At that moment, the normally taciturn and placid Hamama would suddenly spring into action, shocking the customer by barking, “Oh no you won’t. You’ll pay now or never, buster! Goods exchanged for payment only.”
At that moment, the well-trained shop assistant would grab the package from the customer’s hands. If the customer was the sort of lowlife who tried to argue, he would find Ali Hamama inching toward him to settle the matter by other means.
Ali Hamama was renowned as a miser and an unusually brusque one. He never uttered pleasantries or took account of people’s feelings, and even though he went to pray regularly at the mosque, he never missed an opportunity to cheat his customers in the weight or quality of his merchandise. He had doctored the scales and used a particularly thick and heavy type of reinforced paper to weigh out the cheese and basturma, significantly adding to the cost. These deceitful practices made the people in al-Sadd al-Gawany Street dislike him and hope deep down that some evil would befall him.
Completely unlike Ali Hamama, his wife, Aisha, was enormously popular in the street. Just the mention of her name put a smile on people’s faces, and their eyes would light up with affection and admiration. As far as the men were concerned, Aisha radiated the allure of sinful and debauched delights, and even though they all tut-tutted in public about her behavior, they secretly wished their own wives possessed something of her femininity. The women, on the other hand, loved Aisha because she expressed what they could only dream about and never dared utter. Aisha’s most salient feature was that she knew no shame. She loved to prattle on in her hoarse voice and with her insouciant smile, in great detail, all about her conjugal practices. The women would cluster around her, hanging on to her every word, now and then letting out little shrieks of mirth or hiding their faces in embarrassment. She would declare that sex was the most beautiful thing in all creation and describe how she bathed and beautified her body every night, how she would perfume herself and lie in bed, waiting for her husband, in only her nightdress.
One of the women listening asked her, “Don’t you feel cold going to bed without your underwear on?”
Then, as part of the show, she would give a little cluck of denial, and wiggling her pursed lips from side to side to imply the hopelessness of the questioner, she would pause like a seasoned actor, waiting for the laughter to die down, before telling the woman flatly, “It’s what a husband gives a wife that warms her up. And let me tell you that without that particular thing a woman will never know the meaning of happiness.”
Vulgar talk was Aisha’s favorite pastime, just as some men like collecting stamps or playing chess. She would chat away to men and women with equal frankness. She used to hang out the laundry from the window at the back of her apartment, which overlooked a student residence, having first made sure that the top two buttons of her galabiyya were open. Thus, as she stretched forward over the line to pin out the clothes, her breasts would be exposed to any student standing on the balcony opposite, and she would pretend not to notice the scorching hot looks she attracted. One time, when a student plucked up his courage and uttered a comment about her beautiful cleavage, she was not angry nor did she scold him but started lecturing him about why a woman’s breasts need to be caressed during sex. She went into such detail that the teenage student became red and short of breath, whereupon he cut the conversation short so that he could dash off to the bathroom to ease himself. As if guessing what he was about to do, Aisha cackled and leaned over to pick up the empty laundry basket and flounced away from the window. In all fairness, she was not seeking a sexual encounter with the student. She just liked talking about sex. Nothing more, nothing less. The same way as any soccer fan enjoys talking about his favorite goals. Let us just say that Aisha enjoyed talking about sex as much as she liked the act itself, although, truth to tell, it was not quite clear whether she had ever cheated on her husband.
There was one ugly rumor claiming that Ali Hamama had amassed his fortune principally from hashish and had got his start working for a big dealer, who was nicknamed Mr. Handsome because of his stunning good looks. The gossips said that Mr. Handsome was in the habit of spending each evening at Hamama’s flat, where he and his host smoked so much hashish that Ali Hamama would drop off to sleep. At that point, Mr. Handsome would crawl into Aisha’s bed and spend the night with her. The people from the street who disliked Ali Hamama, and they were numerous, claimed that he only feigned sleep and would receive payment from Mr. Handsome in the form of favors, cash and free goods. God alone knows the truth. It should be noted, however, that Fawzy and Fayeqa, Ali and Aisha’s son and daughter, did not resemble each other at all. Fawzy was as dark skinned and unsavory looking as his father, whereas Fayeqa was beautiful with the gleaming white complexion of a Turk. Some people naturally inferred that Fawzy was his father’s son but that Fayeqa was the product of an illicit relationship between Aisha and the dealer, Mr. Handsome. Residents from the street were not inclined to repeat this calumny, however, because a person’s honor is a taboo subject, and when all was said and done, they loved Aisha too much to wish her any harm. They loved her not just for her outrageous manner and her saucy talk but because she also had a serious side, which revealed itself in times of crisis. When there was difficulty at hand, her feckless smile would fade, the vulgar joking would cease and her face would turn pensive as she listened intently to people’s problems and handed out heartfelt and considered advice. She never sent anyone away or put off helping a neighbor, whether it was in joyful times such as at a birth or marriage or in times of grief such as sickness, divorce or death.
The previous day, just after midnight, Ali Hamama had come home as usual after closing the shop. He wolfed down the dinner Aisha had prepared and was relaxing with his mint tea, when she took the opportunity of his good mood to raise a slightly thorny, sensitive and complicated subject: she wanted some money to buy their son, Fawzy, a suit.
The request took Ali Hamama by surprise, and he gawped at her but quickly straightened himself up and regained control. He uttered his brusque and peremptory refusal before slurping his tea as if to confirm the answer, but Aisha did not despair. She could get around him in various ways: she could butter him up, tell him how she prayed for his health and long life, point out that God Almighty had granted him a good living because he was a devoted father who never failed to provide everything for his family. She then moved on to describe Fawzy’s urgent need for a suit. What would people say if they saw the son of Hagg Ali Hamama, a man of such repute and who had made the pilgrimage, walking around in rags and tatters? But her argument, however strong and persuasive, had no effect whatsoever on Ali Hamama.
He would not budge and gradually started to take umbrage at Aisha’s insistence. Finally, she was obliged to use her biological weapon: she stood up, sighed deeply and sat down next to him on the sofa, right next to him, thigh against thigh, with her heady perfume filling his nose and letting him feel the heat of her body. He realized that, as usual, she was completely naked underneath her galabiyya. Not stopping there, she started to caress his lower abdomen. Ali Hamama sensed the blood pulsing in his veins, his heartbeat quickening and his vision blurring in the heat of passion. He almost put a hand on his wife’s warm and supple breasts, but he knew that submitting to her seduction would come at a serious financial cost. He got up and stepped away from the source of heat and sat down in the armchair in the opposite corner of the room.
Once he had collected himself, he started his rebuttal: “He has more than enough clothes already. Even if they are a bit worn, you can mend them! That’s the way to bring up a man. A child should know the value of money. Frittering it away on juvenile whims is the quickest way to go broke. And remember, Fawzy is a dunce, a good-for-nothing, useless! He’s seventeen and still at school. What does he need a new suit for? A reward for failure?”
Aisha looked at him and asked, “So we just let him run around in shabby clothes like a beggar?”
“If he keeps failing at s
chool, he can go to hell for all I care.”
Hamama spoke those words calmly, avoiding Aisha’s glance.
She threw out a final challenge: “So, what’s your decision? Are you buying him a suit or not?”
“No,” Ali Hamama answered without hesitation.
Aisha growled, got off the sofa and stood in the middle of the room, shouting, “Shame on you! You’ll be the death of me. If you go on like this, I’ll have a stroke! Your son, the fruit of your loins, wants to buy a suit and you’ll pay. You should have some fear of God in you.”
“Oh, it’s God who told us to throw our money down the drain?”
“That’s just like you. Heartless. Are you a Muslim or a heathen?”
“Muslim, praise be to God!” retorted Ali sneeringly.
Aisha let out a long sharp wail, which was, in the language of international law, a declaration of war, and Ali Hamama in his turn uttered some unintelligible grunts, which could be interpreted as a confirmation of his refusal and reiteration of his come-what-may attitude. Then he withdrew into himself, shrouded in taciturnity, staring into space as if the discussion was no concern of his.
Aisha walked right over to him and then gave him two almighty slaps on the face, shouting, “May God punish you! What a miserable marriage! I was warned from the outset that you were tighter with money than Yazid’s dog!”
“Then why did you marry me? Were you forced into it?”
“I was young and stupid. The day I met you was the worst day of my life!”
Ali answered calmly, “Don’t worry your pretty face. If you want, we can end it and each go our separate ways.”
“Chance would be a fine thing. If you were a man, you’d divorce me.”
“Then give me back your wedding jewelry first!”
Aisha took a deep breath and then let out an audible snort as she waved her finger in the air in that recognizable gesture of insult as if to an imaginary audience, as she shouted, “What are you saying? What bloody jewelry, you useless man?”
“The bloody jewelry I provided upon our marriage. Give it back and I’ll divorce you.”
“I’d rather flush it down the drain, you miserable bastard.”
Aisha rushed off to the bedroom and came back with a velvet box containing the gold necklace that was her dowry. She shrieked as she threw it onto his lap, “Take it, you piece of filth! And I hope you’re happy with it!”
Ali grabbed the box, opened it and checked its contents, almost sniffing it, as if he were receiving goods for his shop. Then he gently shut it and carefully placed it beside him on the sofa, pondering ruefully aloud, “I dragged you up from nowhere. I wonder how it feels to have nothing again.”
Aisha was now working herself up into a froth of anger, and as she shrieked yelps of fury, she let her galabiyya slip to the floor, leaving her standing there completely naked. She started beating her fists against her thighs and declaring, “Just so you know—you were right, Mama! He is such an upstanding man that I hope God sends him downward to hell!”
“Oh, so now you want to keep me from going to heaven, you piece of vermin?”
She went for him. She clasped her hands together and brought them down on his chest. He pushed her away, jumped up and darted away from her reach. Clutching the jewelry box under his arm, he rushed out of the room with the sound of her curses ringing out after him.
6
Every night Bahr the barman would stand behind the bar in the dim light. Behind him were various bottles and shelves with downturned wineglasses. A man in his fifties, in his gleaming suit, white shirt and red bow tie, he looked for all the world like a born barman. Indeed, the few times that some of his customers saw him outside the bar, walking in the street and out of uniform, he seemed somehow out of place.
Bahr plied his profession with the precision and absorption of a concert pianist. He would take an order, bow and smile, and then prepare the drink. If a customer ordered a cocktail, he would make a performance out of its preparation. He would twirl around on one leg as he lovingly mixed the ingredients. He did this little dance as he shook the cocktail shaker and then poured the drink into the glass, serving it with another small bow, which he held for a few seconds as if waiting for applause. Patrons in the bar would look at him with amazement, and he was seldom denied a “Bravo. Well done, barman!”
Every day until one o’clock in the morning, Bahr would see to it that service in the bar was entirely up to scratch. He would scour all the corners of the bar, watching the staff like a hawk as they served drinks to the members. At the first sign of a mistake, his face would start to twitch in a way the staff noticed immediately. Then in the same code, a signal only the staff understood, he might scowl, raise his eyebrows, shake his head or gesture with his hands, and his men would put things to right. If he was gesturing hurriedly, they would speed up, and if he was indicating to the contrary, they would slow down. He might have been a conductor beating out the tempo with his baton. When it came to the customers, Bahr showed them utmost care and sensitivity. Drinkers could be fickle and their mood highly changeable, but Bahr knew exactly when a customer needed to talk and when he needed to be left in silence, when Bahr should offer a pleasant anecdote or keep his distance. He could uncannily tell from the very first moment if a customer was drinking to forget his sorrows or to celebrate or simply out of habit. He could discern with one glance whether the lady sitting with a customer was his wife or mistress, and he knew immediately whether a drink would further improve a customer’s good nature and generosity, or in the case of a foul-tempered man, only make him more aggressive. Bahr was never upset by the slights uttered by drunkards, as he knew that they were no longer in control of themselves, and in fact he would always tell his staff, “Never be offended by a drunk…You must look after a drunk!” If someone was completely out of control, Bahr would follow a strict professional protocol, refusing to serve the man any more or in a pinch giving him a glass of ice water with a drop of whiskey in it for a touch of color. Bahr would then help the drunk out by summoning his driver, or if none was waiting, Bahr would prevent the drunk from getting into his car, and then he would call a taxi, paying the fare in advance so that the club’s patron would not be fleeced.
Unlike most of the other staff, Bahr the barman showed no humility. He did not consider himself a servant. His work was on a different level than simple cleaning or carrying out orders. It cannot be denied that he too was subject to Alku’s authority along with the other staff, but he felt himself a professional. He was the master of a sophisticated craft, and his pride in this enabled him to uphold his dignity. He could put up with all sorts of drunken antics, but he would not countenance slights from sober customers. These he would answer with certain effective and safe acts of retribution—effective because they were a satisfying form of vengeance, safe because they could not be interpreted as anything other than acts of politeness. For example, Bahr might take a long time to respond to an order from an offensive customer, apologizing as he served him with obvious insincerity in his voice, thereby registering his resentment but providing no pretext for complaint.
Another way of getting even was to treat the customer with the utmost respect but call him by the wrong name, a method that caused even more chagrin if the customer was in the company of a lady who was not his wife! If the customer failed to notice that he was being wrongly addressed, Bahr would repeat himself until the customer corrected him, whereupon he would apologize profusely but too late since the message would have already been delivered—that the customer was a man of such insignificance in the Automobile Club that the barman did not even know his name.
The third method was to make a big show of welcoming the customer and bowing to him, but as soon as the customer looked at him, he would look back with an expression of disgust for a fleeting moment before carrying on with the unctuous welcome as if nothing were amiss.
Finally, there was a fourth method, which Bahr had only resorted to once. This had happened t
wo years ago during a visit from Abd el-Al Pasha Hafiz, minister of justice, who was known for his sharp tongue and for the enjoyment he derived from humiliating anyone who worked for him, whether of high or low rank. Bahr tried as hard as he could to avoid any conflict, but in vain. The pasha treated him from the first with sneering arrogance. Bahr served him a chilled bottle of beer, and when Abd el-Al Pasha finished it, he called out in a voice so loud that everyone in the bar could hear him, “When I finish my drink, you are supposed to come and ask me if I would like another one. Am I supposed to do your job? You’re not a barman. You’re a bloody donkey!”
Bahr could not remember ever having felt as humiliated as he did that night. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He grabbed a bottle of beer and left the bar. He crossed the hallway, making sure that no one saw him, and still clutching the bottle, went into the toilets, returning quickly to the bar and putting the bottle back on the shelf behind the bar. When the Pasha ordered his third bottle of beer, Bahr served him and watched with some pleasure as the bloated Abd el-Al Pasha Hafiz, minister of justice, drank beer that had been diluted with the barman’s urine.
To be fair, that event was an exception, a small blot on Bahr’s otherwise unstained escutcheon. Usually, Bahr took pleasure in honoring his customers, and his name was often mentioned in expressions of praise reserved for those at the peak of their professions. Perhaps the most fabled example was the visit of Colonel William Caldwell, an English aristocrat and close associate of Field Marshal Montgomery. Colonel Caldwell had a particularly pompous and abusive manner hidden under a veneer of forced politeness. The moment he sat down at the bar, Bahr knew that he was a tricky customer and started serving him with the utmost care in order to give the colonel no chance to get the better of him or create any problems. Colonel Caldwell drank a gin and tonic, then put his pipe in his mouth and, in his upper-crusty English stammer, asked Bahr an obviously supercilious question, “You there, barman. Do you know how to make cocktails?”