I came home from university that evening, and she told me, “Be ready tomorrow. We’re going to the Automobile Club to claim what they owe your late father.”
The next day, I went with my mother to the office of Mr. James Wright, the general manager of the Club. Our appearance elicited sincere expressions of sorrow among the staff, and I shook hands with them one by one. They all came to express their condolences: the doormen, the waiters, Monsieur Comanus, Maître Shakir, Yusuf Tarboosh. Even Rikabi the chef rushed over to us in his white uniform and toque, shaking my mother’s hand and putting his arms around me. The staff’s welcome and sympathy could not, however, hide the fact of tension in the air. There was something that they were not saying, but it was apparent on their faces. The most honest was Bahr the barman, who, as he pressed my hand, said, “May God have mercy upon your father. His passing is a huge loss for us. He was a true man. May God punish those who wronged him.”
Mr. Wright received us in his office with calculated civility. He bowed and shook my mother’s hand in condolence, then gestured to us to take a seat. He spoke slowly, articulating carefully to help us understand his poor Arabic. From the outset I felt his courtesy was mere formality. He seemed entirely without feeling, operating within his officious parameters. It was apparent that he had decided to act within some very limited parameters.
My chair was a little way from him, whereas my mother was sitting right next to him and came straight to the point: “We have come to ask you for what my late husband was entitled to.”
As if expecting the question, he answered without hesitation, “You are entitled to his end-of-service payment. I will have it sent to your home within the next two days at the latest.”
My mother pursed her lips and looked straight at him. “And what about my late husband’s pension?”
“Unfortunately, there is no pension.”
As Mr. Wright uttered that sentence, his blue eyes shot us an admonitory look. We were testing his limits.
“My late husband worked at the Club for more than five years. How can you leave his children without a pension?”
“We will pay everything we owe you.”
“The end-of-service payment, however much that is, will keep us going for a few days or months. Our security depends on his pension, to which we are entitled.”
It surprised me that my mother neither pleaded nor begged but rather declared her rights with her head held high. Mr. Wright’s face flushed, and in a tone of growing impatience, he replied, “I would like to be able to help you, but my hands are tied by the rules and bylaws of the Club, which make no provision for a pension.”
“Then the rules and bylaws are unjust.”
“Well, that’s as it may be, but we cannot go against them.”
My mother smiled derisively. “Did they just fall down from the sky?”
Wright gave her an uneasy look. He held up a finger in warning. “I beg your pardon!”
My mother paid no heed and continued angrily, “When you die, will the Club not pay your pension to your children?”
Wright was surprised by that question, but he took it in stride. He had a harsh look and was relishing the condescension of his considered reply, “Yes. There will be a pension for my family when I die. However, in your case, there is no pension. You are entitled to his end-of-service lump sum and that is all.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because the Automobile Club has no pension plan for Egyptians. Only for Europeans.”
“Aren’t Egyptians flesh and blood like Europeans? Don’t their children need support like the children of the Europeans, of the khawagas?”
“What you are saying may be correct, but it was Europeans who invented the automobile and introduced it to Egypt. It was Europeans who founded the Automobile Club and who manage it whereas Egyptians only work here as menials. Egyptians and Europeans cannot possibly enjoy the same rights.”
There was a moment’s silence in which I felt nothing but loathing for Mr. Wright. My mother stood up and, her voice quivering with emotion, said, “I shall get my husband’s pension. You will see for yourself.”
“I wish you good luck.”
“We will get what we are entitled to, even if it means going to court, Mr. Wright.”
At that moment, Mr. Wright decided she had gone too far, and he shouted back, “Is that a threat?”
“It is not a threat. I am simply telling you what I am going to do.”
My mother stormed out of the office with me behind her. In the entrance of the club, some of the staff were waiting for us. My mother told them what had happened, and they all commiserated. Some said that the management of the Automobile Club always treated Egyptians worse than foreigners. In spite of their obvious sympathy for us, however, I noticed that they spoke cautiously, some even lowering their voices and glancing around.
As well as being furious with Mr. Wright, I was in awe of my mother. I had the same feeling that used to come over me as a child when I went with her to the market and, terrified by the clamor, clutched the hem of her robe for protection. I saw her differently now—as an Upper Egyptian woman, who, under her abundant tenderness, had a core of steel and was ready to fight, heedless of the odds or the consequences. In the days following our visit, my mother carried on as usual, but it was clear from her face that she was obsessed with purpose. She seemed to be working up a plan.
A few days later, she took me to see a distant relative who was a lawyer and asked him to take on our case against the Automobile Club. I had to miss some morning classes in order to go with her to get various official forms and seals. For some reason, I felt certain that my mother would win.
Approximately a month after our meeting with Mr. Wright, she was surprised to receive a telephone call from Mr. Comanus. He said he wanted to come see her regarding an important matter. She fixed a time with him for the following day at five o’ clock. We all waited for him, my mother, Said, Saleha and I. Even Mahmud put on his best clothes and waited with us in the sitting room. At the appointed hour, the doorbell rang.
14
Over the course of just a few years, the king of Egypt went from being a hardworking and upright young man—his subjects’ greatest hope for a national renaissance—to a reckless and lazy man who lived for pleasure, carousing all night and sleeping all day. He spent his nights gambling at the Automobile Club or enjoying himself at the Auberge des Pyramides nightclub. He would summon dancers and chanteuses over to his table and then choose one of them to take back to the palace. As part of his obsession with sex, the king converted a chamber in the palace basement into a cinema for blue movies, imported just for him. He lived a wild, youthful whirl of relationships with women of all sorts—daughters of the aristocracy, wives of high-ranking government officials, dancers and actresses—his sexual hunger insatiable. These feverish, unfettered trysts often led to resounding scandals and sometimes even to diplomatic crises, as happened following His Majesty’s involvement with the wife of the French military attaché. The soldiers of the royal guard took meticulous precautions to prevent the king from being photographed in compromising situations, often arresting the paparazzi, smashing their cameras and even roughing them up to make them hand over any film rolls they might be hiding on their persons. In spite of all these measures, the king’s outrageous behavior left behind a foul odor in Egypt and abroad, particularly after Her Majesty the queen demanded a divorce, confirming to the population that all the rumors of the king’s depravity were true. Newspapers around the world discovered that the king’s antics were good for sales, for their readers thrilled to the adventures of an excitable Middle Eastern potentate whose life seemed a modern retelling of stories from the wondrous and captivating Arabian Nights. The question that cropped up time and time again, and that the Western ambassadors were at such a loss to answer, was how the young king had managed, in such a short time, to become a slave to his own desires.
It might be that he had come to the thro
ne too young and inexperienced and still at school. Perhaps, some in his entourage encouraged his depravity because it made him easier to control. It might have been his way of forgetting how his world had been turned upside down when, after his father’s death, his mother, giving not a whit for convention or appearances, went through men like water. He had caught her one night, in flagrante delicto, with the comptroller of the royal household. Or perhaps it was the accident: some years before, his royal car had crashed into one carrying some British soldiers. For two whole days the king lay in a coma. A renowned British surgeon, flown in from London, carried out three operations and, to everyone’s surprise, managed to save his life. But it was said that the accident had an effect on the king’s sexual stamina and that thereafter he could not contain himself long enough to satisfy his partner. So it might be that time spent in the company of so many beautiful women in public places was an attempt to affirm for himself and the public that his virility was undiminished.
Whatever the underlying reason, the result was the same. The king had become a debauched bon vivant, and his entourage reflected this. Most of his respectable friends withdrew, and he was surrounded by a group of pashas who were willing to do whatever he wanted, no matter how dishonorable. They were prepared to lose to him at poker, only to claw back double the amount through privileges granted by His Majesty. They were swimming in money. And as for the king’s sexual conquests, they were generally linked to one name: Carlo Botticelli. An Italian in his midfifties, he was born in Shubra, and studied mechanics at the Don Bosco Institute before getting a job as an automobile mechanic at Abdin Palace. As part of the job, Botticelli always drove behind the royal fleet in case one of the cars should break down. He met the king by chance when the royal Buick overheated on the way to a hunting trip in Fayoum. This chance meeting was the turning point in the young king’s life. No one knew what transpired between them, but this simple mechanic within just a few weeks became one of His Majesty’s closest intimates and within a few short years owned huge amounts of land and commercial assets. He was then elevated by the king with the title of “bey.” Botticelli left the grease pit forever and became renowned in another profession: that of royal pimp.
In truth, that term here is neither precise nor fair. Botticelli was not vulgar, common or a simple thief like the pimps one might see in brothels and nightclubs. He was to some extent an artist, a connoisseur, a real expert in women, a specialist in the various types of beauty and the arts of the bedchamber. It took him no more than a glance, a piercing look, to identify the right woman for a night with the king. He knew exactly what was wanted. It was his gut feeling, or call it genius, that drove Botticelli to choose a certain woman for the king’s bed, picking one out and discarding others who might appear even more beautiful. Botticelli knew that the royal taste in women varied with a woman’s age and social position. If they were in their twenties, for example, the king preferred the Parisian gamin look. She had to look like a beardless youth or a girl on the threshold of womanhood, with a flat chest and no behind. With regard to her toilette, clothing, speech and movement, there could be no hint of guile or experience. A woman in her twenties would win the king’s heart by dint of her simplicity and naïveté. Before presenting her, Botticelli would warn her not to show off or feign experience. He would whisper in a sly and insinuating tone, “Give yourself to the king. His Majesty knows that you are young and inexperienced, and he will treat you with honor and patience.”
In such cases, the king’s pleasure derived precisely from corrupting the innocent. The feeling of breaking down coy resistance and defiling untamed flesh delighted him no end.
With women in their thirties or forties, the king’s taste swung to the opposite extreme: he liked the fuller-bodied Mediterranean type of beauty, with an ample bosom and a soft, fleshy behind. Before granting her the honor of going to bed with His Majesty, Botticelli would advise this type of woman to flaunt her experience. He would give her a wink, smile and whisper, “What a lucky woman you are! Our great king has chosen to bestow his favor upon you. Women the world over will be envious. You will have a night of pleasure such as you have never known. You’ll be astonished at the king’s incredible stamina. You’ll find that, for all the men you have slept with, you have never known what real lovemaking is.”
This was Botticelli’s way of insinuating to a woman how she should behave: in the king’s arms, she had to show astonishment, telling him that she had never even imagined that such manliness could exist. These words of flattery from an experienced woman to His Majesty, and his happiness at being able to satisfy an experienced lover, gave him the feeling that he was more man than all her previous lovers put together.
There was a third category of seductress that Botticelli excelled at readying for the king: the spicy local woman of the lower classes. These he would choose from among anonymous dancers at the nightclubs. A beautician would spend a whole day with them before they met the king. They had to be immaculately clean and looking their very best, even with their touch of the common. Botticelli would look at his creation and joke, “Our king is a son of his country. From time to time he gets fed up with the schnitzels and smoked salmon, and he yearns for the hearty local fare. But the plate he eats off must be clean.”
Occasionally, Botticelli would present the king a wild card, a blindingly beautiful woman who did not fit in his usual categories but was notable for her particularity. Such a woman might be plump or skinny, young or middle-aged, but there had to be something extraordinary about her. In this way, Botticelli was akin to a collector, a connoisseur as well as an impresario and a teacher of seduction.
How did Botticelli convince women to climb into the royal bed? In fact, he did not have to try hard at all. There were always more than enough willing to give themselves over to royal love. Women from the greatest aristocratic families vied for the moniker of royal mistress, and it was not because the king was attractive. In addition to his chronic sexual problem, His Majesty was too lazy for any form of exercise but maintained such a voracious appetite for desserts that he weighed more than one hundred and twenty kilograms. Thus, he was not only unattractive but unfit and unable to satisfy a partner in bed. So why did the woman all compete for him? It was simply because he was the king of Egypt and the Sudan. He held the keys to wealth and happiness. After a stormy night of lovemaking, what could he say if the lady happened to mention that she had always dreamed of owning a piece of fertile land or a farm? Could His Majesty turn down such a request? Even if she was only a young woman he had enjoyed corrupting, a few days later, her father might be the recipient of royal munificence and promoted to the rank of bey or pasha, receiving a plot of land or shares in a large company. The irony is that if word of the king’s relationship with a woman got out, it would not sully her reputation but actually help her to find a good husband. Even married women who slept with His Majesty had no inhibitions about bragging that the king could relax only in their arms. The king’s relationship with any woman elevated her station, for it was obvious that if the king had picked her out from hundreds of candidates, then she must be something special, and it followed that any man who then took her for his wife would enjoy her exceptional qualities, as well as the honor of possessing a woman who had been favored by His Majesty.
Botticelli was serious and indefatigable. He loved his work, carrying it out with pleasure and good humor. He flitted around high society in search of women and each month would organize an exclusive party in some remote private venue, inviting the royal prospects to come and be presented. At some moment during the party, the king would surprise the guests with his presence, and they would go through the motions of expressing their obeisance to him. The women would soon start to vie with one another to attract the king’s glance, displaying their charms with seeming spontaneity, pretending that they were just crossing the room for some other reason as they paraded right in front of him. They knew that a single royal glance could change the course of their fami
ly’s life forever. The show would go on until His Majesty decided upon one for the night. Botticelli would then bow to the fortunate lady, kiss her hand and treat her with the reverence due to a newly crowned queen. She might then strut around flaunting the fact that she was destined for the king’s caresses, gloat as the other women tried to hide their disappointment.
The name Carlo Botticelli on any invitation to a party was an indication of the party’s purpose, just as his appearance anywhere could be only for one reason—it meant that a new woman was on her way to the royal bed. That morning a white Chevrolet had drawn up in front of the Automobile Club. Carlo Botticelli stepped out and seemed to know his way as he walked straight to James Wright’s office. This was a highly unusual event, which the staff whispered about to one another all day: “Why would Botticelli come to the Automobile Club?”
15
When Abd el-Aziz’s fellow workers at the Club learned of his death, they were plunged into deep sorrow. They were also distressed at the way he had died. Had he gone to sleep and not woken up or been struck by a mortal illness or an automobile, they could have accepted it as his inevitable fate. But to die from humiliation! He had simply been unable to cope with having his dignity shattered in front of everyone. He just dropped dead. The staff kept whispering among themselves, “The shame of it! That Hameed, bastard homo, son of a cheap dancer, that he should have raised a hand against Hagg Abd el-Aziz, of the lineage of the Gaafars, landowners from Upper Egypt!”
Time and again they went over the details of Abd el-Aziz’s death as if they did not want to forget them, as if they were, in some way, trying to make themselves feel pain. The slaps delivered to Abd el-Aziz had brought them face-to-face with their own reality. Usually, they were so absorbed in their private lives that when something happened, they had to reflect and try to piece together the details. The death of Abd el-Aziz, however, in this sudden and humiliating fashion, had made them only too aware that they were themselves like leaves in the wind, liable to be swept away on a whim. They were servants. They were tools to be used and discarded. Their distress over Abd el-Aziz turned into an ardent desire to see that the right thing was done by his family. They delegated Hagg Yusuf Tarboosh to ask Mr. Wright’s permission to attend the funeral.