Third: Service etiquette
Possibly the most important lesson: service requires a capacity for subservience in the face of opulence, an ability to accept that you matter not a whit, to allow yourself to be ground into dust. For a true servant, such is a matter of pride, his essence summed up in the words, “Yes sir,” as any further discourse with his master is impertinent. There is no such thing as an exchange of opinions between a servant and his master; there is no right or wrong but only what the master wants, what he orders or even what he is hoping or thinking about. That is how things are, without exception. In the palaces, ladies putting on low-cut nightgowns should not hesitate at all to summon a male servant to their rooms.
As far as ladies are concerned, a servant is not a man. He is a servant, much too lowly to become excited or tempted. The true servant is like a silent letter. It is present in the word but has no value. A servant must not draw attention to himself. He may not, for example, wear a fine watch or a gold chain. He may wear nothing that singles him out. His master must never be aware of him unless he needs him. The enormous distance between the master and his servant reflects a universal truth as undeniable as the sunrise or the orbit of the moon. It will never change. Very occasionally, the master, when in a good mood, cheered by some news or after a glass too many, might partake in some chitchat with a servant. At that moment, the servant must do no more than concur with his opinions, extricating himself from any further intimacy. He should bow, light his master’s cigar, change the ashtray, clear the table. That is, he must carry out some act that signals his awareness that each condescension from his lord is a fleeting act of grace.
Alku taught the servants when to say “Your Excellency” or “Your Honor” and the difference between a prince and a royal relative or a pasha and a bey. He taught them to speak to their master with a low and submissive voice and a small ingratiating smile, to bow and to avoid the unthinkable gaffe of walking alongside his master. He should walk two or three steps behind, never more or less. except in one particular circumstance—when the master asks the servant to direct him somewhere. Then, a servant may take a step forward to advise, but as soon as the master grasps the directions, the servant must step back again, keeping his usual distance.
Members of the Automobile Club could always request a servant who was guilty of some wrongdoing to be punished in the manner brought over from European clubs. The member was entitled at any moment to request the complaint book to register a servant grievance. These complaints were brought immediately to Alku, who would unleash a torrent of anger against the guilty servant. Ordinarily, it was enough for a club member, unhappy with a servant, simply to ask him to bring the complaint book, at which the servant would make a profuse apology begging the member to withdraw his complaint. Most members would show mercy, but there were some who were unforgiving and would insist that the servant be punished.
Fourth: Royal protocol
Dealing with royalty was also part of the servants’ syllabus, and only when a servant showed proficiency in it could he graduate and be given work. This particular mode of behavior was Turkish in character and carried out only in the presence of a member of the royal family. A servant must leave the royal presence bowing continuously as he backs out of the room, the crucial point being that he never turn his back on a royal highness. This piece of etiquette required alertness and concentration and could only be attempted after much practice, as the servant might have to walk backward at any moment and without care might trip on something, bump into someone standing behind him or knock something over. What an unseemly sight that would be!
Alku told his students time and again that proficiency in leaving the royal presence demanded the eye of a hawk, the gait of a gazelle and the cunning of a fox. Anyone undertaking it must have the details of the room engraved in his mind, so he might picture the exact path backward to avoid this chair and walk around that table, steering a path through the empty spaces, away from clusters of guests, until he safely reached the door. Properly performed, this particular act was considered one of Alku’s crowning glories. From his youth, he had been able to navigate the largest and most crowded salons backward in a most brilliant and unrivaled manner, as skillfully as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
When Alku was satisfied that a servant had perfected the royal protocol, he would assign him places of work. The rules stipulated that those with dark complexions would work in close proximity to their masters in jobs such as waiters and valets. Those with light-brown skin would be sent off to work in the kitchens or as guards or gardeners. It was considered that a servant with a coal-black complexion showed off the true gentility of his master. This might have been a notion inherited from the days of slavery, or maybe it was that a light complexion was too similar to that of the master and thus ran the risk of their appearing indistinguishable at a distance. After a servant had been allotted work, Alku continued to rule over everything he did. A servant was not allowed to keep tips. He had to hand the cash over immediately to his superior, who, at the end of the day, would put it in the tips box. A servant was not allowed to carry any money in his robe, the smallest coin in his pocket subjecting him to harsh punishment. Alku took half of the tips for himself and split the rest among the servants according to seniority. This system was called the “trunk” and was written in stone. Woe betide anyone who infringed it.
The trunk did not include the head servants. Rikabi the chef, Maître Shakir, Bahr the barman and Yusuf Tarboosh the casino manager all earned large amounts directly through their positions. From their extra earnings, they handed Alku a portion, which was called the “bonus.”
In exchange, Alku also provided them staff flats in the Abdin district. Bachelors lived three or four to a flat, and separate flats were provided for married servants with families. Alku oversaw all the minutiae of their lives. He knew everything about them, including the names of their children. Alku never overlooked a detail. He saw to their needs, married them off and often even involved himself in settling their marital disputes. If a wife was being mistreated by her husband, Alku would listen to both parties, pass fair judgment and see that it was carried out. He might then pay them a surprise visit to check on how they were generally getting on with each other. Alku’s word was absolute law, his decision final, brooking no exception or appeal. From time to time, the servants would grumble to one another about Alku’s severity, although the plaintive, emotional and miserable tone of their whispers spoke of pain tinged with pleasure, in the manner of a wife satisfied in the most wonderful way sexually who complains about her husband’s brusqueness, never letting on that she rather enjoys his rough ways.
The supreme authority that Alku wielded over the servants would suddenly invert itself in the presence of foreigners. He could be standing like a crowned king among the servants, but the moment he saw a foreigner, he would rush over and bow, opening the door of the salon or lift with his own hands. He would show complete deference, even veneration, to any foreigner, which was most sincere, as he believed firmly in the superiority of the white race. He would always tell people, “The foreigner is always better and cleverer than we are, and whether you are Arab or Nubian, you must treat him with more respect.” His submissiveness to foreigners actually served to augment his prestige, as if he were declaring to the servants, “I am the servant of His Majesty the king and of foreigners, but to you I am lord and master.”
It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon when a black Cadillac cruised down Qasr al-Nil Street and stopped in front of the Automobile Club. The driver jumped out, bowed, and opened the door and Alku stepped out regally. He was dressed in his valet’s suit of green broadcloth, a zouave-style waistcoat with bullion embroidery, gold epaulets, and across his whole chest were gold aiguillettes, which swung gently whenever he moved his arms. He was wearing an elegant tarboosh and holding a cigar from which he took a puff from time to time, exhaling thick smoke, which obscured his face, the aroma mingling with his Fre
nch eau de cologne.
Behind Alku scurried Hameed, his right-hand man, who carried out the punishments he decreed for the servants, which ranged from slaps on the feet to the lash in the case of major infringements. Hameed was a chubby black man in his twenties whose every movement made his corpulent frame shudder like a soft, blubbery mass unrestrained by bone or sinew. He had a fixed expression of sullenness and exuded a generally sour aura. His supercilious, repugnant gaze was ever watching for the slightest blunder. There were dark rumors. People said that Hameed was Alku’s illegitimate son by a belly dancer Alku had fallen in love with and that although Alku refused to acknowledge his paternity, he had secretly looked after him and paid for his upbringing, before finally taking him on as his closest associate at work. It was also said that one of the servants had abused Hameed as a child and that he had grown up to be a homosexual. For according to the Upper Egyptian folklore so ardently believed by the servants, a tapeworm had come to live in his dark, dank sphincter, feeding exclusively on the semen of the men who screwed Hameed, and that whenever the worm was hungry, it would gnaw so ferociously at him that he had to rush around looking for someone to sodomize him just to soothe the pain. This was how Hameed came to be a queer who craved hairy chests and strong thighs and who quivered like a woman at the sight of an erect penis. It was this lustful inclination that, in the opinion of the servants, explained his delight at humiliating men and the glee with which he administered a beating. Some of the servants swore by God Almighty that they had seen with their own eyes how, after a good flogging, he ran his hand over the weals on the servant’s naked back and bit his lower lip to suppress the waves of pleasure coursing through his body.
Most likely these stories were merely calumnies invented by the servants, who enjoyed swapping them surreptitiously out of their dread of Hameed, whom they detested no end.
The moment Alku set foot in the Club, everyone knew at once, the servants asking each other in terror where he was headed and what he wanted. Had he come on a routine inspection or to investigate something reported to him by one of his ubiquitous spies? These questions always remained unanswered. Alku’s inspections were one of the vicissitudes of fate from which no one felt safe. One never knew how far they would reach, and so when they occurred, the servants would always pray to God for protection. No matter how skillful or experienced a servant might be, as in a game of roulette, he could never predict when his number would come up. For Alku, good and evil were completely random matters. He might spend a whole day checking the rims of the lift doors for traces of dust as his gaze darted over to old Mur’i the lift attendant, who would stand there quaking. He might then take the lift and head to the bar where Bahr the barman would rush over to him and say in Nubian, “Good afternoon, Your Excellency. To what do we owe the honor?”
Alku did not answer greetings from servants, except a wave of his hand or a slight nod if he was in a good mood. If in a foul mood, he would raise his eyebrows almost imperceptibly or just ignore the greeting completely. Alku walked into the empty bar with the servants scurrying behind him and gestured to Hameed to open the wooden drawer with the previous night’s receipts. Reaching into the drawer, Hameed gave them a fleeting glance before flinging the slips into the air and, in a voice choked with anger, crying out, “Your tabs are really floating now, Bahr!”
Bahr was about to respond, but a piercing look from Alku shut him up and made him lower his head. Alku did no more than register this impertinence before turning and walking out of the bar.
A little explanation is needed here. The “floating tab” was a well-known system used by barmen to manage their receipts. Rather than ringing up an item such as two beers or two whiskeys again and again, a barman would put enough money to cover the tab into the till and would then present the same bill to another member who ordered the same thing. This time the barman pocketed the money. Hence it was called a floating tab as the same bill bobbed around from customer to customer.
Alku then headed to the restaurant, but just as he reached the door, at the very last moment, he turned and headed for the casino, the servants still hurrying along behind him. He strode up to the farthest table in the room, next to the window, rubbed his hand a few times on the underside of the table and then slowly lifted his fingers up to his eyes. The waiters stood around him, almost breathless from fear. It would be an unmitigated disaster if Alku saw the slightest trace of dust on his fingers. But thank the Lord, there was not an atom of dust on the underside of the table. What happened then is proof of Alku’s second sight. As he was waiting for the lift, he spotted Idris the waiter in the distance. He turned to look him over, and then, like a cat that has just seen danger, he tensed his muscles and arched his back as if bracing for a fight. Gesturing toward Idris, Alku harrumphed and shouted, “Bring that one here!”
Idris froze on the spot, with an ingratiating smile. Hameed grabbed him and dragged him so roughly by the sleeve of his robe that he almost fell over. Alku uttered another phrase that hit Idris like a lightning bolt, “Search him.”
At this, Hameed was to take the suspect to the servants’ changing room on the roof. There they stood, surrounded by servants trying their best to hide any sympathy for their colleague. With an ugly and vengeful smile, Hameed told Idris to take off his caftan, which he searched carefully. Then Hameed inspected Idris’s baggy undertrousers, causing Idris to utter a low moan that soon turned into a loud gasp as Hameed extracted two twenty-five piastre notes from Idris’s sock.
“Thief!” shouted Hameed and then, like a hunting dog, turned to present the notes to Alku, who asked in a low and deliberate tone, “How long have you been thieving, Idris?”
“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” he wailed, almost in tears. “I’ll never do it again.”
Alku shook his head once, whereupon Hameed took his cue and gestured to two of the servants to grab Idris by the arms. This served two purposes, forcing the colleagues of a guilty servant to witness the beating while also enlisting them to prevent him from dodging any of the lashes. There was no such thing as friendship for anyone who broke the rules. It made them understand that it could happen even to one of their oldest colleagues. It was no use feeling upset at his disgrace and pain, as the guilty had no rights.
Hameed went up to Idris, now restrained, and started slapping him. Hameed had a singular technique, which was to raise his hands on either side of the servant’s face and then slap him with each hand in turn. Occasionally, he would deliver a resounding slap with both hands. This achieved the highest degree of humiliation and pain. After the first round of slapping, Idris received another one, and as Hameed started to get carried away with himself, his face flushed, his eyes bulging and teeth grinding. By some additional bit of bad luck, Idris suddenly cried out, “Enough! Shame on you.”
Hameed was startled. He stepped back, and panting with exhilaration, he said, “Shame? I’ll teach you the meaning of shame!”
Hameed looked toward Alku, who made an almost imperceptible gesture, such as an impresario might give the musicians to ready them for an encore. Springing forward, Hameed showed himself surprisingly agile for his large frame. He picked up a short, rough stick and started waving it. The two servants holding Idris knew what they had to do. They pulled him roughly and pushed him down onto a bench, taking off his shoes and socks. Then as they held Idris’s legs, Hameed pursed his lips and grimaced before raising the stick as high as he could and bringing it down with full force on the soles of the surly servant’s feet…
KAMEL ABD EL-AZIZ GAAFAR
At that time, my emotions were in turmoil, and I was reeling from one extreme to another. I could feel overwhelmingly happy and optimistic and full of self-confidence, and then suddenly, for no reason, I would lose my enthusiasm and a sense of gloom sapped my will to do anything at all. I would withdraw into myself, alone in my room sprawled out on my bed, reading, smoking and giving myself over to my restless imagination. I imagined myself performing deeds of chivalry and self-sac
rifice, saving an innocent girl from a gang of evil men or helping a stricken friend so generously that his eyes welled up with tears of gratitude. I saw myself as the hero of some tragedy who displays nothing but generosity and courage to all with a steady gait and a steadfast heart as fate lies in wait to drag him to meet his destiny. Sometimes I thought of our house as a theater. I would watch my siblings coming out of their bedrooms and walking around as if they were actors performing their roles. It was like watching them from behind a glass partition. Sometimes I felt that I was experiencing a life that I had already lived, as if everything around me was already hidden away in the recesses of my memory. With all such emotions burning inside me, I felt the power of poetry for the first time. I wrote a poem, which was published in the magazine of the College of Law and for which some of my fellow students expressed their appreciation.
When suffering my own ups and downs or lost in my untrammeled imagination, I felt sad about what was going on in our house.
My mother had admitted the truth to me: our father had come from Upper Egypt after losing all his money and was working as a storeroom clerk to support us. As if he were living with chronic pain, my father’s face was holding something back. Even when laughing or speaking about something cheerful, his expression was still dark and ominous. I felt bad that he was going through this ordeal. I wished I could help him and thought about looking for some work in addition to my studies. But when I suggested this to my mother, she responded firmly, “Your only job is to study and graduate.”
My feelings of responsibility to my family weighed on me heavily. I could not let them down. I was their emissary to the future, the focus of their unshatterable hope. I can never forget my first day at university. I had had a haircut, shaved and put on some aftershave as well as a new suit. My father got up early to wish me well, and seeing me off, he smiled and said, “Good-bye, professor! May God keep your every step safe.”