“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?”
“Red wine,” Fawzy called out.
She got up and went toward the kitchen, but Fawzy called after her, “Of course, we can’t drink on an empty stomach.”
As Tafida turned to look at him, he added, “Get us something nice to eat. We have to eat properly if we are going to have some energy.”
Mahmud was embarrassed by Fawzy’s cheek and looked at the ground saying nothing. He sat there with his hands on his thighs like someone at a funeral. Tafida stood there as if confused about what she should do, but then she turned, went out into the hall and disappeared somewhere in the apartment. Mahmud glanced across the hall, and having assured himself that she had gone off to the kitchen, he looked daggers at his friend.
“What the hell!” he said. “You’re going to get us both into deep shit.”
“Don’t worry,” Fawzy said disdainfully, laughing. “You’ve got to treat these rancid old birds harshly from the word go.”
“You’re overdoing it.”
“Listen, sunshine, didn’t she ask you to sleep with her?”
“She wanted to sleep with me, not with you,” he spat out. “And even if she did ask for sex, you have to treat her with some respect. She’s an old lady from a good family, and you’re treating her like some tart.”
“But she is a tart.”
“Just be careful, because if Madame Tafida gets upset with us she could cause us loads of trouble.”
Fawzy gave him a look of exasperation.
“Shut up, Mahmud. Stop spouting garbage. I know what I’m doing.”
They had to break off their conversation because Tafida appeared slowly wheeling a trolley upon which she had arranged a bottle of red wine, already opened with the cork resting on the side, three wineglasses and a number of small plates of snacks: white cheese, olives, pickled cucumbers and a roast chicken cut into four pieces. There were also three silver forks and a wicker breadbasket covered with a white napkin.
Mahmud’s nerves had taken away his appetite, so he just had a glass of wine and a piece of chicken, but Fawzy ate with gusto, downing a few glasses of wine as he chatted away about nothing with Tafida like an old friend, and then he suddenly asked her, “Do you own the Sarsawy gold shop in the jewelry district?”
“The shop belonged to my father, may God have mercy upon his soul. My sister and I inherited it.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
Tafida appeared to resent this question, and she hesitated a little before conceding an answer, “I have one brother and one sister.”
She was about to say “younger than me” but stopped herself. Fawzy finished eating, heaved himself out of his chair and went to the bathroom. When he came back, he headed straight for Tafida and sat down next to her on the sofa. He put his hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear, “Do you know how lovely you are?”
It was a strange word to use for Tafida’s tired, wrinkled and over-made-up face. For the first time, she used a formal tone of voice, “Thank you for the compliment.”
Fawzy suddenly felt he was being toyed with. “Don’t get all coy and innocent with me,” he said to himself. The wine had emboldened him, and he leaned over and pressed his nose against Tafida’s neck and stroked her lower back with his hand.
“I’m not giving you a compliment,” he said in a shaky voice. “You really are lovely. You are all woman.”
Tafida squirmed, but Fawzy moved even closer to her.
“Please,” she tried to object. “Don’t do that.”
Since Fawzy was sure he was going about things in the right way, he took her display of coyness as a sign of acquiescence. She neither stood up nor moved away, and despite her apparent reticence, her face betrayed a different emotion. Fawzy snuggled up to her even more, putting his arms around her and kissing her neck as he whispered, “You’re so lovely.”
Tafida tried to push him away coquettishly.
“Stop it, Fawzy. You’ve gone mad!”
“I can’t. You’re as lovely as the full moon.”
Mahmud observed the scene, stunned into silence. Why was Fawzy behaving like that with her, and why was she giving in to him? He could not fathom it. He had not gone in for all this malarkey with the two old ladies he had befriende
d. In fact, the opposite had happened. It was the women who had done the sweet-talking. Even Tafida, the first time he saw her, had been the one who initiated it. It was not his style, all those sweet nothings. He had to admit that Fawzy was much more forward than he was. As Mahmud sat immersed in his thoughts, the scene was moving on quickly. The old lady had given in and was moaning and giggling softly as she sat there with her legs open, looking like a circus animal responding to its trainer. Fawzy was kissing her passionately on the mouth as she uttered stifled whimpers. Then he nibbled her ear as his hand strayed over her flat chest. Mahmud could not take it anymore and jumped to his feet.
“I’ll be going, Fawzy. Good-bye, Madame.”
The formality of the phrases sounded odd under the circumstances. Fawzy pushed Tafida aside and tried to gather his thoughts. Then he got up and dragged Mahmud aside, whispering sharply, “Don’t you dare go.”
“What should I do, just sit there?”
“We came together and we’re leaving together.”
“Look, you’re getting on with it, and there’s no point in me sitting here. Besides, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“I’ve told you, you’re not going.”
Fawzy’s tone was resolute, and Mahmud gave in. Fawzy went back to Tafida and grabbed her by the hand. She sprang to her feet as if she had been anticipating this sign from him. He put his arms around her, and the two of them made their way across the hall into the bedroom.
36
“We have lost His Majesty’s confidence. This is the greatest loss the Club has faced since it was founded. The king’s privacy has been breached, and Club members will now stop coming for fear they will be photographed too.”
Wright’s face was flushed from the effort of trying to control his anger.
“I assure you,” replied Alku, “that I shall find the traitor who installed the camera.”
“Leave that to state security. I want you on another matter.”
Alku looked at Wright who filled his pipe bowl and then puffed.
“I want you,” Wright continued, “to convince His Majesty to start spending his evenings at the Club again.”
“That’s a tall order,” Alku said ruefully.
“But it is possible. I know how close you are to the king.”
“His Majesty is still shaken by what happened.”
“We just want him to give us another chance.”
“I shall try.”
“Listen,” Wright said resolutely. “If you manage to persuade the king to come back to the Club, I’ll make it worth your while.”
That night, Alku thought it over at length and resolved to do everything he could. Naturally, he was salivating over the financial reward on offer, but he also needed to be rehabilitated. Somehow, the scandal had dented his pride and his standing. After twenty years of wielding complete control over the staff in the royal palaces, he had allowed the reins to be loosened, and now someone, with the help of Alku’s own staff, had managed to infiltrate the Club and take that photograph of the king in his pointed hat, then distributed the photograph throughout Egypt. This scandal would leave an indelible stain on his name if he didn’t do something soon. Whenever he thought about it, he became enraged at Wright. Alku had warned him from the moment Abdoun started inciting the staff against the management, but Wright had ignored the warning, obviously so as to stay on good terms with Odette. If only Wright had listened to Alku and fired Abdoun, none of this would have happened. And what exactly were the state security officials doing? All their investigating and poking around seemed to yield nothing, not even a suspect. Alku had been to see Anwar Bey Makki, head of state security, to tell him that Abdoun was the one who had been inciting insubordination among the staff. But Anwar Bey Makki, while lending him the sympathetic ear of a man listening to a precocious child, said only, “Thank you for your help in this matter. I can assure that we are aware of this and are studying the matter carefully.”
Alku drew up a plan to make good on his promise to Wright. He could always read the king’s mood. With one glance, he knew whether His Majesty was angry or cheerful or sullen. And so Alku bided his time until the moment was right. The king had just finished bathing and had sat down to enjoy a hearty breakfast. Alku approached, placing the French newspapers on the table, then sighed and knitted his brow.
“Your Majesty, I feel so bad for Mr. Wright.”
“What does he want from us?” the king asked disapprovingly.
“Since the unfortunate incident in the Automobile Club, he has been calling me every day to express his regret.”
“And what good does that do us?”
Alku looked at the ground and shook his head.
“Your Majesty is right to be angry about what happened, but as a servant of Your Majesty, I have never seen an Englishman so devoted to the throne as Mr. Wright.”
The very words pleased the king no end. Contradictory emotions seemed to cross the king’s face as he nibbled on a sausage.
“Whatever Wright might say,” the king said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “what happened is treason. I have been photographed, and my privacy has been breached.”
“If I find out who did this,” Alku muttered, grimacing, “I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands.”
“Don’t worry. State security will arrest the culprit soon enough,” the king replied with apparent disdain. Then he leaned forward and took a big slurp of his favorite compote. Making the most of the king’s gustatory satisfaction, which was apparent on His Majesty’s face, Alku added, “Mr. Wright has certainly made an error. He himself does not deny that. However, Your Majesty, haven’t state security officers and the royal guard also failed in their duty? Is it not their job to assure Your Majesty’s security at all times…”
“They have all been lax.”
“Mr. Wright has admitted to his own shortcomings, but he has also pointed out that state security and the royal guard are security professionals, whereas, at the end of the day, he is only a civilian manager who has nothing to do with security and surveillance procedures.”
The king seemed to be thinking the matter over as he took another spoonful of compote.
“Your Majesty,” Alku continued in a whisper, “the ubiquitous distribution of this vile photograph indicates the existence of a greater plot against the throne. We must be sure that the saboteurs have not installed cameras in the royal palace. I hope that state security will do their duty before they start blaming the general manager of the Automobile Club.”
The king nodded in agreement. Having made it this far, Alku changed the subject and did not raise it again until a few days later, when the king was sitting alone in his bedroom. Alku bowed, and in the voice of one imparting a secret, he said, “My duty to the throne dictates that I must tell Your Majesty of an incident that happened yesterday.”
The king looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and astonishment. Alku said nothing for a moment and then continued, “Your Majesty, it pains me to have to speak of a prince of the family of Muhammad Ali when I am but a servant of them all.”
The king looked concerned and asked, “What’s happened?”
Alku mumbled as if unwilling to go on.
“His Highness Prince Shamel, Your Majesty.”
“What of him? Speak!”
“I should like to apologize in advance for what I have to say, but I have promised Your Majesty to speak truthfully. His Highness Prince Shamel has embarked on a campaign of lies which are detrimental to the throne.”
“What has he said?”
“Your Majesty, I really do not like to repeat the scurrilous things he has said, but God is our judge. Yesterday Prince Shamel was dining at the Automobile Club, and he told his companions that he considers the Wafd Party the sole legal representative of the Egyptian nation.”
Overcome with emotion, Alku fell silent and then forced himself to continue, “His Highness Prince Shamel went so far as to tell his guests that Nahas Pasha, the leader of th
e Wafd Party, is more popular than Your Majesty the king of Egypt and the Sudan.”
The king looked at him in disbelief.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Mr. Wright called me personally this morning and briefed me on this. He is furious.”
“How did Wright know?”
“His Highness Prince Shamel had had a bit to drink and spoke loudly enough for the servants to hear, and they reported it to Mr. Wright.”
The king’s face turned ashen, and he said nothing.
“How can His Highness Prince Shamel,” Alku continued, “talk like this in the Automobile Club of which Your Majesty is the patron?”
The king furrowed his brow and then made a gesture with his hand.
“I’m not interested in Shamel’s prattling. Everyone knows that he is a Communist and quite mad.”
“Your Majesty is perfectly correct. The throne has to be above all this tittle-tattle. Mr. Wright, as the general manager of the Club, is so furious that he is requesting Your Majesty’s permission to take the necessary steps against Prince Shamel.”
“What does he want to do?”
“As lèse majesté is a crime under Egyptian law, Mr. Wright will not allow Prince Shamel to do it again. If His Highness says another word against the throne, Mr. Wright will issue him with a warning and will then terminate his membership of the Club.”
The king’s expression turned from one of concern to satisfaction.
“Tell James Wright,” he said, “that it is within his remit to take whatever steps he deems appropriate to assure the smooth running of the Club.”
There were a few moments of silence, and then Alku cleared his throat, adding sotto voce, “Would Your Majesty allow his obedient servant to give his opinion?”
“Speak.”
“His Highness Prince Shamel’s enmity toward the throne is well known, but he was only able to be so bold in the Automobile Club because Your Majesty does not go and spend time there anymore. If Your Majesty were to start going there again, Prince Shamel would not dare to turn up.”