Days later, as they were sitting in the café, Abd al-Rasoul, who worked as an assistant to Rikabi the chef, came and told them that a relative in the Ministry of the Interior had confirmed to him that the detainees were being subjected to horrendous torture and that the state had even arrested their wives. The staff all started muttering about the will of God, their expressions ranging from shock to glee. They stammered out phrases of sham sympathy as they sipped their mint tea and enjoyed their water pipes, as if the dire fate of their colleagues simply made them more appreciative than ever of the good life, which they owed to a beneficent protector. They were safe and could earn a living again, whereas those upstarts and their wives were being beaten or worse, according to Abd al-Rasoul. He also told them that charges were being trumped up against the detainees and that they would spend years in prison. At the Automobile Club, their daily work became more organized, and things returned to such a state of normality that soon the incident became but a distant memory, an anecdote to be recounted when a lesson seemed appropriate. Abdoun was a deluded young idiot who had incited some of his colleagues against their master, and they all got what they had coming. It became a cautionary tale.
Then one morning Hameed came to the Club on his own and went to the telephone cabin. Labib jumped to his feet. “What can I do for you, Hameed Bey?”
“Abdoun and the other guys are coming back at nine o’clock in the morning,” he said curtly and then turned and left.
Labib stood there dumbfounded for a time before rushing off to tell his colleagues. The news spread like wildfire. The detainees were coming back tomorrow? The news made everyone excited and inflamed their dormant anxieties. Hameed had not elaborated. He had just uttered one cryptic sentence: “Abdoun and the guys are coming back in the morning.” Coming back where? Coming back to work or coming home? And was the police van going to bring them and then take them away again? Had Alku pardoned them, or was he having them brought to the Club to parade them before the staff as a reminder of the wrong way before having them returned to prison? Gradually, the staff became convinced of one interpretation:
“Good God! Alku must have forgiven them.”
“By God’s will, they are being let out of prison so they can look after their families.”
“They made some mistakes, that’s undeniable, but they’re still our brothers and didn’t mean to do us any harm.”
Thus they went on to each as if trying to form a new consensus, as if they were colluding to forget their former derision and abandonment of their brethren. They were rehearsing their new role for the following day—that of devoted colleagues who had not been able to sleep a wink out of worry and who were brimming with joy now that the whole sorry episode had come to an end. The next day, the day shift staff turned up early and were joined by the night shift staff, who had spent the early hours in the café before rushing back over to the Club. They all stood in the doorway, silently waiting. There was nothing to be said—they had already prepared themselves for the welcoming formalities. Each one had gone over how he would react when he saw the freed men, how he would shriek with joy and embrace them one by one, repeating the words prepared to express his happiness at seeing them again. They waited there for almost an hour with nothing happening and then started mumbling and whispering among themselves, wondering about the delay. Karara went over to Labib, who was sitting behind the glass window of his booth, and as if speaking on behalf of everyone, he asked out loud, “Any news, Labib?”
“They were supposed to turn up any second,” the telephonist answered, smiling nervously. “I hope nothing has happened.”
Karara turned around and went back to stand with his colleagues, when he heard a siren and some of the staff started shouting.
“They’ve arrived!”
The transport consisted of a black Cadillac carrying Alku and Hameed, followed by a blue police van, which was completely windowless apart from two small grilles. Suleyman rushed over to the car and opened the door for Alku, and Hameed jumped out of the other side. Alku looked serious and resolute, like a man about to carry out an urgent and delicate mission. He did not walk over to the entrance to the Club but strode slowly over to the door of the police van and gestured with his hand. As it was opened, the van door’s hinges screeched, and the first person to appear was a thin soldier who jumped down the metal steps onto the sidewalk, and then, a minute or so later, the detainees started coming out. The scene was so shocking that the staff standing in the doorway were unable to take in what they were seeing. Coming out of the van were women, with black abayas covering their bodies and heads. They were moving slowly, with their heads held down. They walked toward the entrance of the Club, and gradually their faces could be made out in the light of day. It was at that moment that the reality struck the staff like a thunderbolt. Beneath the black abayas, they saw their colleagues: Abdoun and Samahy, then Bahr, Nouri and Banan, then Fadly, Gaber and Basheer. The staff were so shocked that not a single one could utter a word, so dumbfounded they could do no more than stare, as if hoping against hope that the scene was a hallucination. But it was the hard cold truth that they were seeing before them.
Alku took a few steps forward and shouted at the men, “Can’t you act like men? I’ve brought you back to the Club, but you’re all dressed up in ladies’ clothing!”
They said nothing, standing there in their black abayas with their heads hung low. Alku laughed and then gestured with his hand.
“Go on up to the roof.”
The procession formed spontaneously. The abaya-clad men went on ahead, followed by their colleagues, with Alku and Hameed bringing up the rear. They climbed the stairs in a silence broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the marble. They lined up on the roof, with the guilty men in black next to the wall and the other staff standing around them. Alku was in the middle of them and announced to the freed men, “There is no work for you today. You will stay here until the end of the day. I want everyone to be able to see you wearing your nice abayas.”
Alku enunciated that last sentence as if savoring it. He turned around and cast a glance over the dumbfounded staff, then went downstairs, Hameed springing after him. With Alku gone, the staff now found themselves having to deal somehow with this supremely bizarre event. The colleagues, whom they had been waiting to welcome back, were now standing in front of them, heads bowed, faces emaciated and ghostly pale behind their abayas. Who would be the first to speak? What could men in abayas say? What could those who were supposed to greet them say? There was nothing to celebrate, and it seemed pointless to say anything. So no one said a word. The two groups of men stood there, rooted to the ground until Samahy wailed out, “Look! Alku has dressed us up in veils like women.”
That sentence broke the ice and let the men vent the violent emotions which had initially been suppressed by shock. The staff rushed over to the freed men and embraced them. They tried to comfort them, but as they all started speaking at once, no one could make out exactly what they were saying. Tears ran down Bahr’s cheeks, and Abdoun grimaced and bit his lower lip as if trying to suppress a sharp pain, the groans of the other men turning into shouts and wails.
43
Straight after the dawn call to prayer, and right on time, two taxis turned up on al-Sadd al-Gawany Street, and Umm Said, Saleha, Mitsy and Aisha all rushed down to the street and got into one of the cars. In the other, Gameel the lawyer sat with Fawzy and Mahmud and a man wearing a blue suit. Umm Said, sitting silently next to the driver, noticed Mitsy’s face in the rearview mirror. Praise be to God. This was another of His miracles. An English girl, who had come from the far ends of the earth, to enter their life and live with them. As she looked out the window, she became aware of the constant whispering between Mitsy and Saleha and thought that these two girls, whenever they were together, would always have something to say to each other and could never sit saying nothing. Scenes from her life went through Umm Said’s mind. She could see Kamel as a child and reminisced ove
r what a happy and sweet boy he had been, what a sense of responsibility he had, unlike his selfish brother Said. She recalled the sudden death of her husband and Saleha’s unfortunate marriage and divorce and the night of Kamel’s arrest. His imprisonment was still like a deep wound gnawing away at her nerves.
“Kamel has been put in prison because he is a brave nationalist. I am very proud of him,” she would always say to people trying to comfort her, but deep inside she really wished that he had never become involved in the whole affair. Her innermost self really wanted to rebuke him—but in the softest way possible. She would smile and tell herself, as if addressing him, “I’m not angry with you, Kamel. I could never be angry with you, whatever you do, but couldn’t you have waited until you graduated before taking up the struggle? Couldn’t you have thought about us, son? There are thousands of young men to fight against the occupation, but how many of them provide for their family as you do?
After approximately an hour, the taxis pulled up in the courtyard of the foreigners’ prison. Mahmud, Fawzy and the man in the blue suit stepped out, and Mahmud rushed over to help his mother and the women out of their taxi. They all stood in front of the building as Gameel quickly went through the entrance formalities. They walked through the massive doorway and down a long dark corridor until they reached the prison governor’s office. Gameel opened his briefcase and took out a document.
“Please go and take a seat in the waiting room,” he said.
They went through a side door into the waiting room. They all sat there, saying nothing, except for Umm Said, who kept muttering, “God grant forgiveness, great and merciful God.”
A few minutes later, the lawyer appeared at the door and said, “Please come with me.”
They all followed him, and as Umm Said headed for the usual visitors’ room, the lawyer said, “Not that way. Please use the other door.”
They looked at him in bewilderment, but he laughed and told them, “The governor is letting us use his office.”
They trooped into the governor’s office, and Kamel soon appeared. He was neatly shaved, his hair carefully brushed and even his blue prison uniform looked clean and pressed. His mother rushed over to him, embraced him and burst out crying. He leaned over to kiss her hands, and then Saleha gave him a hug. When it was Mitsy’s turn, she laughed and shook his hand.
“You look well!” she chirped. “And I can confirm that you are still good looking.”
The man in the blue suit went over to him and introduced himself.
“Muhammad Irfan. Notary.”
Kamel shook his hand warmly. After a little while, they all sat down around the notary, who was sitting in the governor’s chair and had placed in front of him a large file. He opened it, uttered the customary invocations of God’s beneficence and power and started speaking of marriage in Islam. Then, taking Kamel’s hand he placed it in Mitsy’s and, covering them both with a white handkerchief, he went through the formalities of the marriage contract. Kamel looked happy, and Mitsy was emotional as they were congratulated. Aisha could not control herself. She raised her head and, putting her hand in front of her mouth, started ululating. The happy noise sounded odd in the gloomy atmosphere of the prison.
44
As he did every night, once Alku had made sure that His Majesty was fast asleep, he went over the next day’s duties and just before dawn repaired to his own suite in Abdin Palace. This consisted of two large bedrooms, a reception room, a luxurious bathroom and a much plainer office. Alku was worn out and took a hot shower, then poured himself a whiskey, which he gulped down followed by two glasses of cold water before sinking down on his bed. He shut his eyes, rolled onto his right side and let sleep wash over him. Suddenly, he heard a noise in the room. He peered into the darkness and thought he could make out some shapes near the window.
“Who’s there?” he barked.
No one replied. He sprang out of bed and reached out for the light switch but felt a hand grab him by the throat.
“Don’t move!”
“Who are you, and how did you get in?” Alku shouted.
That was when he felt the first blow. Alku groaned loudly as if in protest, but the punches continued. They hit him on the head and punched and kicked him. He could just about make out their forms in the darkness. Two men pinned his arms apart while another stood behind and held his head up for more punches. The man in front of him, who seemed to be the leader, was holding a flashlight which gave out a small circle of light. The beating continued, violent and unabated, with Alku moaning and groaning loudly.
“Shame on you!” he managed to spit out.
The beating started anew, and the man in front kicked him in the shins. Alku started to plead, “I’m an old man and you’re young enough to be my children.”
The leader laughed, “So now you’ve become a gentle and caring father, you low-down bastard!”
“What do you want with me?” Alku managed to stutter out, terrified.
“We’ve come to settle the account.”
“What account?”
“The bill for all the bad things you’ve done.”
“If I’ve done something wrong, I apologize.”
“It’s too late for apologies now.”
“Let me go and I’ll do anything you want.”
“We want our due. You have robbed us and treated us like filth.”
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“That’s your problem all over…you think we’re stupid.”
“I swear. I’ll do anything. Believe me.”
“You’re not going to trick us again.”
“Give me one last chance.”
“There isn’t room for all of us. It’s either us or you.”
Alku called out for God’s mercy. The flashlight went out, and the room was completely dark. Shots rang out followed by the sound of footsteps rushing away. There were shouts in the palace corridors and guards ran to Alku’s suite. They switched the light on and found Alku, Qasem Muhammad Qasem, chief royal chamberlain, in his blue silk pajamas, stretched out on the floor with a bullet through his forehead, his mouth wide open and his eyes fixedly staring into the distance with a surprised look that he would wear for all eternity.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alaa Al Aswany is the author of The Yacoubian Building, which was long-listed for The International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award in 2006 and was the best-selling novel in the Arab world for over five years, as well as Chicago (named by Newsday as the best translated novel of 2006) and Friendly Fire. He has received many awards internationally, including the Bashrahil Award for the Arabic novel, the Kafavis Award from Greece and the Grinzane Cavour Award from Italy, and was recently named by The Times (London) as one of the best fifty authors to have been translated into English over the last fifty years.
Alaa Al Aswany, The Automobile Club of Egypt
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