LITMIR.BIZ

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was impossible to avoid or slip around. I was rattled. I was certain that the officers had seen me. If I were to throw away the pamphlet, they would arrest me immediately, and if I carried on walking toward them, they might notice my alarm and start questioning me. They would certainly frisk me, find the pamphlet and arrest me. That’s how I found myself doing something so strange that I still do not know how it occurred to me. I carried on walking, and a little before I reached the officers, I stopped and put my right foot against a wall. I bent over and pretended to tie my shoelace. I untied it and then tied it again as if distracted by some thought, with not a care in the world. It took me about a minute to tie my shoe before I calmly walked toward them.

      The English officer asked me, “What’s your name?”

      “Kamel Abdel Aziz Gaafar.”

      “Where do you work?”

      “I’m a student at the College of Law.”

      “Where are you going now?”

      “I’m on my way home.”

      I made a show of nonchalance. I tried to make my voice sound completely normal. The officer looked at me for a moment and then stepped back, clearing the way for me, and said, “Off you go then.”

      God in heaven. I was safe. When I recall what happened, I can still hardly believe it. I mouthed the first sura of the Quran, thanking God for rescuing me . . . I returned to my bedroom to find my brother Said sleeping. I put the remaining pamphlet in my desk drawer, got undressed and went to bed, falling quickly into a deep sleep.

      The moment I opened my eyes that morning, I found Said sitting on the edge of my bed. He was already dressed and wearing an ominous expression. He said contemptuously, “Good morning, Mr. Kamel!”

      “Good morning,” I responded, still half-asleep.

      “And where were you last night until dawn?”

      I sat up in bed and asked him, “What’s it got to do with you?”

      “I’m your elder brother and have the right to know where you were . . .”

      “I’m not a child, and I don’t need you to look after me.”

      Said got up, leaned toward me and brandished the pamphlet.

      “Has this got something to do with you?”

      “How dare you go through my things!”

      “I didn’t go through anything. I found it on the desk.”

      “Liar. It was in the drawer.”

      “In the drawer or on the desk. It’s all the same. What’s this all about?”

      I resolved to come clean.

      “Read it yourself and you’ll understand,” I shot back at him.

      “You tell me!”

      “It’s a statement protesting against the British occupation.”

      “It’s not a statement. It’s a pamphlet.”

      “So what?”

      “Do you know what they do to people who distribute pamphlets?”

      “I do.”

      “Are you crazy?”

      “No. I am an Egyptian whose country is being occupied.”

      Said let out a guffaw and said, “So you are the one who is going to liberate Egypt?”

      “I’m doing my duty.”

      “The only thing that will accomplish is that you’ll go to prison! Do you think that the English will be so scared of your pamphlet that they’ll evacuate Egypt?”

      “We have to fight the occupation with all the means at our disposal.”

      He laughed again, and his face turned ugly.

      “So Professor Kamel Gaafar will defeat Great Britain by means of pamphlets?”

      “Patriotism is something greater than anything you can understand.”

      “Patriotism does not mean you throwing away your future and ending up in jail.”

      “If everyone thinks like you, we’ll never liberate Egypt.”

      “Oh, when are you going to stop dreaming?”

      “That’s mine to know.” Then, almost exploding with anger, I told him, “You are the one who could use a bit of brotherly guidance.”

      Now giving me a look of great irritation, Said replied, “You’ve always been ill-mannered.”

      “You should have some self-respect!”

      He pushed me with his hand, and I caught hold of him by his shirt, and we started fighting. He was stronger, but by the sheer force of my anger, I shoved him so hard that he fell onto the bed. He got up again and tried to punch me, but it only landed on my shoulder. That’s when our mother ran into the bedroom screaming. I leaned into his face and whispered a warning, “If you say a word to our mother about the pamphlet, I’ll tell her what you get up to on the roof.”

      8

      Every day, upon first arriving at the Automobile Club, Abd el-Aziz Gaafar would go upstairs to greet the staff, who at that hour were busy cleaning. The cleaning staff were all Upper Egyptians who knew very well the repute of the Gaafar name. They felt sympathy for Abd el-Aziz as someone from a good family who had fallen on hard times. He was one of those landowners who, at an advanced age, had been forced into service in order to support their children. The staff looked up to him all the more because his position had nothing to do with their tips. They would seek out his advice, and after considering the matter, he would come up with a measured opinion. He was the most approachable, unintimidating and just authority that they could imagine, and they treated him accordingly. No sooner would Abd el-Aziz appear than everyone would shout out a greeting, rush toward him with a chair, a cup of tea or a glass of ice water, and then chat with him as they carried on cleaning.

      Abd el-Aziz loved these morning chats with the staff, and he would often bring some Upper Egyptian delicacies, such as flaky pastry feteer meshaltet or savory qaraqeesh to share with everyone. He really enjoyed listening to their stories and jokes and would laugh as heartily as if he were sitting with his friends after evening prayers in front of his big house back in Daraw. And so it was unusual that that day, when Abd el-Aziz arrived at the Club, he did not go up to greet the staff. He did not have the energy to see anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. He came in through the main entrance of the Club, crossed the hallway that led to the administrative offices and headed straight for the storeroom. He turned the key and the door creaked open. The air was heavy and musty and smelled of wood.

      The storeroom was a large, dark space with a high ceiling like the wings of a theater, a gloomy and forgotten backstage world away from the limelight of the Automobile Club. It was an enormous room with piles of everyday and unusual things, things you would expect and things you would not, cases of whiskey of all brands, the best cigars, imported soap, bottles of hand soap for the members’ washrooms, toilet paper, tablecloths, roulette chips, electrical devices, spare parts for bathrooms, plates and glasses of varying size and design, and most important, two categories of playing cards— luxury cards for the members and the royal cards with gold-leaf edges, reserved for His Majesty. His Majesty never used a pack more than once. At the end of the month, all the used royal decks would be gathered and incinerated in a special furnace in Abdin Palace, the ashes removed with the palace rubbish. The destruction of the royal cards was a serious matter, whose execution was supervised by Alku himself. Should one of the royal cards ever make its way to a popular café and be used by the hoi polloi, what would become of the king’s dignity?

      Only once in the history of the Automobile Club did a staff member attempt to purloin some of the used royal decks, and it caused a tremor that shook the Club to its core. The culprit was tracked down

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