he had been managing director since its establishment. He would work in his office from nine o’clock until four in the afternoon. Then his chauffeur would drive him back to the Gezira Club, where he would drink two or three whiskeys as he read the English newspapers or played a game of cards with his friends. At exactly seven o’clock, he would arrive back home for dinner with his wife, Victoria, and his daughter, Mitsy. Mr. Wright’s life was lived at such measured intervals. At any given moment, it was possible to know where he was and what he was doing. Like most people, however, he also had something to hide. Two or three times a week, after his chauffeur dropped him off at the club, Wright would go into the bar and knock back a drink. Then he would stroll along the corridors as if taking his constitutional and sneak out of the back entrance. After a long while, he would return and climb into his car to go home as usual. Where did he go on these secret trips?
The story starts two years ago, at the Automobile Club’s annual New Year’s Eve party, which was attended by the British high commissioner, ambassadors, ministers, VIPs and princes of the Egyptian royal family. His Majesty the king surprised the guests with a gracious appearance just after one o’clock in the morning. He wished all those present a happy new year and then took his seat at the green baize table and played cards until dawn. The party, as usual, was an occasion for the guests to display the latest fashions, evening dresses, furs and smoking jackets. One of the female guests caught Mr. Wright’s attention: a petite white woman in her forties with jet-black hair cut in a bob, smoking nonstop and wearing a plain blue dress completely inappropriate for the occasion. Wright kept eyeing her with astonishment, wondering how a woman could dare to appear at a society soiree in a dress that would hardly do for a tea party. The strange thing was that she was chatting away and laughing with the guests as naturally as if she had no idea how out of place she looked. This only heightened Mr. Wright’s curiosity, and he finally asked Maître Shakir about her.
Maître Shakir bowed and whispered, “That is Madame Odette Fattal, sir.”
“Is she related to Monsieur Henri Fattal?”
“She is his daughter, sir.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The millionaire Henri Fattal was one of the largest cotton dealers in Egypt. Why would his daughter turn up looking that way? Any secretary in her father’s office would most certainly have worn something more formal. What was she up to and why were all the guests overlooking her faux pas? Wright could not contain his curiosity and ordered another drink, quickly downing it. Having thus overcome his inhibitions, he walked over to her. As she looked at him, he bowed and said, “Bonsoir, Madame. Please allow me to introduce myself. James Wright, managing director of the Automobile Club.”
As he kissed her hand, he noticed the softness of her skin and her light and captivating perfume. She smiled and said, “I am Odette Fattal. I am a teacher at the Lycée Français. Enchantée!”
He felt encouraged by her smile, and as he reached for another glass from the tray of a passing waiter, he said, “May I ask why we have not had the pleasure of seeing you here at the Club before?”
“I don’t like the Automobile Club.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“If it wasn’t for my friends, I wouldn’t have come tonight either.”
“Then I am most grateful to your friends.”
“Please don’t be upset with me. I am just being honest.”
Wright continued looking at this strange creature, who, in spite of everything, was not lacking in a certain charm. He said, “May I ask why you dislike the Automobile Club?”
“Because it is such a deceitful and artificial environment. Full of sharks.”
Odette said this in a straightforward manner. Wright raised his eyebrows and gave her an uneasy look, but she paid no heed and carried on speaking, “Here, in the Automobile Club, the thieves don the finest clothes, douse themselves in cologne and then disport themselves in a sort of pantomime of respectability.”
“When you say thieves, to whom are you referring?”
“Everyone here. Aren’t those pashas the cream of the Egyptian upper classes? Just mention the name of anyone here, and I’ll read you his charge sheet.”
In all his sixty-one years, James Wright had never had such a bizarre conversation. He knew that he was in the presence of a woman unlike those he saw day in, day out. Despite her eccentricity, she had a certain allure. They chatted on, until the guests who noticed them together started whispering amongst themselves. At six in the morning, he dropped her off at her building, and the following day he rang to check on her. They went out together three more times, and on the fourth occasion he invited her to dinner at the Mena House Hotel, afterward dropping her off at her apartment in Zamalek. As she stepped out of the car, they were exchanging their usual good-byes when suddenly she leaned over and planted a quick kiss on his lips. Trying to control his excitement, he pulled her into his arms and covered her with kisses. That night they slept together for the first time.
Even after a whole year, his feelings of wonder had not dissipated at all, though for all the happiness that he felt with her, she remained an object of mystery. As things continued, all sorts of unanswerable questions arose in his mind. Often he would stand in front of the mirror, looking at his wrinkled and furrowed face and the small strip of gray hair around his bald pate, and he would try to fathom how the beautiful Odette could be attracted to such a plain-looking man twenty years older. Did she have an Electra complex; was she looking for the father she had lost? Why had she moved out of her father’s mansion in Maadi and rented a small place in Zamalek? Why was the daughter of the millionaire Fattal forced to earn her living as a teacher at the Lycée? Why not work in one of her father’s numerous concerns, if at all? And what about her Lebanese husband, who lived in Paris, about whom she refused to speak? Why were they not living together? At various moments he had thrown all these questions at Odette, with each, her beautiful face turning ashen before she answered him tersely, “I grew apart from my father years ago. I do visit him occasionally, but I don’t let him interfere in my life.”
“How did you grow apart?”
“We are different in every way.”
“Had my father been a millionaire like yours I would never have grown apart from him.” He let out a laugh and then asked her why she did not live with her husband or ask him for a divorce.
Odette smiled and answered calmly, “James, do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Then love me for what I am. Don’t keep on asking me about my life.”
He acceded to her wish. Odette would remain mysterious, but he loved her more than he had ever loved his wife. He could not imagine his life without her. He had never been a devoted husband to Victoria, never feeling any pangs of conscience all the times he had cheated on her. At the same time, he was always ready to forgive his wife for her predictably regular outbursts. He considered marriage necessary in order to produce offspring, but beyond that he deemed it a flawed and useless institution. The odd extramarital affair simply helped to keep a husband and wife together. It was his style to have a fling and then go back and try harder at keeping his wife happy. He had always felt the same about his mistresses, but with Odette, it went somewhat deeper. She had shown him true happiness. It was as if she were the first woman he had ever known. She excited him so much that, even at this stage of life, he started to wonder about his sexuality. It was her boyish appearance that excited him so much. Had she grown her hair out, worn high heels, plastered her face in makeup and acted
