“Yes, sir.”
“Which cocktails can you make, then?”
“Any, sir.”
“Are you sure about that, barman?”
“Yes, sir. Can I get you something?”
The colonel reflected for a moment, puffing on his pipe, and with the stupid expression of a child at play, he said, “All right then. Make me a One Ball.”
He pronounced the name of the cocktail deliberately, as if delivering a killer tennis serve. Then he turned away without following the tennis ball, so convinced was he of his shot’s effect that he did not need to see his opponent miss it. Bahr betrayed no more effort than if the colonel had just ordered a glass of water. He reached for a bottle of champagne, uncorking it with a flourish. Applying himself with total concentration, he poured a measure of it into the cocktail shaker, added the other ingredients and shook them for the requisite amount of time. Then he emptied the contents into a glass of ice. The colonel turned back to watch him carefully and with some astonishment. He took the glass from Bahr, and as he sniffed and tasted it, the pomposity disappeared from his face, and his tone changed utterly as he asked Bahr, “Where did you learn to make this cocktail?”
“In Egypt, sir.”
“Do you know why it is called a One Ball?”
“It is a reference to Adolf Hitler, sir.”
“How so?”
“Because he was born with only one testicle.”
The colonel’s eyebrows rose. He laid his pipe on the bar and stretched out his hand to pat Bahr on the back. When it came time to pay his tab, he left a whole pound tip for Bahr.
For all Bahr’s professionalism, the question still remains whether he ever cheated his customers. The answer depends upon one’s concept of cheating. Bahr resorted to a number of ruses in order to increase his income. He used the floating tab by which he extracted multiple payments for the same bill. Another ruse depended on the Club administration’s charging Bahr according to an expectation that he would sell twenty glasses from one bottle of whiskey; by always pouring slightly less than the specified full drink’s measure, he could stretch a bottle to twenty-six glasses, pocketing the difference. Bahr carefully chose the customers so served: those who got drunk quickly (and who would not notice the diminution in their glass) and those so trusting that they never checked their tabs. Thus, in cahoots with Morqos the accountant, Bahr was able to reap a tidy profit from the bar, though he did not consider this to be theft by any stretch of the imagination but merely the usual creative license of the barman trade and completely licit, provided the customer was kept satisfied. In return for his profit from the bar, Bahr would pay Alku the monthly amount called the “bonus.”
That night, Bahr was worried because Alku had rebuked him and accused him of theft in front of his colleagues, which meant that Alku was up to something. “God help me,” thought Bahr, who did not consider himself one of the serving staff but rather one of the Big Four, comprised of the chef Rikabi, the maître d’ Shakir and Yusuf Tarboosh, manager of the casino. All were managers and received special treatment. Alku never punished them with a flogging, choosing instead to dress them down, and when he accused one of them publicly of theft, it meant that he wanted more money from him. Bahr knew that much from experience.
There were still a few days until the first of the month, when the bonus had to be handed over, but Bahr put the usual amount in an envelope, placing it in a drawer in the bar ahead of schedule. He carried on supervising his staff halfheartedly and in a state of apprehension. At midnight, he announced, “I am off to see Alku.”
They knew from his expression that the matter was serious, and one of them rushed over to stand in for him behind the bar. Bahr put the envelope in his pocket and took a taxi to Abdin Palace. Midnight was the best time to see Alku. That was when His Majesty the king was otherwise engaged, in the casino of the Automobile Club or out with his friends at the Auberge des Pyramides. At Alku’s office, Bahr was greeted by Hameed, who looked at him quizzically. Bahr cringed with a smile and said, “Mr. Hameed, I would like to see His Excellency Alku.”
“Wait there.”
Hameed pointed quickly at the chair in the far corner. After half an hour, Hameed returned and said tersely, “His Excellency Alku will see you.”
Hameed used the words “will see” rather than “is waiting for,” as it did not befit Alku to wait for anyone. Bahr sprang up from his chair, quickly checked in the mirror to make sure that his shoes were shined, that his bow tie was straight and his jacket spotless, and then walked into Alku’s office, bowing deeply as he said, “Good evening, Your Excellency.”
Alku was sitting at his desk, holding a cigarette, which gave off thick smoke. He was wearing his embroidered chamberlain’s uniform and gold spectacles as he read over papers lying in front of him on the desk. He left Bahr standing in front of him for a full minute before he raised his head to look at him. Bahr smiled politely, bowing again, and then came forward two steps, placing the envelope on the edge of the desk. The envelope was unsealed, and the banknotes were visible. That was the usual method of handing over the bonus to Alku, who normally did not even look at it but would just make a gesture of dismissal. This time Alku looked at the envelope and, appearing offended, bellowed, “What is this?”
“A small gift for your goodness, Your Excellency.”
Alku screeched, “Take it and get out.”
Bahr turned pale, and his face showed great consternation as he tried to speak, but Alku’s voice echoed around him, “Get out. Get out of here!”
Bahr picked up the envelope and hurried out.
7
James Wright would rise at six in the morning, wash his face, brush his teeth and enjoy a cup of tea with two of his favorite chocolate cream biscuits. Then he would pick up his tennis kit and leave his villa on the Nile in Zamalek, walking the few minutes that it took him to reach the Gezira Club to play for an hour. After that, he would go back home and take a hot bath, eat a proper breakfast and dress before making his way to the Automobile Club, where 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