Alku said no more, letting the thought percolate slowly in the king’s head. One afternoon a week later, the king was sitting on a balcony in the palace eating ice cream as Alku bowed and said softly, “Your Majesty, may I address a request to you?”
The king gave him an inquiring look.
“Mr. James Wright asks whether Your Majesty might deign to grant him a short interview. He is just asking for ten minutes of Your Majesty’s time.”
The king agreed to see Wright, and Alku dashed off to deliver the news. Wright seemed relieved and muttered, “Thank you.”
It was highly unusual for Wright to thank the head chamberlain openly.
“At your service,” Alku bowed.
At exactly four o’clock in the afternoon the following day, Wright presented himself to His Majesty, who smiled and said in English, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wright. How are you?”
The king gestured to Wright, who took a seat and launched directly into the matter at hand. “I hope Your Majesty will give due consideration to what I am about to say.”
The king nodded and looked at him.
“Your Majesty, I would ask Your Majesty to forgive us and to honor us with your presence at the Automobile Club.”
“I will not go to that place. It is riddled with Communists.”
“I can give Your Majesty my word that what happened will never happen again.”
The king said nothing while he appeared to mull it over. Wright plucked up the courage to continue, “Your Majesty, I don’t want the saboteurs to feel that their crime has brought about the result they hoped for. Your Majesty is too great a personage to have his life changed by those riffraff.”
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 f
or 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.
By the ninth week, they could take it no longer. One afternoon they all met in the café. The night shift staff came before their shift had begun, and the day shift staff came before their shift had ended. They formed a great throng. The department heads were absent. Maître Shakir was sitting there smoking a water pipe, but when he saw them all arriving, he guessed the purpose of their meeting, ordered the bill and left. Bahr the barman was the only department head who turned up. He sat smoking a water pipe silently in one corner of the café. Everyone was seated, except for Karara the waiter and a few others who could find no seats or perhaps simply wanted to be seen and heard.
“So what do we do now?” Karara cried out as if kicking off the show. “What are we to do about this catastrophe?”
“We’ve got wives and kids to support!” someone grumbled out loud.
“How are we going to keep our families going? Are we going to have to steal or beg?” asked another.
“Uncle Suleyman,” someone called out, “I’m going to have to give up this job.”
“You can’t,” said Suleyman, smiling sadly.
They fell silent, overcome with sudden fear. Suleyman shook his head and continued, “If any of you quit your job without Alku’s blessing, it’ll be the end of you. You think it’s as easy as that? Twenty years ago, when the Club first opened, there was a waiter called Anbar from Luxor. He did something wrong, and Alku beat him. In those days, Alku used to beat us with his own hands. Anbar had a difficult time with that. He sat up all night, and the following morning, he walked out of the Club. He disappeared. You know what Alku did? He told the police that Anbar had stolen some money. They arrested him and put him on trial, and he got three years in prison.”
They shuddered as they imagined Alku getting them sent to prison too. After all their hard work, to be kicked in the teeth like that!
“Listen, everyone,” said Karara. “We have to find a way out of this.”
“But what can we do?” whined Samahy.
“We have to find out who installed the camera.”
“If the bloody police can’t find out, how can we?”
Abdoun was sitting in the corner. He got up and walked to the center of the café, where they could all see him, and said, “Listen, everyone. You need to understand that the ban on tips has got nothing to do with any camera being found.”
“Beat it, Abdoun,” Karara shouted with a look of disgust.
Abdoun paid no attention and continued calmly, “Alku was going to ban tips whatever the circumstances. If it hadn’t been that scandalous photograph, he would have found another reason.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that when he agreed to stop the beatings, he must have decided then to take his revenge on all of us.”
“That’s enough poisonous talk,” shouted Karara. “There has been a scandal involving the king, and it’s natural that Alku would punish us. Instead of trying to stand up to Alku, we should apologize to him.”
“Apologize for what?” asked Abdoun. “What have we got to do with it? State security officials are the ones responsible for the king. What’s more, the king himself has come back to the Club and treats us as if nothing happened. That means that Alku is more upset about the dent to the king’s reputation than the king himself.”
The staff mumbled among themselves and exchanged confused whispers.
“Listen, everyone,” Abdoun continued, “we are in a dispute with Alku, and we are in the right. Alku wants us to continue being subject to his whims, and we are demanding to be treated with respect. We do our work and get paid, and if we do something wrong, we should be disciplined without humiliation.”
The staff were all at their wit’s end, and their dismay was visible.
“So, Abdoun,” asked old Suleyman, “what should we do?”
“Hold on to our dignity,” answered Abdoun.
That set the cat among the pigeons. “What bloody dignity!” they called back at him.
As their shouts mingled, it became clear that not all of them agreed. Most were furious with Abdoun, but Samahy, Bahr and some others put up a valiant defense of Abdoun, who said nothing as the controversy raged around him.
“Abdoun is right.”
“Was he wrong to stand up for our rights?”
“Who told him he could speak for us?”
“You say that now, but didn’t you thank him when he got Alku to stop the beatings?”
“We thanked him out of politeness, nothing more. And now we’re all living a catastrophe.”
“Listen, Abdoun,” said Karara. “What do you say to us going to apologize to Alku?”
There were shouts of approval.
“Good idea!”
“Absolutely. If Abdoun apologizes to Alku, he’ll forgive us.”
“I have nothing to apologize for,” declared Abdoun.
“You have to apologize!” shouted Karara, and other voices seconded his call.
“I will not apologize,” said Abdoun, staring them down. “And I will not let anyone beat me. Not Alku or Hameed or anyone. Instead of demeaning yourselves even more and letting Alku have you beaten like cattle, be men and demand your rights with your heads held high.”
Suddenly, Karara rushed over to him and screamed, “Where the hell did you come from? You’ve made our lives a living hell, and I hope God does the same to you.”
Some of those standing around rushed forward to keep the two men from coming to blows. The staff were now in a state of deep gloom as they realized that the problem was insoluble.
Suleyman strode slowly to the middle of the café and gestured toward them, saying, “Listen, guys. We need to sort this out.”
“Sort it out? That’s what we’re trying to do!” someone called back at him.
“Abdoun is too proud to go and apologize to Alku,” he said, trying to make his weak voice audible. “So we will go instead and ask him for forgiveness.”
Some people called out in support of this idea, but Abdoun shouted above them, “Apologizing to Alku will achieve nothing. The more you demean yourselves, the more he will demean you.”
“You’re an odd bird, Abdoun,” Suleyman shouted in a rage. “Who put you in charge of us? We are free to do what we want. If you don’t like what we say, you’re free to leave.”
Abdoun gave a sad smile, but Suleyman repeated his remark.
“Good-bye, Abdoun, you can leave us. I want to tell the men something that you won’t like to hear.”
Having been told to go, Abdoun just looked at Suleyman in disbelief, before turning on his heel toward the exit.
“Wait, Abdoun. I’m coming with you.”
That request was uttered by Bahr, who put down the mouthpiece of his water pipe and followed Abdoun out. He was followed in turn by Samahy and a few others. Those who supported Abdoun numbered ten out of a total of forty-four. Once Abdoun and his friends had l
eft, the others felt easier and clustered around Suleyman, who expounded his idea to them. He would go and tender a new apology to Alku. Those left gave their enthusiastic support to the plan.
“Take me with you, Suleyman,” Karara called out.
Thus the delegation was made up of the two men. Suleyman, the longest-serving member of staff, and Karara the waiter, the one most devoted to Alku and most hostile to Abdoun and his supporters. Just before midnight, Karara asked permission to leave from Maître Shakir, and Suleyman got one of the waiters to stand in for him at the door. Mustafa took them to Abdin Palace and then drove quickly back to the Club. When they got to Alku’s office, Hameed eyed them suspiciously as Suleyman politely stated, “Mr. Hameed, I have come with Karara to see His Excellency Alku.”
“Regarding…?”
“We have come to beg our master Alku to put an end to the unsettled state of affairs prevailing in the Club.”
Hameed stood up slowly and went into Alku’s office. About half an hour later, they were ushered in. As usual, he looked majestic and fearsome in his embroidered chamberlain’s uniform and gold spectacles and smoking a fat cigar. He looked at the two men, and Suleyman addressed him, “Your Excellency Alku. We are your servants. We owe you everything. Abdoun and his gang are completely wrong. We have come to you to disassociate ourselves from him.”
Alku threw a cold, uncomprehending glance at Suleyman. Karara took a couple of steps forward, and with an ingratiating smile and a shaky voice, he added, “By the Prophet, please do not send us away empty-handed. Please don’t be angry with us anymore and let us have our tips. Our families are going hungry, and surely Your Excellency is not happy about that.”
Alku shrugged his shoulders and blew out a cloud of smoke which obscured his face.
“If you have nothing to do with that guy Abdoun,” he asked calmly, “why have you remained silent until now?”
“Your Excellency,” answered Suleyman, “none of us will even speak to him anymore.”
“If that Abdoun were to say a word against Your Excellency,” added Karara, “we’d murder him.”