Читать книгу The Automobile Club of Egypt - Alaa Al aswany - Страница 20

9

At ten o’clock in the morning, when the staff arrived at the Club, there would be a clamor of shouts, greetings and guffaws. It was joviality itself, perhaps because they were starting a new day or because they were simply relaxed before having to deal with their supervisors and the club members. They would go up to the changing room on the roof and get into their work clothes— old galabiyyas whose hem they hitched up and tucked in at the waist, showing their long underwear and their undershirts. Then they would fan out through the Club carrying the tools of their trade: brooms, floor rags, dusters and various cleaning liquids. They would start from the top of the building, working their way down, floor by floor. They worked together so efficiently and rhythmically that they might have been doing a Nubian dance. One would call out a snatch of song, or someone else might tell a joke in a loud voice, and they would all burst out in laughter, working without interruption all the while. They emptied all the cigarette and cigar butts into rubbish bags and removed scores of stains from the seats, the tables, the floor and the walls. Each kind of stain had its own specified treatment. Those on the rugs could be removed with cleaning fluid. The dirty tablecloths were gathered together and sent off to the laundry, but those with burn marks from cigarettes were thrown away. Sometimes they would find bits of vomit from a customer who had had too much to drink. They would cover it with a thick layer of sawdust, give it a good brushing and wash the spot with carbolic soap. They scoured the place like a team of expert mine sweepers, and they often found something valuable a drinker had left behind: a gold lighter or a diamond earring or sometimes a full wallet. They would hand over any item immediately to the office of the general manager, Mr. Wright. This was not so much out of a sense of moral duty but out of fear. Many of them, if they could have got away with pocketing something, would not have hesitated for an instant.

The cleaning took around two hours. After they had finished, they would all return to the roof, shower in turn and put on their clean and ironed work caftans and receive their instructions for the day according to where they worked in the Club, in the bar, the restaurant or the casino, the cleaning crew thus transformed into the serving staff. The Club opened its doors at one in the afternoon. The first shift ended at eight in the evening, and the second shift went on until the last guest left near dawn. It was hard work at the Club, and it usually left everyone exhausted by the end of their shifts. Not that they went straight home, most typically preferring to spend a little time at the Paradise Café, which had many advantages, being close to the Club, large enough to contain all of them and open twenty-four hours a day. Being frequented by the staff, it became known as the “Servants Café,” a name that Abd el-Basit, the owner, found distasteful and worked hard to stamp out. To any customers not on staff at the Club, he offered a warm welcome, sometimes even free drinks to encourage them to stay longer. He had Ramadan calendars printed with the name Paradise Café on them, as well as regular calendars and greeting cards for the holidays of Eid al-Adha and Eid al-Fitr, which he handed out to residents of the area. He had an enormous and expensive illuminated sign reading “Paradise Café” installed above the door at great cost. All these efforts came to nought, however, as the “Servants’ Café” became so well known that, in the end, the owner gave up trying to convince people otherwise. The staff of the Club took great pleasure in spending a little time at the café, with their hot and cold drinks, smoking a nargileh and playing chess, dominoes and cards.

At first, looking at each other in their street clothes they felt slightly odd, like a band of actors who had just removed their costumes following a stage performance. Gradually, though, they would get used to the way everyone looked outside the Club and would start sharing the latest news, gossiping, singing, laughing out loud and chatting with great gusto. For their own entertainment they would also launch into spectacular arguments, which always ended amicably. They had a deep need to affirm that they, like the rest of mankind, were entitled to a normal life out from under their work caftans. They especially enjoyed sitting at the tables and giving the waiter their orders, meta-morphosing from servants to customers. Some of the Club staff were easygoing with the waiters at the café, overlooking their mistakes, but others would carry the meticulousness of the Club with them, handing out sharp rebukes should a waiter make the smallest mistake with their order. Sometimes, in fact, there was a silent barrier of resentment between the Club staff and the café waiters such as happens when people dislike what they see of themselves in others, much like the resentful tension that arises when two beautiful women or two film stars run into each other in the same place. Although they were just regular punters in the café, there was something about the Club staff that set them apart; there was something about their demeanor, the way they sat, their voices and their laughter. It was almost imperceptible, but it was something like an indelible sign of submissiveness, which had been stamped upon them during their work as servants in the Club.

At about three p.m. Bahr the barman arrived at the café. Greeting those who were already there, he went over to the table in the farthest corner next to the window, where the managers were seated: Rikabi the chef, Maître Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh the casino manager. They got up to greet him, and he shook hands with each in turn before sitting down. Bahr immediately told them what had happened the previous evening with Alku.

Thinking it over for a moment, Rikabi asked, “Why do you suppose Alku refused to take the bonus from you?”

Bahr answered calmly, “Isn’t it obvious? He must want more money.”

The answer hit them like a thunderbolt. They sat in silence for a while before Rikabi cried out, “More money? He’s already taking all the food from our children’s mouths!”

Rikabi the chef was in his fifties. A short, stocky man, with a huge paunch, he was completely bald apart from a few hairs that still sprouted from the back of his enormous head, and his bushy eyebrows almost obscured his eyes. He was also permanently stoned, as he believed that hashish relieved fatigue, sharpened the senses and enabled him to create dishes he otherwise would not have thought of. He was even convinced that hashish improved his sense of taste and helped him to perfect the seasoning of his preparations. He was a talented chef but a selfish one. He would never speak of any but the most rudimentary principles of cooking. As to his best recipes, he would never divulge to his assistants the secret ingredients that gave his dishes their zesty flavor. Rather, he would mix the herbs and spices at home and bring them into the Club in jars. If he had to make an important dish from scratch, he would order his assistants out of the kitchen. If an assistant proved reluctant to go, Rikabi would give him a few punches with his puffy-fingered fist and then yell, “Get out, you bastard! I’ve slaved for hours learning how to do this. You think I’m just going to hand it over to you?”

Nothing in the world could embarrass Rikabi. His modus operandi was shamelessness itself. He would shout, scold, curse, argue and gesture obscenely with his fat fingers as if proud of his utter lack of discretion. His insolent indignation was that of a man who felt himself wronged, and he seemed to derive pleasure from the verbal abuse he heaped onto others. It was as if he were saying: “My life hasn’t been easy. No one has ever treated me kindly or taken my feelings into consideration. I have only ever known harshness and scorn. Now it’s my turn.”

Rikabi was, in short, a bully. The moment someone responded in like manner, he would back down. He was from the school of hard knocks but a coward at the same time. He never went on the attack unless he was sure of the outcome, and the least opposition was enough to deter him. But if he got the better of his opponent, he would take it out on him mercilessly.

When Rikabi finished work, late in the night, he would put together a generous tray of food and send it to Bahr the barman, who would return the compliment by sending him a quarter bottle of leftover whiskey. Rikabi would wrap the bottle carefully in layers of newspaper, and with the package under his arm, he’d tell his assistants, “Good night. I’m off to ride the ferry now.”

The ferry was, in fact, his wife. Rikabi was in the habit of regaling his friends and colleagues with the intimacies of his married life, giving them all the details of the frequency of his copulation and the sexual positions he favored but never once mentioning his wife by name— this he omitted out of respect for her, only referring to her instead as the ferry or the old lady or sometimes the missus.

Rikabi was equally frank with those around the table about his adamant refusal to increase Alku’s bonus.

Maître Shakir plucked up his courage and asked in his usual unctuous manner, “How can Alku expect us to pay him more? It’s very odd.”

Maître Shakir was a man of sixty-two, a paragon of slippery ways and backstabbing, a master of deceit who specialized in fleecing the customers. He had made an art out of exaggerated shows of respect and reverence, which wore the customers down and ended with them tipping him lavishly. A customer had only to appear in the distance for Shakir to scurry over, bowing and uttering his praise and welcome, inquiring as to his health and the well-being of his children, whose names he knew. Shakir could always convince a customer of his importance at the Club, especially if the customer had come with a lady, in which case, after a lengthy welcome speech, Shakir would bow to the lady and say as if in confidence, “You know, Madame, it’s my job to look after everyone here at the Club. However, as God is my witness, His Excellency the Bey is the Club’s favorite member and one of our most respected guests.”

How could a member then fail to give him a large tip! It was barefaced flattery but it had magical effects. Shakir was in fact so popular that before reserving a table for dinner, members would often first make sure he was to be on duty, as his presence alone guaranteed good service. Maître Shakir’s comrade-in-arms was Rikabi the chef. Neither could do without the other. They got together at least once a day to consult and exchange thoughts. They understood each other and worked in such harmony that they were like two men rowing the same boat or playing musical instruments in unison. There was honor between them: they shared with each other the kickbacks they received from the grocers, the butchers and the poulterers from whom they ordered provisions for the Club. They had a very refined system for manipulating the bills from the restaurant. Sometimes, when circumstances allowed it, and with special permission from Morqos the accountant, they would run the restaurant for an hour or two for their own benefit, reaping rich rewards. There was in fact nothing that Rikabi or Shakir would stop at in order to make money. They were supremely inventive crooks. If there were specific ingredients piling up in the kitchen, they would pass them on to the customers in “operation fridge empty.” Maître Shakir would announce that there was going to be an open buffet for Club members, and Rikabi would then use all his wiles to present the old food as if it were a special offering. If there was an ingredient that was on the turn, such as shrimps, Rikabi would peel them, dip them in breadcrumbs, fry them and inform Maître Shakir, who would nod his head in agreement and wait for a customer to ask him: “Shakir, what do you recommend this evening?”

The question was academic, but it afforded the customer the pretense of fine dining. A person who asked a question like this wanted only to confirm to himself and to those around him that he was an important personage and that Shakir was so devoted to him that he would indeed recommend only the finest and steer him away from the ordinary. Maître Shakir would bow his head to this sort of customer and whisper in the most tantalizing tones of conspiracy, “Your Excellency, the crevettes panées are excellent, but I’m not sure if chef has any left.”

At this, the customer would feign dismay and press him, “Are you sure there are none?”

“Ah, I’m certain that the chef must have saved a plate or two for you, Your Excellency!”

An expression of gratitude would appear on the customer’s face, and he would feel so special that he would order the shrimps. The order would be brought by the waiters, but served by Maître Shakir himself, who would whisper, “Bon appétit, Your Excellency. May God forgive me, but I had to lie to the other diners and tell them we were out of the crevettes so that chef could prepare some for our best customer.”

Thus did Maître Shakir kill two birds with one stone: he got rid of the shrimps about to spoil and guaranteed himself a tidy tip.

Next to Maître Shakir sat Yusuf Tarboosh, who knew that he would have to say something. “Praise be to the noble Prophet!”

Everyone then uttered his own praise and prayer for the noble Prophet, and Yusuf continued, “Increasing the bonus is an injustice, and injustice is forbidden because Allah has commanded us to act justly.”