City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  “Excuse us,” said one of the girls, a redhead in a shimmering blue dress. She stood up and gathered her purse. “Our dates are here.” The other followed suit and coyly signaled to two English officers making their way toward them.

  “Never mind them,” Hugh said, sitting down. “We’ll find plenty of action later. We’re going to have fun tonight.” He elbowed Mickey, his pale blue eyes glinting with mischief as he waved the bartender over.

  Hugh signaled for a refill, and Mickey ordered a whiskey sour and leaned back to take a good look at his friend. Hugh’s blond hair had thinned in the years since he’d seen him, but he still displayed the same happy-go-lucky air that was so endearing. The most conspicuous change was the uniform Hugh was wearing. “I see you’ve changed your status, but not your style,” Mickey said, looking around. “This is a swell place.”

  Hugh laughed. “You haven’t seen anything yet, my boy.” He punched Mickey playfully in the arm. “Good to see you, mate. You’re not looking half bad yourself.”

  “What about you in that uniform?” Mickey said. “What do these mean?” he asked, flicking one of Hugh’s epaulettes.

  “Means I’m a sapper now,” Hugh said, straightening and giving a little salute.

  “You’re working with bombs and mines? Have you lost your mind?”

  Hugh shrugged. “I couldn’t stand sitting behind a desk swatting flies off my nose. I finally got a transfer.” The bartender arrived with their drinks. “Defusing bombs is heady stuff, mate. It beats being cooped up in a submarine or fried to death in a tank. But what about you?” He raised an eyebrow at Mickey’s smart attire. “Big time journalist, eh?”

  “Noblesse oblige,” Mickey laughed. “I want to hear it all. Last time I heard you were stationed in Suez.”

  “That’s mainly it,” Hugh said between sips of scotch. “Twenty-thousand British troops, forty overworked Sudanese prostitutes, and a puddle full of mines. We get bombed once a week, but otherwise, Suez is not bad.” He downed the rest of his drink in one long gulp and banged the glass on the table. He snapped his fingers at the waiter for another. “Hell! War is one big party.”

  “Cleaning up minefields is not a party.” Mickey frowned. “Where will they send you next time?”

  “Who knows? Mersa Matruh, I think.”

  “That could become the front line if you guys continue … hmmm … strategically retreating eastward.” At the last press briefing, they’d been told that the sleepy seaside town of Mersa Matruh near the Libyan border was being fortified as a fallback position. “I don’t want to see you there. The Germans look too strong.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Connolly,” Hugh said, throwing a pistachio in his direction. “You’re too bloody serious, that’s your problem. When was the last time you got laid?”

  “Thank you for your concern. Christina turned out to be a perfect guide in more ways than one,” he joked, referring to the Armenian girl Hugh had set him up with his first night in town.

  “Thought you might enjoy the perk,” he said with a grin. “She’s very selective, you lucky bastard.” He thanked the waiter for the new scotch and turned to Mickey, for the first time serious. “I still can’t get over what Victoria did to you.”

  “Ancient history. Don’t worry, I’m doing just fine. Plenty of women in my life.” Mickey lifted his glass. “To the fair sex. May we get plenty of it!” The alcohol was hitting him now, and it felt good. “What about you? You ever see Barcie anymore?”

  Hugh burst out laughing. “No, but I’m living in her apartment. I ran into her about a year ago at Groppi’s. She’d been dating some Greek shipping magnate who was living in Cairo. He felt so guilty about breaking off their affair that he bought her a gorgeous apartment! Italian marble floors, a huge balcony, expensive antiques.”

  “So you moved in to help her … lick her wounds?” Mickey suppressed a smile.

  “Let’s just say I rekindled an old flame at an opportune time. She went back to Rome and left me her flat for the year.”

  Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Free?”

  “Not entirely. I do have to write the occasional love letter.”

  Mickey felt the tension of the past few days melting away. He’d forgotten how much he liked being in Hugh’s company.

  “So tell me something the War Office is not telling us.” He raised his right hand. “I swear to God, I never reveal my sources.”

  In a glance, Hugh surveyed the room. “I’ll tell you one thing, since it won’t be a secret for long. High Command has just demanded that the Egyptian army turn in their weapons. Churchill’s orders. We’re taking over their positions. Mersa Matruh is one, in fact.”

  “Wow. That’s a slap in the face.” Mickey felt himself sober up a bit. “It’s bound to set the Egyptian people against you guys even more.”

  Hugh grunted. “I suppose that after catching General al-Misri trying to escape across to the German side, Churchill lost faith in the loyalty of the Egyptian army. The PM thinks the whole army is full of German sympathizers who could turn against us at any moment.”

  “What can they possibly do, with tens of thousands of British troops here? It would be suicide to revolt. You’d skin them alive. So much for Egyptian independence.”

  “I’m with you, mate. It’s pretty outrageous.” Hugh raised his glass in a toast. “To friendship! To hell with everything else.”

  “To friendship!” Mickey clicked Hugh’s glass.

  The big band began to play, making further conversation difficult. Mickey’s eyes wandered the room, settling on a pretty brunette with a plunging décolleté sitting among some equally attractive friends. It’d be damned hard to fight temptation in this city, especially for soldiers who knew they might die soon. All around, the young singles of Cairo coupled up and took to the dance floor to jitterbug to the latest Glenn Miller tune. He loosened his tie. Hugh was right: It was party time.

  The maître d’ informed them that their table was ready. After Hugh slipped him a few notes, they were seated at a prime spot on the terrace with views of the city and the dance floor. Hugh scanned the menu, a gourmet’s dream, while Mickey, who had learned a little about wine thanks to Victoria, chose a 1935 Château Lafite. “My treat,” he insisted, but he quickly put down the wine list when he spotted a girl in a white dress leaving the dance floor with her partner. Could it be …?

  He rushed up to her in a heartbeat and gently tapped her on the back. “Maya?” he found himself asking hopefully. The girl, breathless and winded, turned around. Beads of sweat shone on her forehead. She was pretty, but she was not Maya.

  “Sorry,” he said and nodded his apologies to the girl, who wore a gold Star of David around her neck.

  “Who was that?” Hugh asked.

  “Mistaken identity,” Mickey said, masking his disappointment, which was much greater than he’d expected. He followed the couple with his eyes as they joined their merry-making friends at a large table. He had never dated a Jewish girl. They were pretty much unapproachable and didn’t often date gentiles. This might explain why Maya had not responded to him.

  “Here comes Egypt’s most popular singer,” Hugh whispered, indicating the surprise guest, Umm Koultoum, whose appearance the emcee was announcing to the wild applause of the diners.

  A large woman in a sequined black gown with a red scarf tied around her pinkie took the stage and began singing in Arabic. Her voice was deep and hoarse, and her face was contorted with anguish as she chanted a no doubt gut-wrenching love song, which drew a standing ovation. The rest of the entertainment was no less exotic, and over their lavish meal they were entertained by whirling dervishes, belly dancers, and a magician who amazed the guests with his feats.

  Just as they were ready to order dessert, a waiter arrived with a silver tray carrying two glasses of champagne. He set them down and handed Mickey an envelope. “A note for you, monsieur.”

  Mickey tore it open.

  To Anglo-American relations—Sally.

  A
petite blonde with curly hair was waving at him. She was at a table across the room with two other nice-looking women, all in uniform.

  He finally recognized her. She was the ambulance driver from Siwa. He waved back discreetly, while Hugh flapped his hand excitedly at the girls.

  “How do you manage it?” Hugh whistled. “I’m the one with all the charm. It must be your pearly white Yank teeth!”

  “I told you we’d bump into one another. Cairo is very small,” Sally said as she walked over and introduced herself and her friends, Linda and Dolly. “You look a whole lot better,” she commented, giving him a flirtatious look. “Have you heard from your Egyptian friend?”

  “As a matter of fact, I just checked on him,” Mickey answered. “He seems okay. He’s going back to his hometown of Tanta to teach.”

  The three women pulled up chairs and sat down. They were tipsy and chattered loudly back and forth, attracting attention from other tables. Sally was the liveliest. She had an easy and appealing manner. She regaled the table with outrageous stories, including a silly joke about a Scottish soldier who stood in front of the pyramids and earnestly asked, “Yes, but what are they for?” making everyone laugh to tears.

  Mickey draped his hand over the back of her chair, marking his territory as he exchanged glances with Hugh. His friend seemed to like her, too, but it was clear she preferred Mickey from the way she leaned toward him whenever she laughed. It was not the first time the two men were attracted to the same girl, but rather than compete, they had an unspoken understanding that they would let the girl decide. Mickey winked at Hugh. “Sorry, pal, what about Dolly?” his smile said. Linda was wearing a wedding band.

  The top buttons of Sally’s jacket were open and her scarf was slightly askew. She grinned at Mickey. “Are you here for adventure as well? That’s why all of us girls volunteered. Back home, we’re dull as doorknobs. Linda’s a copywriter, Dolly’s a nurse, and I’m …” she giggled, “I do nothing at all, actually. But say, we could desperately use some help from our American cousins in this war. Where are you lads?” She laid her hand on his thigh.

  “Right where we want to be, I’d say.” He grinned, covering her hand with his.

  Onstage, a black-skinned American chanteuse, glowing in the dark in a silver beaded dress, was singing Billie Holiday’s “God Bless the Child” while couples danced cheek-to-cheek. The mood suddenly broke as a small army of men in beige uniforms poured onto the terrace. A murmur passed through the room and heads turned as conversations stopped.

  The maître d’ interrupted the singer. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your evening.” He smoothed his coat nervously. “But King Farouk will be holding a private reception here and we must ask you all to leave.”

  Sally snorted. “How rude. Who does he think he is? I’m not going.”

  “To make up for this inconvenience,” the maître d’ continued over noisy booing, “His Majesty has generously arranged for all of you to continue the evening at the Music Hall at his expense. Naturally, he will be picking up the tab here, too.”

  This prompted applause from a number of guests, but many others still protested.

  “Does this happen often?” Mickey asked, shocked at the arrogance of the king.

  “Yes. Pathetic, really,” Sally said. “He’s just throwing his weight around to make up for the fact that he has so little real power. It’s his little way of telling Cairo he’s still in business.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Linda advised. “Let the poor boy have his fun. You know he was never allowed out of the palace when he was growing up?”

  “Oh, please,” Sally snapped. “The boy made up for that a hundred times over in England. I knew his tutor there, and I can tell you he was in bordellos more often than he was in class.”

  “I’m not budging,” Dolly declared, crossing her arms.

  “They’ll have to drag us out,” Sally said.

  “Calm down, ladies,” said Hugh, rising. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Come on, Sally.” Mickey offered his hand to her. “The night is young.”

  She took his hand and sprang to her feet with a mischievous smile. “Fine. Let’s.”

  “Everyone must leave now,” one of the king’s men commanded, clapping his hands together, clearing the way for Farouk’s entrance as the hotel staff politely helped the diners exit.

  Hugh, Mickey, and the girls made their way down to the lobby. Mickey noticed a small gathering in a side hall, tucked away from public view. He recognized the king among his entourage. Tall, thin and blue-eyed, Farouk could easily pass for a Life magazine cover boy in his Royal Air Force marshall’s uniform. But before Mickey could get a better look, they were swept outside by the crowd.

  “We can all take the ambulance. Thank God I parked just down the street,” Sally shouted above the frenzy.

  “Step on it, Connolly,” Hugh whispered, grabbing him by the arm. “I think you’re going to get lucky tonight!”

  “Where to, pal?”

  “The Kit Kat Club, habibi,” Hugh answered in his best Arabic accent.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Kit Kat Club was jam packed with soldiers. From the wide array of uniforms, it seemed to Mickey that every single unit of the Eighth Army was represented here tonight—South African, Australian, Polish, Free French, Indian, New Zealander, Canadian, and Rhodesian. And of course, lots of British. They all had their hats on the tables beside ice buckets, and their cigarettes, cigars, and pipes glowed in the dark like fireflies. The slow-turning mahogany fans did nothing to dissipate the smoky haze that clung to the ceiling like a cloud and made the tops of the sweeping curtains framing the illuminated stage vanish into nothingness.

  Sally snuggled up to Mickey, rubbing her body against his and roaring with laughter along with the rest of the audience as the performers, dressed in SS uniforms, bantered back and forth in the cabaret show. Hugh winked at Mickey as he draped his arm around Dolly, his hand dangerously close to her breast. God willing, they’d both get lucky tonight. Feeling like a third wheel, Linda had taken a taxi home.

  A voluptuous waitress, naked to the waist except for a scanty crocheted brassiere that barely covered her nipples, served them their third round of martinis.

  “You better keep your eyes on us!” Sally warned, turning Mickey’s head back toward her and tapping her index finger on his nose. “There are a lot of men out there.”

  “It’s you girls who should be concerned,” Hugh laughed. “When the show is over the dancing girls are going to mingle with the crowd.” He placed a kiss on Dolly’s neck, who pushed him away, feigning indignation.

  The act ended to rousing applause. The blue velvet curtain closed and then reopened a moment later, revealing a bare-chested man wearing a turban and carrying a wicker basket. A small band of musicians behind him began to play. He settled down at the edge of the stage, right in front of Mickey, who had managed to get seated in the front row, thanks to Hugh’s influence with the club’s manager.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the man began dramatically. “Let me present the king of snakes, the cobra, the ancient symbol of the Egyptian pharaoh …” The music soared as a low drumbeat started. He drew a flute from his pocket, lifted the lid of the basket, and began to play. The snake’s head rose from the basket and began to sway.

  Sally grabbed Mickey’s hand. He smiled and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder, feeling the muscles in her back relax as she drew closer.

  “The cobra is also the symbol of sexuality and sensuality. As a special treat, we present to you tonight the essence of temptation herself, the one and only Queen of the Serpents—Madame Samina!”

  A red curtain at the rear of the stage lifted, exposing the star of the show standing atop a flight of stairs with a large black python draped around her neck. Her curvaceous body was barely covered in a two-piece costume beneath a diaphanous veil. She glittered from head to toe with gems of every color and wore a sparkling red stone
in her navel.

  After wildly enthusiastic whistles and bawdy shouts from the soldiers, she pointed her toes and descended the stairs carefully, reveling in her role as their erotic fantasy, making eye contact with every man in the front row. When her dark eyes fell on Mickey, he felt a stirring.

  Hugh nudged him and rubbed his hands in anticipation. “She’s the real reason Rommel wants Cairo so badly.”

  When Samina reached the apron of the stage, she handed the python to a stagehand and exploded into an erotic blur of fluid curves, thrusting her hips and lifting her bejeweled, intertwined arms high above her head. She swirled around the stage, using her veil to tease and arouse, then crawled on the floor, gyrating her body suggestively, arms outstretched and palms open, as if begging the audience to make love to her.

  Mesmerized, Mickey struggled to disguise his erection and crossed one leg over the other. But he stopped breathing altogether when the dancer got down on her knees and shimmied to the edge of the stage, stopping right in front of their table. He had barely gasped for air when Samina sprang up on pointed toes and fixed her eyes on him. He knew at this point that resisting would be in vain as she slowly lifted her leg and fondled his face with her toes, keeping her intense gaze locked on him. With her arms raised, balancing on one leg, she thrust her body back and forth as if to invite him in. Then in a flash, she was back on her feet.

  The spell broke for a tiny moment when he noticed her become distracted by the sight of a Polish officer at the next table. The man raised his glass to her, but the dancer’s face turned hard before she responded with a devilish smile.

  She turned her eyes back to Mickey, her victim again. She planted her legs wide apart and her crotch in front of his face. The audience was roaring, but the cries sounded far away to Mickey. She thrust her hips back and forth, the music rising to a spiraling crescendo. Then, in a dramatic burst, she collapsed to the floor and the stage plunged into darkness. When the lights came up a second later, she was gone.