handed me the ballet shoes, which had been dyed white.
“Your father, bless him, dyed them after you went to bed. After all, you’ll only be using them for one lesson a week.”
I did not say a word. I tried the dyed shoes on. They looked awful and misshapen. They screamed, “Can’t afford the real thing.” On Saturday, I changed into my gym clothes and tried again to disappear among the other girls. I tried as hard as I could to keep my feet out of sight and thanked God that none of my classmates had noticed them, but just as I was drawing a breath of relief, Miss Suad swooped down like a vulture, “Saleha! Get over here!”
I moved a little toward her, but she gestured for me to come closer. Looking down at my shoes, she said, “Are those ballet shoes dyed?”
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
