The Automobile Club of Egypt

  He became aware of his mother’s hand stroking him, and he opened his eyes and sat up in bed. She smiled and said quietly, “Good morning, Mahmud. Your friend Fawzy’s here.”

  His face turned ashen, and he was about to tell her that he did not want to see him, but he said nothing and nodded. His mother left his bedroom, and a short while later, Fawzy came in, shutting the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” Mahmud protested.

  Fawzy spoke quickly. “I know you’re angry with me. But by God, Mahmud, I haven’t done anything wrong. How was I to know that she would drop dead? But listen, Mahmud, I’m warning you. Don’t you dare say a word about what happened to anyone. If you say a word, we’re both done for.”

  “You got me into this mess,” Mahmud wailed. “So you can get me out of it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “But if the police arrest us, I’ll spill the beans.”

  There was fear on Fawzy’s face and he muttered, “Keep your voice down. Your mother will hear. Haven’t we agreed?”

  “Agreed to what?”

  “That you won’t speak of it to anyone.”

  Mahmud did not reply. He sat there scowling and staring into space as if at a loss to express what he felt. When Fawzy left the bedroom, Mahmud’s mother asked him to stay for breakfast, but he thanked her and told her he had to go. Mahmud took a shower and forced himself to eat some breakfast before going to work. He carried out his orders in a state of total absentmindedness. He looked so worried that at the end of the shift, Uncle Mustafa asked him to go and have a cup of tea with him in the Paradise Café. Choosing a table on the far side, Uncle Mustafa ordered tea and a water pipe. Taking a deep drag, he asked, “What’s the matter, Mahmud?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look shattered. Talk to me.”

  Mahmud recalled Fawzy’s admonition about keeping mum, but Uncle Mustafa’s sympathetic and kindly demeanor got the better of him. He felt a strong urge to confess everything to this man. He trusted him. Uncle Mustafa listened to him attentively and then said, “God is our refuge. May God protect you.”

  Mahmud looked down and said nothing. He was waiting for Uncle Mustafa, who had just taken another long drag on the water pipe, to give his opinion.

  Uncle Mustafa knitted his eyebrows and said, “I told you to keep away from women, but you didn’t listen to me.”

  “The devil has clever ways, Uncle Mustafa.”

  “You’ve ended up hurting yourself by ruining your future, you unfortunate lad.”

  Mahmud nodded, and a shudder ran down his body. Uncle Mustafa seemed moved and put his hand on Mahmud’s shoulder.

  “What we have to do…is go and see a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “The police will uncover everything. Eventually, they’ll come looking for you. Don’t forget that Madame Tafida comes from a family with some power and influence. We have to find you a clever lawyer.”

  “I don’t know any lawyers.”

  “Leave it to me,” Uncle Mustafa replied. “I’ll find one.”

  Mahmud thanked him and then went home. He felt the relief of having unburdened himself. Uncle Mustafa was on his side. Mahmud was too frightened even to think about how difficult it would be when the police came to arrest him, when he was put in prison with criminals, when his mother learned that he had been fornicating with old women, when his sister, Saleha, and Kamel and Said came to know that their little brother was a pervert, when they came to see him in his prison uniform. All these thoughts were going round and round in his head, but at least he could rely upon Uncle Mustafa and the lawyer.

  The next day, when Mahmud went to the garage to start his shift, Uncle Mustafa gave him a scowl.

  “Come out to the street with me, Mahmud. I need to have a word with you.”

  Mahmud followed Uncle Mustafa as he walked from the garage to the street corner and then turned and faced Mahmud.

  “Do you realize what a mess you have created for yourself?”

  “I do,” Mahmud replied.

  There was silence, and then Uncle Mustafa went on angrily, “I just can’t believe that someone like you, from a decent family, could have been carrying on like that.”

  “May God punish the one who caused it all…”

  “Anyone else would have applied himself to doing decent hard work and not running round fornicating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  Mahmud hung his head like a naughty child, but Uncle Mustafa carried on, “God has blessed you with a large body, strong muscles and good health. You should be counting your blessings and using your good health to do God’s work, not to go against Him. God has looked after you and given you more than one chance to repent of your ways, but you insisted on sinning.”

  “Oh God, forgive me please,” Mahmud sighed.

  Mustafa looked into the distance as if mulling something over and then looked at Mahmud and said, “Listen, Mahmud. Whatever happens, even if they arrest you, do not turn to sin again.”

  “I have repented, Uncle Mustafa.”

  “Give me your word.”

  “I promise.”

  “Let’s read the opening verse of the Quran together.”

  It was a strange sight to see the enormous Mahmud in the street mumbling the words of the fatiha and wiping his face with his hands.

  Suddenly, Uncle Mustafa smiled, and with emotion in his voice, he told Mahmud, “Thanks to your good father, may he rest in peace, God has found it sufficient to issue you with a warning.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s turned out all right.”

  Mahmud gave him a perplexed look and shouted, “What are you getting at?”

  Uncle Mustafa’s smile spread across his face.

  “Thanks be to God, Tafida al-Sarsawy isn’t dead.”

  Mahmud stared at him uncomprehendingly and then hoarsely stated, “Tafida’s dead, Uncle Mustafa. I saw her lying there, dead, with my own eyes.”

  “She had fainted.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “I went to her building this morning to see.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Listen, son, would I lie to you? I saw her myself as she was coming out of the building. Do you need any more proof than that?”

  Mahmud let out a loud whoop and shouted, “Thank God! Thank God!” Then he gave Uncle Mustafa a big hug and, unable to control himself, burst out crying.

  KAMEL

  I held out, refusing to confess. I put up with the incessant beatings until I had no idea of what was going on around me, until I could no longer stand up on my own and had to be helped along. It was odd. The men who were beating the shit out of me were the same men who were helping me to get up and supporting me as I walked. Their faces bore expressions of perfect normality, as if they were just doing the sort of routine work that required no particular concentration. They would throw me down on the cell floor, and I cannot describe how it felt as I hit the ground. Every part of my body hurt. The cell was tiny, with only one small window about a foot wide. It was winter, the floor was tiled, I had one threadbare blanket and insects crawled around everywhere. Meals were just two pieces of bread and some indeterminate stew. The toilet was a bucket unemptied for hours so that I could smell my own excrement. They had taken care to put me in a cell next to where they tortured the detainees, and I could hear the screams reverberating all night long, my heart ready to break as I listened. Sometimes, I lost control and shouted and cursed, banging my hands on the walls until, finally spent, I sank back down to the ground. I knew that my protests were in vain. After a few days, I developed a terrifying obsession: What if they decided to torture me like that…would I be able to bear it? No one, no matter how true to his cause, would be able to endure such torture for an extended period. My resistance would crumble, and I would confess to everything or else I might even go mad.

  The investigator called for me again. This time, however
, the agents did not beat me up. The investigator smiled and asked me with a sneer, “Have you wised up yet, Kamel?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to tell me all about the organization.”

  “What organization?”

  “Stop playing the fool, my lad!” he shouted as the agents started hitting and kicking me and I screamed. The blows stopped suddenly, and the investigator laughed.

  “By the way, we have a most entertaining little performance for you to see. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  He gestured to the agent by the door, and he rushed out. A few minutes later I heard commotion and shouting. The door opened, and agents brought in a short man, badly beaten up, with blood caked all over his swollen face. I recalled having seen him before; he worked at the Club in fact. The Upper Egyptian woman who had been brought in was screaming, and the agents slapped her.

  The investigator continued, “This is Samahy, who works as a waiter at the Automobile Club. He caused a lot of problems for us, so we’ve invited him and his wife, Zahra, to stay with us until he wises up.”

  Samahy gave a snarl, which led to his being hit again.

  “Samahy, my lad!” the investigator said. “Your wife, Zahra, has complained to us that you’re not fulfilling your husbandly duties. What do you think about us getting some of our rough Upper Egyptian soldiers here to help out in that department? I think she’d like that.”

  The woman let out a nerve-shattering scream, and Samahy could not stop himself lunging at the agents, which only ended up with his getting another good kicking.

  “Don’t play the coquette with us, Zahra,” the investigator sadistically cajoled her. “I’ve got a good strong Upper Egyptian guy here who can satisfy you. Strip her and take her to Abd al-Samad. He’ll give her one and, Samahy, you can watch and learn how it’s done.”

  The woman screamed even louder, and Samahy shouted, “Shame on you, you heathens.”

  The investigator made a gesture, and the agents dragged Samahy and his wife off. I could not hold myself back.

  “You’ll pay for this!” I shouted.

  “We’re not doing anything wrong,” the investigator smiled. “We’re protecting the throne and defending the country.”

  “Torture is a crime punishable by law.”

  “The law,” he said, “is something you study at college, my lad. You graduate and then you have to forget it. Let me tell you, Kamel, that if you were in my shoes you’d do exactly the same.”

  “I could never,” I retorted, “be a criminal like you lot.”

  The agents gave me another round of kicks, and then the investigator said calmly, “Now, I would counsel you again to start talking. When did you join the organization?”

  “I don’t join organizations.”

  “All right, Kamel.” The investigator shook his head. “I’m trying to help you here, but you won’t help yourself.”

  That was a signal to the agents to set about giving me another beating, after which they returned me to my cell. I felt like I had hit rock bottom, used like a laboratory animal. Everything they did was directed at extracting a desired result. The spectacle of Samahy and his wife both screaming was seared into my memory, and I kept reliving the scene in my mind, replacing Samahy’s wife with Saleha. What if they were to do the same to her? I put all my strength into not falling apart. That night, for the first time, the voices and torture stopped, no more screaming to be heard. Had one of the detainees died? It was quieter than I had ever known it there, and I fell into a deep sleep.

  The following day, there was a slight improvement in my treatment. They emptied the slop bucket twice and gave me more food, disgusting as it was. The investigator called for me again, but this time he was wearing a smile, and I was astonished at how those bastards’ moods could swing from one extreme to the other.

  “Mr. Barsoum, your lawyer,” he said in an affable tone, “would like to speak with you.”

  He gestured toward a stocky man, who introduced himself, “I am Gameel Barsoum, a lawyer. Mrs. Aisha Hamama has retained me to defend you. With your agreement, naturally.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  Gameel then asked the investigator, “Could I speak to him outside?”

  The investigator gestured toward the door.

  “As you like, Mr. Barsoum. I’ll give you half an hour.”

  I followed Gameel out of the room, and we stopped in the middle of the courtyard, where he heaved a sigh of relief.

  “It’s safer here,” he said. “His office will be bugged. Listen, Kamel. We don’t have much time. Speak to me. I’m your lawyer, and I need to know the truth.”

  I recounted everything in detail, from joining the Wafd cell and the organization up to my arrest.

  “Have you confessed,” he asked me in a serious tone, “to membership of the organization?”

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t even think about it.”

  “They have beaten me up to within an inch of my life.”

  “I know, and we’ll get that corroborated tomorrow during the questioning. Anwar Bey Makki, head of state security, is interested in your case and has taken personal charge of it.”

  “What do you think they’ll do to us?”

  “Actually, there are two investigations in the Automobile Club. The striking workers have been arrested and are also being tortured. The second investigation is that of the organization of which you are accused of being a member. I must inform you that your case is a difficult one, with rather dangerous implications.”

  “Has Prince Shamel really been thrown into prison?”

  “He has been released. But his having been held three days while the investigations took place is a dangerous sign. Prince Shamel is the king’s cousin and could only be sent for trial by order of the king. The fact that the king had his cousin thrown into prison will only serve to make the investigators and the judges deal more harshly with this case.”

  I looked at him and said nothing. I was thinking about my ordeal, wondering how this nightmare would end, when I would be able to go back to my home, my own bed and my books.

  As if he could read my thoughts, Gameel smiled sympathetically and said, “Whatever we do, I expect the directorate to try you in court. At that point, I will do whatever I can to get you out.”

  The next day, Gameel came to the interrogation with me and, pointing out my injuries, demanded my release, but I was ordered to be held for another two weeks.

  On Friday, I had my first visit from my family. I tried to hold myself together. I told them that I felt optimistic and that I would soon be released, but their eyes told me they knew I was lying. My mother managed to keep her composure but then broke down crying. I was moved by Mahmud’s teary eyes and Saleha’s loving and sympathetic glances, Aisha’s prayers and Mitsy’s sad smile. I went back to my cell feeling slightly uplifted, comforted to know that I was no longer entirely alone in the hands of those bastards. At the very least, my family knew where I was and would be able to glean information about what was happening to me. But how was it all going to end? Was I nearing the end of the tunnel? Would I ever see the outside world again, or would I spend the rest of my years in prison?

  42

  The orders were plain enough: arrest the strikers with as little fuss as possible in order not to disturb His Majesty inside the Club. The soldiers succeeded in doing so and dragged the staff down the street, waiting until they had them in the police vans before raining down on them a torrent of punches and kicks. Those not detained remained busy at work, but some had caught a glimpse of the sorry scene. They would always remember their colleagues’ futile attempts to wriggle out of the soldiers’ grasp and would forever hear the screams and calls for help issuing from the police vans. Alku had sent orders to the staff not to go home after the end of their shifts, and so at four in the morning, they all assembled on the roof in their work caftans. As they stood there waiting, those who had seen the arrest operati
on told their colleagues about it in low impassioned tones. It had all been child’s play until that night. Abdoun protesting the beatings and Alku’s stance, his no-tips regime. It was as if all the foregoing events had been no more than a pantomime. All those who had opposed Alku were now under arrest, and no one knew what their fate would be. After a while, Alku appeared, followed by Hameed, and the staff all bowed and kowtowed. Alku stood there looking like a triumphant hero.

  “Abdoun and that lot are getting what they asked for,” he announced.

  “Send them to the gallows!” some of the staff called out. “They can go to hell! Slit their throats! We don’t want to see them again!”

  Alku let them go on a little, allowing them to disown the strikers and declare their loyalty to him. He was staring into the distance as if gathering his thoughts. And then he asked them, “Does anyone here object to anything I do?”

  They all stayed silent, so he asked again in a louder voice, “Speak up. Is there anything you’re not happy about?”

  “You are like our father, Alku,” they started muttering submissively. “We’re here to serve you! You’re too good to us. May God bless you.”

  Alku scrutinized them, as if trying to make sure that he was back in control. Then he took two steps forward and announced, “From tonight, I am lifting your punishment. I am allowing you to have your tips again.”

  Shouts of joy rang out, the staff showering him with prayers for his well-being, and, when he turned to leave, clustering around him to express their gratitude. The next day, it was as if a new leaf had been turned over. They went to work with gusto, putting their all into the job, serving the customers as if performing for the camera, doing their best to show their loyalty and devotion, to affirm that they were the children and servants of Alku, who would never disobey him and who had nothing to do with those upstarts, already on their way to oblivion for their just reward, never again to sully the benevolent atmosphere of, or created by, their master, Alku, to whom they pledged themselves.

  Their joy was boundless at having their former life back. After three months of hardship, finally they would be able to provide for their families. However pure their delight about the tips, about their arrested colleagues, they remained ambivalent, the way one feels when something awful happens to a close relative, with great sympathy for the one affected but, deep down, a guilty sense of relief to have been spared, a feeling of self-justified schadenfreude at the downfall of Abdoun and his bunch. Hadn’t they made themselves out to be heroes, standing up to Alku and demanding their rights? Hadn’t they accused the staff of being subservient and cowardly? Now the subservient cowards were getting their rights restored, not by rebellion or pretense to being high and mighty but by doing as they were told, by perfect subservience and acceptance of Alku’s strictures and punishments, no matter how harsh. They had put up with the hard times, bent with the wind, and in the end, they came out on top. They had their tips again, whereas that bunch of upstarts had ruined their futures and destroyed their families. The staff wanted to see Abdoun, if only so that they could gloat. They would appear sympathetic to him and then ask, “See, Abdoun? Are you happy with what you’ve done to yourself and your colleagues? If only you’d listened to us, you wouldn’t be in this sorry state.”