until the fees have been paid.” I went through the motions of giving Khadiga and Awatef a hug and a kiss, picked up my bag and went out of the school gate, where I found my brother Kamel waiting to walk me home as usual. He smiled, hugged me and then put his hand on my shoulder and asked me, “How was your day?”
I did not reply, having a hard time controlling my emotions.
Kamel, now a little worried, said, “What’s the matter, Saleha? Did something happen at school?”
Because of his gentleness, my tears welled up, and I could taste their saltiness. I handed him the letter. He read it quickly, then folded it again and put it in his pocket.
“Don’t worry about it.”
On the way home, Kamel stopped at the juice seller on the square and bought me a big glass of the guava juice I loved. He patted me on the shoulder, smiled and said, “You are too sensitive. It’s a very simple matter. Our father has been busy with his work and forgotten to send the school fees. Tomorrow morning, please God, I’ll go to school with you and give them the fees.”
I nodded and tried to smile. I wanted to make him happy. I was certain that he was lying, but I pretended to believe him.
We went home, and I took off my school clothes, had a shower and put on my housedress. Kamel took my mother into the kitchen, and when she came back, I noticed that she looked dejected and was avoiding my gaze. After lunch I told her that I had a lot of homework, and she said I did not have to help her with the washing up. I went to my room and shut the door. I lay on the bed, just wanting to be left alone. For the first time, I felt I did not know what was happening: If my father was really so busy, why hadn’t he sent the school fees along with Kamel? Couldn’t he afford it?
As far as I knew, we were not poor. I knew that our father came from a great and wealthy family. I still had wonderful memories of my childhood in Daraw, and of when our father sold his land in Upper Egypt and went to Cairo, he did so to provide us with a better education. That’s what my mother said, and with great pride, I used to repeat to my school friends, “My father has a senior position at the Automobile Club, and he meets the king a lot and speaks to him.”
How could it be that my father worked with the king but could not afford my school fees? The king must have paid his staff high salaries, so what could have happened? Had there been some incident with my father? Had someone stolen his money or bullied him into handing it over? What would we do in a crisis like that? Thank God I always sailed through school with flying colors and never had to retake any classes like my brothers Said and Mahmud. My marks were good in geography and languages, and I always came top in mathematics. Suddenly, my thoughts turned elsewhere. I started feeling guilty. Perhaps I was the cause of the crisis. How many times had I nagged him to buy me new clothes or take me to the cinema? Had I known he was going through difficult times, I would never have burdened him. All the things I had asked him for now seemed like wasteful trifles.
A little later, when my mother came into my room, she found me covered up in bed. I muttered that I was worn out and feeling ill. She put her hand on my forehead and sounded worried. “We will have to get the doctor to see you.”
“No . . . I just need to rest. I won’t go to school tomorrow.”
She gave me a baffled look. “If that’s how you feel.”
Thus I pretended to be ill to give my father the chance to raise the school fees. That was the only way to avoid embarrassing him. I did not dare ask him for the money or even discuss the matter directly. I could not bear to see him in a bind even for a moment.
My mother brought me a glass of hot lemon juice and left. After a while, I heard my brother Kamel, who came in and sat next to me. “Hello, Saleha!”
I repeated my symptoms to him, but he can always see right through me. He completely ignored what I was saying and smiled. “Don’t worry. Within two or three days at the most, we will have the fees paid.”
I was about to try to convince him that I really was ill, but he gave me a little bow, planted a kiss on my forehead and left the room.
4
“Alku.” The name itself is a pharyngeal groan sounded through tightly pursed lips. In Nubian it means a leader or important person, but at the Club it took on mythical dimensions. It called to mind some great and legendary winged beast, the subject of fantastic tales passed down over the generations, until one day the monster suddenly takes flesh and casts its toxic shadow over everything. Alku was just such a creation. His full name was Qasem Muhammad Qasem, and he was a Sudanese Nubian in his sixties. When not speaking Nubian, he spoke heavily accented Arabic, mixing up the masculine and feminine suffixes. He could converse fluently in French and Italian but could barely write them. Alku had two jobs: those of servant and master. He’d first been taken on as the king’s valet, and as part of his duties as master of the wardrobe, he dressed and undressed the king. Alku was the palace’s head chamberlain and the most senior servant, and he enjoyed the confidence of His Majesty.
His relationship with His Majesty greatly overstepped the boundaries of his position. Alku was present at His Majesty’s birth, and he held him in his own hands when the king was just a suckling, and observed with sincere joy his first crawl, his first tottering steps and his first words. When His Majesty was a child, Alku accompanied him on hunting and bicycle trips and horseback-riding lessons. He was the only one who knew whether His Majesty was feigning illness in order to skip torturous lessons with his strict teachers. It was Alku who purloined desserts from the palace kitchen and smuggled them into His Majesty’s suite when his English governess had imposed a harsh dietary regimen upon the boy to make him lose weight. It was also Alku who, with complete discretion, organized His Majesty’s first trysts with beautiful women of the upper class, this to relieve all the adolescent fervor that was affecting his concentration and state of mind. When His Majesty went off to school in England, he insisted upon taking Alku with him, though it was less than two years later that, following his father’s sudden death, the king returned to accede to the throne of Egypt. At that point, Alku gained unprecedented and overwhelming influence at the palace. All royal correspondence, however confidential or important, was opened personally by Alku, who would read it aloud to His Majesty every morning as the latter lay naked in his hot bubble bath, with Iliana, the Greek pedicurist, taking care of his feet, shaving him and trimming his mustache and eyebrows. His Majesty would listen and offer a word or two of comment at most. “We agree” or “later” and so forth. Sometimes, if His Majesty was worried or anxious, he would flip over in the bathtub, and his enormous body would create a huge wave, like that of a great fish. Then he would wag his finger and say, “Qasem Alku! You’d better behave yourself!”
During such periods, Alku would answer the urgent correspondence as he saw fit. He would write instructions in French, not without grammatical errors. Alku, thus, was the true gateway to the king and much closer to His Majesty than any other individuals of the court or the palace administration. A story has been passed down that serves as a perfect example. When Dabagh Pasha, the prime minister of Egypt, wanted an audience with His Majesty, Alku asked him about the purpose. The prime minister’s face flushed with rage. He found it highly impertinent that he, an Oxford graduate, should have to provide an explanation to a servant. In a delicately sneering patrician tone, he told Alku, “Who has the right to question the prime minister of Egypt when he requests an audience with the king?”
The next day the king summoned the prime minister and deliberately kept him standing. The king gestured toward Alku and said, “I hope that you understand, Pasha, that this man represents Us. Treating him with respect is the equivalent of treating Us with respect.”
The prime minister lowered
