“Well, may I say the same to you!”
Botticelli’s bearing reflected that cold, polite formality used when dealing with the lower orders. For all James Wright’s Englishness and his position as general manager of the Automobile Club, the Italian Botticelli was a confidant of the king, and that put him on a higher plane.
With a worried look on his face, Wright spoke, “May I ask as to the health of His Majesty?”
“His Majesty is in good health, but he works far too hard.”
Wright affected a look of sympathy and said dolefully, “Egypt is a complicated country with endless problems. I worry what effect all that pressure has on His Majesty.”
Botticelli gave him a sarcastic look as if to say, “You bloody hypocrite!” but Wright just carried on speaking, “His Majesty should take some rest.”
“I try as hard as I can to convince His Majesty that he should take some time off, even a few days, but he always tells me that he must attend to his country’s needs.”
“Egyptians are ingrates. They will never appreciate the efforts His Majesty expends on their behalf.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. If I were in His Majesty’s shoes, I would enjoy life, but his sense of duty is too strong.”
They exchanged further platitudes on the subject and then suddenly fell silent, as if they had now covered all the preliminaries and it was time for business. Botticelli took a drag on his cigar, blew out a cloud of smoke and spoke, “Mr. Wright. I think you are aware just how much His Majesty likes to feel connected with the various groups of society.”
“Of course.”
“His Majesty always loves feeling close to his people.”
“That has only increased my esteem for His Majesty.”
“If you were offered the chance to make His Majesty happy, would you hesitate?”
“I am at His Majesty’s command.”
Botticelli smiled and continued, “We’re off to a good start.”
Mr. Wright looked at him inquisitively. Botticelli, now twiddling with his hat, continued, “It sometimes happens that His Majesty asks me to organize a small party for him where he can get to know young men and women of the better classes in Egypt. Remember, His Majesty is not over the hill like you or me. He is a young man in his thirties.”
Mr. Wright nodded and carried on trying to see what Botticelli was driving at.
“Next Monday, I am holding just such a small party. All the guests are young men and women of the better classes. I should very much like to invite your daughter, Miss Mitsy.”
“Have you met Mitsy?”
“I saw her in the Gezira Club. She caught my attention, and I thought that I might introduce her to His Majesty.”
“What a great honor.”
“Please ask her if she would be willing to have the king as a friend.”
“She will agree. Of course.”
“I’m happy that you understand and are willing to cooperate.”
“No, I’m the one who should thank you, Mr. Botticelli. Are there any specific requirements regarding the party? Please do bear in mind that Mitsy is a young woman who has never met a king before.”
He spoke that last sentence apologetically, but Botticelli waved the thought away and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. His Majesty is not a stickler for etiquette, and he likes his guests to dress however they wish.”
Mr. Wright smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Botticelli stood up, put his hat on, as Wright stood to bid him good-bye. Just before Botticelli stepped through the doorway, he turned around and looked him straight in the eyes, “I’ll send the invitation to you tomorrow. If fortune smiles, this will be the opportunity of a lifetime for your daughter. You and she will both have a taste of paradise.”
Botticelli was always sure to make it perfectly clear at some point what was going to happen. This was his preferred way of dealing with the families of the king’s love prospects—he could not allow them to build up false hopes. He called a spade a spade and left them fully cognizant that they were sending their daughters, or their wives, to the king’s bed.
That evening, as Wright was having a drink in the Club bar, he went over what Botticelli had told him, welling up with excitement. This was a very serious matter. He would be dealing directly with the king of Egypt and the Sudan. His relations with the king had never gone beyond the official. The king came to play cards at the Club at night, after Wright had left his office. At royal dinners at the Club, Wright had to be present as general manager to greet the king. Over a period of twenty years, that was the extent of his relations with the king and with the king’s late father before him. Two or three times a year, Wright would have to smile, bow and say a few words, but this was a different opportunity. As Botticelli had mentioned, this party might be a turning point. Life had taught him that an opportunity arises once, only to disappear unless you are sure to grab it. If the king bestowed his friendship upon Mitsy, Wright’s life would change. In a backward country like Egypt, all doors would open for the man whose daughter was the king’s belle.
James Wright had heard a lot about wealth amassed simply by dint of royal patronage. He had to make sure that the king fell for Mitsy, for Mitsy’s sake, if not for his. He was over sixty. How many years did he have left? Mitsy, as his only daughter, would inherit his wealth. She was the only one who would benefit from her friendship with the king. In his mind, the word “friendship” sounded completely innocent, as he rationalized to himself: the king is a young man looking for friends of his own age. He likes to make friends with young men and women he can trust and in whose company he can relax. People with whom he can forget court etiquette.
Three glasses of Black Label filled him with a feeling of well-being, as he started imagining all sorts of wonderful outcomes. When he’d made his way home, arriving an hour before dinner, his wife, Victoria, was sitting alone beside the heater, reading. Drink loosened his tongue, so he started talking excitedly to her, “Victoria, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” she replied without lifting her head from the book.
“Where’s Mitsy?”
“She has gone to the cinema with some of her friends.”
“Could you put the book down for a moment? I have some exciting news.”
He quickly recounted what had happened. She listened with an anxious look.
“You do know that Botticelli is a pimp?”
“As far as I know, he is a mechanic in the royal palace.”
“He may well be a mechanic, but he is also the king’s procurer.”
“Oh, my darling, that is just a scurrilous rumor put about by the Wafd Party.”
“It’s not a rumor. It’s a fact. I know women whom Botticelli has sent to the king’s bed.”
“If a woman has a relationship with the king, she can’t claim to have been tricked.”
“I am not saying that they have been tricked.”
“So what are you objecting to?”
“Don’t you agree that being the king’s pimp is a despicable job?”
“Your daughter, Mitsy, has been invited to a royal party. Are you upset about that?”
“If that pimp Botticelli has asked to present your daughter to the king, it can mean only one thing!” Victoria shouted at him with anger in her eyes.
Wright went over and sat next to her on the sofa, putting his arm around her and, speaking in a whisper, as if explaining something complicated to a little girl, said, “My darling. Do stay calm and think it over a little. Don’t you think that the king is good enough to be friends with Mitsy? He is only a few years older than she. Wouldn’t you like your daughter to be friends with a young man of good breeding who just happens to be the king of Egypt and the Sudan?”
Victoria answered drily, “Of course I wouldn’t be upset if, of her own accord, she should choose a friend. But for that pimp to present her as a potential conquest, that’s a completely different matter.”
“Your daughter is old enough to t
hink for herself, so let her decide whom she wants to be friends with. We should encourage her however she decides.”
His voice had a hollow ring to it, but he knew how to make her change her mind. He came back to the subject tenaciously, again and again, saying the same thing in different ways. Victoria could never keep up her opposition for very long. Wright went on and on until finally she was worn down.
“James. Please just leave me alone.”
“Not until you agree.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell Mitsy about the invitation from the king.”
“All right.”
“Explain to her the potential ramifications of the situation. She must understand that she might live her whole life without ever having an opportunity to view a real king, in his own milieu.”
Victoria nodded, pursed her lips vexedly and turned back to her reading.
Wright stood up and asked her, “Can I rely on you?”
This time she did not answer but went on reading. With this, Wright knew that he had won, so he calmed down and left the room. He had charged his wife with informing Mitsy because he avoided trying to deal with her. He no longer spoke to her unless he had to. His relationship with his daughter had reached this low ebb, for reasons he could not quite put his finger on. What had come over Mitsy?
She was standoffish with him and talked back, but he gave as good as he got. They argued so much that he now avoided starting a conversation with her. Everything he did was exactly the wrong thing. She had strange ideas that he did not understand, as if she had gone mad. Whenever she did something stupid, she went on the defensive and provoked him until he raged at her. He would look at her and ask himself how the delicate child he used to cuddle and shower with kisses had become this brash and impertinent girl. What had gone wrong? Even though she was a stupid, vain girl, he never interfered in her life. After he paid for her education and got her accepted by the London School of Economics, she suddenly discovered that she liked acting and decided that she wanted to live in Egypt. This was how, in spite of himself, he wound up now paying her fees at the American University in Cairo, a complete waste of time. Why was she studying drama in Egypt? Did she think that she would get roles in Egyptian films? Wouldn’t it be better to study drama in London? What did she like so much about this backward country? He was obliged to be here as he could never command such a large salary or find such a cushy job in London. But Mitsy had decided to live among this riffraff and study drama in a country whose language she could not speak! Good Lord. He could not thing of anything more idiotic. Even if she loved the Orient, even if she loved camels, pyramids, incense, men in galabiyyas and women in abayas, she could still study in London and visit Egypt during the holidays. Was Mitsy just stupid or out of her mind? When all was said and done, though, it was her life to live. He just wished she didn’t treat him so badly, showed a bit of respect. Was that too much to ask? In any case, he had decided to keep giving her a wide berth, only speaking to her when absolutely necessary.
The following day, he sat down to dinner with Mitsy and his wife. He smiled as he asked, “Has Mitsy chosen a dress to wear to the royal party?”
Mitsy said nothing, so Mr. Wright continued in a serious tone of voice, “We have to start preparing now. Mitsy’s going to be the king’s guest. She should wear the most beautiful thing she has.”
“Don’t worry,” said his wife. “She has lots of lovely gowns.”
Wright looked at Mitsy and said, “Buy yourself a new one just for this occasion. I’ll pay for it. You don’t meet a king every day.”
At this, Mitsy threw him a sharp look and asked, “Who said that I am going to meet the king?”
He pursed his lips and, ignoring her provocation, said calmly, “Hasn’t your mother mentioned the invitation from the king?”
“She told me.”
Wright smiled and said nervously, “You have accepted, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“An invitation is something that you can accept or turn down.”
“Would you turn down the king’s invitation to dinner?”
“I’m entitled to turn it down, if I wish.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. I’m perfectly serious.”
As Mr. Wright threw his spoon down into his soup bowl with a clatter, he snarled, “If you turn it down, you’ll be committing the greatest act of stupidity yet.”
“I can do what I want.”
“You’re a fool.”
Victoria, who was following the rising tension, tried to calm things. “Mitsy. Of course you can decide whether you want to go or not. Your father is just giving you some advice. That’s all.”
“Then I thank him for his advice.”
The blood rushed to Mr. Wright’s face and he shouted, “We don’t need your sarcasm. If you turn down the invitation, you are an idiot, not right in the head. I will not allow you to harm yourself.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“You’ll find out.”
There was silence. Mitsy wiped the edges of her mouth with her napkin. Her chair screeched as she pushed it away from the table. She took a few steps toward her father and said, “Fine. I’m not going to the party.”
17
When the Club staff returned from the café, they threw themselves into their work as if to disassociate themselves from Abdoun’s words and affirm their absolute and unimpaired loyalty to Alku. They took it for granted that Alku would already have heard about what had happened and that he would summon them to ask, “How could you have allowed that lad to speak against me?”
They prepared their answers, rehearsing them in their minds for the eventuality. They would say:
“Your Excellency. That lad is a piece of scum. He is out of his mind.”
“We refused to listen to him and told him to behave himself.”
“You are our master and our father. We are your children, your servants.”
As they expected Alku to bear down on them at any moment, the hours passed slowly with the apprehensive staff muttering prayers to keep evil away. With their nerves at the breaking point, they continued to fret, and when work slowed a little and they were sure that they were not being observed, they went into a side room to discuss the situation anew, as if to make certain that the awful incident had actually happened. They launched into the absent Abdoun, telling each other that he must be mad to have spoken out so insolently, repeating his words in a whisper and feigning incredulity. Bahr the barman and a small number of the staff said nothing. The others tried to outdo one another in spewing curses and heaping scorn upon Abdoun, but even so they were befuddled. Did they really, deep down, disagree with what Abdoun had said? The answer was yes and no. Their expressed anger at Abdoun hid a touch of admiration, but it was coated with such thick layers of fear that they had to condemn him publicly lest they be tarred with the same brush. They too wished that Alku would put an end to the beatings, but they were certain that would never happen. They knew they would never see justice reign. Abdoun had spoken the truth, but of what value was that? When had the truth ever changed anything in their lives? How many times had they lied out of fear or to keep their masters happy? How many times had they accepted the truth of something they knew to be false? How often had they been obliged to feign laughter or sorrow? How many times had they borne false witness out of fear or in hope of a tip? Let Abdoun speak as much as he wants. He could never change a thing at the Automobile Club. Abdoun was either a dreamer or plain stupid, whereas they were wise and practical people with a sense of their own limitations. They consoled themselves:
“People only say things like that in films.”
“What does he know about dignity or disgrace?”
“Our dignity comes from being able to earn a living.”
Then, with the authority of someone who has a thorough understandin
g of the matter, Karara the waiter spoke up, “You want the truth? We need to be beaten. If Alku stopped the beatings, the Club would go to rack and ruin. We are insubordinate by nature, like the race of Nimrod. We are driven by fear, not shame. If not for fear of being beaten, we’d do nothing but walk around thumbing our noses at our bosses.”
They looked down, some of them nodding in agreement. They wished that Alku would hurry up and punish Abdoun, that he would crush him. They longed to see Abdoun receiving his due and a taste of the stick, screaming and begging Alku to forgive him. That would make them feel safe again. That would confirm for them again that submissiveness to Alku was the best and most rational way to behave. Then they would be able to shake their heads, pucker up their lips in sympathy and say ruefully, “Poor Abdoun. See what happens when you get out of line?”
The whole day passed and nothing happened. The next day, just before noon, the black Cadillac pulled up in front of the Automobile Club, and Alku climbed out. Everyone who saw him at that moment would confirm that they had never seen him so angry. His black face was ashen, his coarse lips screwed up together, and he had the bloodshot eyes of a drunken man. Marching through the entrance door, Alku looked around impatiently, as if searching for something, as if he had come on urgent business and would brook no delay. Hameed was prancing along behind him, panting like an eager hunting dog. The staff all stepped aside for Alku, no one daring to proffer a greeting. They knew that they were about to witness an event unique in the history of the Club, one that they would be able to tell their grandchildren about. Some felt pity for Abdoun, about to meet his dreadful fate, but most just felt relief that Alku’s evident fury was not directed at them. You were asking for it, Abdoun. You’ll get the lesson of your life, and you won’t stand up to your masters again. Alku will crush anyone who stands up to him and then put him back in his rightful place.
When Alku went into Mr. Wright’s office, the servants clustered around in the corridor, pressing their ears to the door. Like children at a circus or a wrestling match, they were on tenterhooks waiting for the action to begin. With a thrill in their voice, they whispered to each other: