a different reality: there was a world out there quite different from al-Sadd al-Gawany Street and the triangle, the Rimali Mill and the Ali Abd el-Latif School. It was a wonderful, variegated world, heaving with hitherto unimagined delights. He discovered that there were much greater pleasures than playing football, skipping school or kissing schoolgirls furtively in the cinema. The Club members lived in palatial apartments and wore elegant clothes, just like in the movies. Mahmud started to wonder how it was that some people could be so rich. Where did they get all that money?

  “They are rich because they had rich parents, Mahmud. They have no idea of the misery we live in,” said Mustafa quietly, half in bitterness and half in scorn. “Their only problem in this world is how to spend their money and have a good time.”

  As time passed, Mahmud developed a core group of regular customers. There was Sarwat Bey, who was always hosting poker games for his friends, and when his alcohol ran out, he would order a bottle of whiskey and trays of canapés from the Club. Monsieur Papazian, the old Armenian owner of the famous watch store in Ataba Square, who lived by himself in Diwan Street in Garden City and ordered dinner frequently. There was Ahmad Fadaly, the well-known cinema director and lady-killer, who took his girlfriends to his love nest in Shawarby Street; he would generally order dinner for two and a good bottle of French wine. He sent his servants away and would always open the door himself, in nothing but a silk robe, accepting the delivery while his lady friend waited inside the apartment. The nicest of all was Madame Khashab. She was a short, plump Englishwoman, a little over sixty, who dyed her hair black except for a shock of white hair at the front. She was the widow of an Egyptian landowner named Sami Khashab. They had no children, and after his death, she moved to a spacious apartment in Zamalek. Mahmud liked her from the start. He liked her maternal face, her permanent gentle smile and her hesitant Arabic. Whenever he delivered her favorite fruit tart, she would greet him warmly and exchange a few pleasantries with him as he stood at the door. Madame Khashab would ask after his family, and he would give a detailed answer.
She would listen attentively, sigh and give him a large tip.

  “Well done, Mahmud,” she would say. “You’re a fine lad. Look after your mother and your brothers and sister.”

  When he told her that his sister had passed her half-year exams, she congratulated him warmly, and when she held out the tip for him, there was an extra Egyptian pound as a gift for Saleha, who was delighted but also astonished because Madame Khashab had never met her. Mahmud explained that, despite her being English, she obviously loved Egypt and the Egyptians. Not only that, but she herself had the kind and generous character of an Egyptian.

  Then one day Mahmud went to deliver the fruit tart to Madame Khashab as usual. She took it from him, they chatted and she gave him his tip and he thanked her as always. But before he could turn and go, she exclaimed as if she had forgotten something, “Just a moment…”

  She went inside, disappearing for a few minutes, and returned dragging a heavy suitcase.

  “Mahmud,” she said. “You are like a son to me, aren’t you?”

  Mahmud nodded.

  “These are some very expensive shirts, trousers and jackets,” she continued. “They are all your size. Please don’t embarrass me by refusing to take them.”

  The offer came as a complete surprise to Mahmud, who didn’t know what to say, but Madame Khashab’s maternal look and her kindly smile won him over, so he bowed and picked up the suitcase with one hand, thanking her warmly. Mustafa put the suitcase in the trunk. When Mahmud got home after work, his mother, sitting up waiting for him, was astonished to see him with a suitcase. Mahmud just smiled. “I’m hungry,” he said. “I’ll tell you about it as I eat.”

  He devoured an enormous quantity of eggs with sliced dried beef, cleaning the plate with a hunk of bread followed by two large rum babas for dessert. He got up to wash his hands and then sat next to his mother, sipping his tea as he told her how kind Madame Khashab was and how much she liked him. Then he explained about the suitcase. His mother made no comment, so he got up to open the suitcase and lay out the contents. Indeed, the clothes were very smart. Shirts, trousers and three suits all in his size. He held up a blue shirt with a white collar and said, “Look how smart this shirt is!”

  Only at this point did Umm Said suddenly let out a stifled wail, “It’s between you and God, Mahmud.”

  He dropped the shirt and rushed over to her, saying, “What’s the matter, Mother?”

  “She has turned us into beggars.”

  “What do you mean, beggars? It’s a gift from a lovely lady.”

  “A lovely lady from whom you take old clothes.”

  “Mother, these are better than new. No one would ever know that they are secondhand.”

  “Even if no one knows, how can you make yourself a beggar?”

  “Mother, I don’t understand why you’re so angry.”

  “You’ll never understand because you’re stupid. The most stupid thing God ever created. An oaf.”

  The word just slipped out of her. They sat there in silence, Mahmud like a scolded dog beside his mother. Umm Said put out her arms, hugged him and whispered, “I’m sorry, son. Don’t be upset.”

  He shook his head and mumbled, “I’m sorry about it.”

  His humility only increased her sense of guilt. She kissed him on the forehead.

  “My boy,” she explained, the way one might to a baby in a cradle, “we are from a great family. Landowners. People with a sense of pride. We used to be well-off, but that’s over now and we’re poor. We might be miserable and forced to work, but we will never ask for anything from anyone. All we have left is our dignity. Never accept charity, Mahmud.”

  Feeling encouraged, Mahmud asked innocently, like a child who wanted to know, “Isn’t the suitcase just like a tip from a customer?”

  “No, my boy. Charity and a tip are different things. A tip is a sign of appreciation for something you have done, but charity is something you give to beggars.”

  They were silent for a while. Then Umm Said got up and stood facing him. “Do you love me, Mahmud?”

  “Of course I do, Mother.”

  “If you love me, then take this stuff back to the foreign lady.”

  Mahmud stared at her in incomprehension.

  “By the life of your late father, do what I tell you and then I won’t be upset.”

  The following day, after they had made the first delivery, instead of going straight back to the Club, Mahmud asked Mustafa if they could please stop by his home on al-Sadd Street. And with the suitcase in the trunk once more, they set off for Madame Khashab’s in Zamalek. Mahmud set the suitcase down in front of the door and rang the bell. A short while later, Madame Khashab appeared in a silk dressing gown. Her face betrayed her astonishment at seeing him, but she quickly smiled and asked, “Is everything all right, Mahmud?”

  “Madame Khashab,” he answered immediately, “I would like to thank you for the gift, but I cannot accept it.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Because my mother got upset.”

  “Why would your mother get upset?”

  “She says that we are not beggars to take charity from you.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed and mumbled a few words in English that he did not understand. Then she leaned over, dragged the suitcase back into the apartment and shut the door without saying anything further. Mahmud knew that she was angry and he felt bad. He almost regretted having brought the suitcase back, but when he recalled his mother’s sad face, he realized that he had had no option.

  The following day, his guilt started weighing on him. He ought to speak to Madame Khashab and explain, apologizing and begging her not to be upset with him. He would tell her that he really liked her and knew that she loved him like a son but that he had been obliged to do as his mother said. Days passed as Mahmud waited for Madame Khashab to order her favorite tart, but after a whole week, she still had not ordered a thing, and Mahmud told Mustafa what had happened. He just shook his head as he held the steering wheel. “Naturally,” he said, “Madame Khashab is right to be upset. She did something nice for you, and you threw it back at her.”

  “So what should I do, Uncle Mustafa?”

  “God knows, your mother is also right. You Gaafars are Upper Egyptian landowners, so how can you accept charity?”

  “Uncle Mustafa. Now you’ve confused me. Whose side are you on?”

  Mustafa shook his and pondered a while. “Listen, Mahmud,” he said. “You want to make things up with Madame Khashab?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “All right. Go buy her a nice bunch of flowers.”

  Mahmud appeared even more confused. “What are you talking about, flowers, Uncle Mustafa?” he said.

  “Just do what I say, Mahmud. Foreign ladies love flowers. The best thing you can give a foreign lady is a bunch of flowers.”

  Mahmud trusted Mustafa even though he could not fathom this notion. He waited until Tuesday, his day off, and at around three o’clock in the afternoon made his way to Madame Khashab’s apartment wearing his best clothes, from the downtown store Chaloun: black trousers, a white shirt and a gray velvet jacket. He was holding a bunch of red and white carnations in his hand. He rang the bell. After two minutes, he rang the bell again, but not a sound was to be heard. Mahmud realized that Madame Khashab either was not in or did not want to open the door. He was walking away when he heard the sound of footsteps. He gripped the flowers with his left hand, fixed a broad smile on his face and resumed his pose in front of the door, a little anxious, but ready come what may.

  KAMEL

  I could not sleep. Why had the rhythm of my life sped up so much?

  Why was I lurching from one situation to another? As if against my will, I was being thrust in a certain direction, as if my feet were leading me to a predetermined denouement. It all seemed unfathomable, working at the Club and getting to know the prince. Was it just a coincidence that he had come to the storeroom? Wasn’t it odd that he should come and examine the wi
nes himself? Perhaps not. But why would he invite me for lunch in his palace? Why this interest in me? Who am I that the king’s cousin should care or approach me to give lessons to the manager’s daughter? But the strangest thing is that he knew about my role in the resistance.

  “Thanks to what you and your colleagues are doing, the English will evacuate the country.” Was it just innocent wishful thinking, or did he know something? Perhaps recent events were all a matter of coincidence, or could they have been carefully planned? I lay in bed, brooding and smoking, and by the time of the morning call to prayer, I was exhausted and finally dozed off for two hours. My meeting with Mr. Wright was at nine o’ clock that morning. I polished my shoes to within an inch of their life, ironed a shirt, pressed my suit and gave my tarboosh a good brushing. I arrived a few minutes early.

  Khalil the office clerk greeted me. “May God grant you success.” He smiled and then whispered, “Mr. Wright is one of the meanest men on earth. He hardly ever smiles. He just sits there with a fixed grimace and looks you up and down.”

  At nine exactly, I knocked on the door. I heard him call out sharply, “Enter.”

  “How are you?” he said in English.

  “Very well, thank you, sir.”

  He gestured for me to sit down and then lit his pipe, exhaling a heady cloud of smoke.

  “His Royal Highness Prince Shamel has put your name forward as someone who could give my daughter Arabic lessons.”

  “I’d be happy to, sir.”

  “My daughter, Mitsy, received her secondary education in London and then decided, for some unknown reason, to come and live in Egypt. She’s now studying drama at the American University. She has some basic knowledge of Arabic but needs lessons in speaking and writing.”

  “Rest assured.” I smiled. “She’ll speak and write Arabic fluently.”

  Mr. Wright’s glower made me realize I had overstepped the mark.

  “I have decided on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he informed me, “because Mitsy has no morning classes on those days. You’ll start today.”