The Bank Clerk

1978. My English lawyer informed me that if I go to Egypt, I’ll be allowed to withdraw E£2,000 from my account there. This,he confirmed, was corroborated by the firm’s representative in Cairo.

So, I got myself a ticket and flew to Egypt.

The day after I arrived, I went to my bank. I don’t remember whether I had an appointment or not. Anyway, I didn’t have to wait and was immediately ushered into a room on the second floor.

I recall very little of this interview. Nothing stood out about the clerk’s appearance: nondescript is probably the best description. He was pleasant enough. I don’t even recall what language we spoke in. His English was bad; my Arabic was worse. I suspect we talked in a hodgepodge of English, Arabic, and French using our hands for further clarification.

My objective was clear: I wanted to withdraw E£2,000 from my account. The money was there. I spent nearly an hour with this man. I can’t, for the life of me, remember what was said. I must have initially made a straightforward request. He probably replied that it wasn’t that easy. No doubt I’d have to fill out more forms. There’d be a waiting period for these to be examined. Maybe that would take a couple of weeks? Perhaps I’d have to answer more questions? He’d have to consult with his superiors? Or possibly we spent much of our time struggling to clarify what we were talking about?

To cut the story short, it became obvious I wasn’t going to get anything. No doubt I asked what the problem was. The law made it clear I was entitled to make a withdrawal. I said I was in the country for only two weeks. I begged. I thought of bribing him. I said I was relying on the funds to pay for my hotel, food, and more. He was very sympathetic: deep sighs, words of commiseration, promises to do his best, he understood my predicament, etc.

The next day, I met my Egyptian lawyer at the bank. All the while we chatted, he held his left hand out of the window. I couldn’t, in my wildest imagination, fathom why. Down in the street, I looked up at what I thought was his window. He was flying a kite!

A couple days later, I met my Egyptian lawyer at the bank in the manager’s office. I was given a Turkish coffee. It was dark, for there were no lights. Power failure. They chatted in Arabic. I think they were talking about their respective families. About half an hour later, we trooped up to the clerk I’d seen before.

My lawyer was introduced. We sat down. The conversation (in Arabic) turned to mutual acquaintances. My lawyer asked about the clerk’s wife and children, said he’d been to school with his brother and had seen him a few times more recently. They bantered lightly for about fifteen minutes then stood up to leave. At the door, the bank manager turned to the clerk. “Oh, by the way. You’ll give Mr. Toledano two thousand pounds.” The clerk nodded.

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