City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  When Kirk saw Mickey, he turned and nodded, giving Mickey a discreet thumbs-up, meaning all was in place and that Mickey would be sitting next to Madame Cattaoui at dinner.

  Good old Dorothy. She did it again, Mickey thought and smiled. But where the hell was she?

  “Hello, stranger!” Someone grabbed his arm.

  It was Sally, looking resplendent and every inch a woman in her low-cut, long black dress, a far cry from her ambulance driver’s uniform. He hadn’t seen her since their sexy tumble after the Kit Kat Club, and he felt awkward about not having called her.

  “Didn’t I tell you Cairo was a small world?” She winked.

  From the way she smiled at him, it was clear that she wasn’t holding any grudges.

  He kissed her on both cheeks, happy to see her, like bumping into an old friend. “It’s nice to see you again. You look lovely.”

  She linked her arm through his and introduced him to her friends as an intrepid American reporter. “You know Linda, of course, and this tall, gawky lad is Randolph Churchill,” she said of a husky man in uniform next to her. “He’s one of the devils in the Special Air Service.”

  “A commando? Risky job, I hear,” Mickey said. “Any relation to—”

  “Winston’s his uncle,” Linda interjected, “and mine, too. Randolph, I’m sorry to say, is my cousin.”

  “You’re lucky to have me in the family! I bring us personality,” Randolph teased, impishly tousling Linda’s hair and dislodging some of her impeccably rolled curls.

  She slapped him on the wrist and patted her hair back into place.

  Mickey shook hands, pleased to be in such company. “What does your uncle think about your work here?” he asked Randolph.

  “Not much,” Randolph replied, a line of irritation on his forehead. “I suspect our relationship has precluded my being selected for the most exciting missions. Top brass is always fearful that I might be captured and spill some top secret,” he said, making everyone laugh.

  “So finish your story about the Japanese ambassador,” Linda demanded of Randolph.

  “Yes,” Sally said. She turned to Mickey. “He was telling us about the run-in our own Ambassador Lampson had with him two days ago.”

  Mickey nodded. Yesterday’s headlines said that the Japanese ambassador, had been passing secrets about the Suez Canal to Berlin.

  “Well,” Randolph started, “today, even after his betrayal was revealed, the Nip ambassador had the gall to ask Lampson if he could travel overland to the Suez and connect with his ship in the Persian Gulf. The route would have taken him and his entourage through some of our most sensitive installations and military defenses.”

  There were murmurs of outrage from the group.

  “Naturally, Lampson refused,” Sally said.

  “Speak of the devil,” Linda said as she grabbed the hand of an impossibly tall and imposing man who was passing nearby with his very pregnant wife, who was a good twenty years his junior.

  Mickey did a double take as he recognized the British ambassador, Sir Miles Lampson, himself. With his impressive build, full mane of hair, and red-spotted bow tie, the man had quite a bit of flair for an old fart.

  “Are you only just now arriving?” Linda asked after introducing Mickey, the only “stranger” in the group, and calling the ambassador’s wife “Jac.”

  “Mea culpa, as usual,” Jac hastened to explain. “Miles accuses me of shaving one day off his life every time I’m late. Now isn’t that the saddest thing to say to your wife?” She intertwined her fingers with the ambassador’s and nestled against him, looking minuscule by comparison.

  “I have a nephew who just returned from studying in America, Mr. Connolly,” Jac said. “All he talks about are Rita Hayworth and baseball.”

  “Then he’s halfway to becoming a citizen,” Mickey replied. “I fear you won’t find many baseballers here in Egypt,” Jac commented.

  “I’m afraid not. It seems that everyone here prefers cricket,” Mickey agreed.

  “A gentleman’s game, Mr. Connolly,” Lampson remarked.

  “Well, in that case, I should probably steer clear of it,” Mickey countered, provoking laughter from the group, though the ambassador remained poker-faced.

  “Is the king here?” Lampson asked as he picked up a fizzing flute brimming with champagne while Jac helped herself to a canapé from a passing tray.

  “I’m afraid not,” Linda replied. “Madame Mosseri is up in arms. We’re supposed to weigh anchor in fifteen minutes.”

  “Pshaw!” Lampson muttered, nodding to a well-wisher nearby. “I’m sure the boy is racing his cars around the palace grounds, killing time so he can make a grand entrance. Teach him a lesson and get started without him.”

  “Of course, he does not mean that,” Jac quickly added, laughing. A woman with a large, beaded black hat passed by and Jac whispered to Sally, “That’s Delsyia.”

  “I understand she will be singing in French and English,” Sally said. “And I saw Madame Samina earlier.” She elbowed Mickey.

  “No dancing tonight,” Lampson firmly warned Jac, placing a gentle hand on her stomach.

  “Oh, Miles!” Jac protested. “I’m just pregnant, for God’s sake; I’m not ill!”

  “Everybody is eager to hear your speech tonight, Ambassador,” Mickey said. “Will you be talking about the situation at El Alamein?”

  “There is no need to worry,” Lampson answered casually, before offering his hand to a short, corpulent man who looked as if he had been shoehorned into his tuxedo.

  “Ah, Sally, good to see you,” he exclaimed. “This must be your beautiful daughter.”

  Mickey recognized the Egyptian prime minister, who warily shook Lampson’s hand. Lampson leaned toward the man to say something when a British officer urgently pulled him away and whispered something in his ear. Lampson turned red. “That little tyke,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “What is it, dear?” Jac asked.

  “The boy has arrived in his red Mercedes, that’s what. I’ve half a mind to put the little blighter across my knee and wallop some sense into him.”

  “Miles!” Jac exclaimed. “You’re talking about the king of Egypt!”

  “He’s an ungrateful little sod!” Lampson exclaimed as he stormed off.

  “Miles, please,” Jac pleaded after her husband in vain. She exhaled loudly, at her wit’s end. “King Farouk has arrived in a car that was a gift from Hitler. He’d promised to return it.” She shook her head. “These two with their cat and mouse game. Excuse me.” She rushed out, cupping her belly with both hands.

  “Gossip has it that MI5 caught a note the king wrote to the führer welcoming him into Egypt,” Sally commented.

  “That’s bollocks,” Randolph said. “The king is for the king and no one else.”

  “Whatever the case, the king would be crazy if he really thought the Germans would make better partners than the British,” Mickey declared.

  “I think it’s lovely of him to lend his yacht for this affair,” Linda said. “That speaks volumes about his loyalty.”

  “I don’t like to sound cynical,” Sally said, “but we all know we owe the use of his boat to Riri Charbit alone. She orchestrated the whole thing.”

  “Who’s she?” Mickey asked.

  “The king’s mistress,” Linda responded. “Like his father, he seems to have a weakness for Jewish girls.”

  “Should we go to the deck and see what’s happening?” Sally suggested, but just as she started, a delicate tinkling sound was heard.

  “The king has arrived, the king has arrived,” announced a woman jingling a small bell, parting clusters of guests as she walked through the room. She was wearing a superb long scarlet dress with ruffles at the shoulders and too much makeup.

  “That’s Madame Mosseri,” Sally whispered into Mickey’s ear, “the organizer of the ball.”

  The ship’s horn blasted loudly, provoking shrieks of delight from the guests, and Mickey felt the yacht
slowly begin to move. The piano player led the band in a lively rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and balloons descended from the ceiling.

  The ball had officially begun.

  “Shall we?” Sally asked, offering Mickey her arm, but he thought he recognized a familiar silhouette turning the corner. “Go ahead without me,” he apologized and rushed away.

  “You’re Maya’s cousin, Lili,” Mickey said as he walked up to the girl, recognizing her.

  “She’s here,” Lili whispered.

  CHAPTER 25

  With only two hours of sleep out of the last twenty-four, Maya was surprised she wasn’t exhausted. In fact, she was feeling oddly energized as she inscribed the name David Caro on what must have been the six hundredth seating card she’d written this evening. Her calligraphy, which had won her the job of writing Cousin Henri’s Bar Mitzvah invitations, was a saving grace for Lili today, who had volunteered her father to have the menus printed for the fund-raiser on the king’s yacht. But Joe, usually as reliable as a Swiss watch, had somehow forgotten to get the task done, and with the printers closed on Saturdays and less than twenty-four hours before the big event, Maya had stepped in and offered her services. The organizers of the ball had liked the beautifully scripted menus so much that they had asked Lili if she could bring her cousin to the ball to help with the dinner seating cards as well, since last-minute seating changes were to be expected.

  Maya happily agreed. Even though she would have to work for the first part of the evening, she would later have the rare opportunity to mingle with pashas and beys and sirs, and to be in the company of not one but three kings. Besides, she was feeling suffocated by her family, trying to make peace between her father and brother.

  She grabbed every chance to get out of the house and had come up with an elaborate alibi that would allow her to spend a whole afternoon with Mickey next Wednesday. She was surprised how often she caught herself thinking about him and how much time she spent plotting how to make her next call to him. She loved their talks, even though he always teased her about all the drama and secrecy she brought to them.

  He was handsome for sure, and funny, and he was also a man of substance—steady and real. An anchor in her tumultuous world. He was a wealth of information about what was really going on in the war as well as what was going on in Cairo. He liked history and movies and claimed to be as big a Charlie Chaplin fan as she was, though that would be impossible. At the end of their talks, she could almost fool herself into thinking that life was bright and promising.

  She hated all the lies she had been telling him, yet it was probably a good thing that she was not more available because frankly, she was starting to fall for him, and it frightened her—what was she thinking? Soon she’d have to say good-bye. She cringed at the thought, but the timing was all wrong.

  Maya put her quill down and, bringing the card close to her lips, blew on it gently to dry the ink. There were still over a dozen to write. The organizers of the ball had miscalculated the number of tables, and the seating cards for all three hundred guests had to be rewritten. Hearing the hoopla emanating from the rooms on the upper deck, she was jealous of Lili, who must be waltzing from guest to guest offering appetizers while she was confined to the dining room with an aching hand.

  “Lights off, please,” a woman’s voice commanded.

  The room went black, but a few seconds later a soft green light emerged from the overhead spots. Its effect on the shimmering gold silk fabric that draped the ceiling and covered the walls and tables dazzled Maya. With the chairs upholstered in green satin with large green ribbons affixed to their backs, it was like being inside a secret glade. It was magical.

  “Green is the king’s favorite color,” a matronly woman in a sparkling caftan pronounced as she approached Maya and nodded approvingly when she saw that only a few cards remained. “You’re looking lovely in white.”

  Maya smiled brightly at the compliment as she watched her leave the room. Having had no time to make or buy a dress, she made do with one of Lili’s old ones. Cut low in a V, it tied around the neck, and with handkerchiefs stuffed inside of her brassiere and a few tacks along the seams, it molded to her figure sensuously, showing off her best feature—her long, thin waist. But what made the dress stand out was the gold belt she’d cinched just below her breasts. Accessories again! With gold shoes, gold bangles and, of course, Mutter’s hairpin, et voilà! She was no Cinderella, but she was more than passable. And with her eyes heavily lined with black kohl, her face powdered with a light bronze color, and her lips glistening in lavish red, she knew she looked good.

  “No, you look sensational,” Lili had told her. “You will make many heads turn,” Erik had added. The whole household had trickled into the room to admire her, each with a superlative more flattering than the last. But it was Sayeda, the maid, who had trumped them all when she declared, “You’re coming home with a husband!”

  “The guests will be coming any minute,” a woman’s voice announced, drawing Maya out of her reverie.

  She turned and saw Madame Mosseri, the chief organizer of the ball, storming into the room, the trailing end of her scarlet dress catching momentarily on the door. The woman studied the magnificent dessert buffet behind Maya and questioned the staff about the whereabouts of a seven-foot-tall mountain of custard balls before she addressed Maya.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, “but the girls forgot to arrange for a lemonade stand for the king and his Muslim cohorts who don’t drink alcohol. We’re rushing to set one up right now. Would you be a darling and manage it?” She indicated an alcove tucked away in the back of the room.

  Siberia, Maya thought, trying to smile as she nodded. So much for her plans to mingle with the crowd.

  “And we have one more change,” the woman had the audacity to say, her lips pressed forward in the shape of a heart. “Please seat this gentleman at Madame Cattaoui’s table, number twelve.” She handed Maya a piece of paper.

  Mickey Connolly.

  Maya’s stomach dropped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” a volunteer shouted to the crowd as they entered the dining room to the sound of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and gasped at the magical décor. “The king will not enter until everyone is seated.”

  After placing Mickey’s seating card in front of his wine goblet, Maya quickly leaned over to smell the pink lotus flowers that had been arranged in a crystal bowl with Egyptian irises at the center of the table. Almost by reflex, she stroked the back of his chair, still digesting the news that he would be here. And thank goodness that he was here alone. She was happy, nervous, and excited to see him, but was baffled by the fact that he was being seated between a countess and the chief lady-in-waiting for the king’s mother, Queen Nazli. And the other guests at his table were no less impressive. Except for a brigadier general and an Indian prince, they were all Egyptian royalty. What was an American journalist doing at this table?

  She took her station at the lemonade bar, but couldn’t just stand there and miss Mickey’s arrival. She slipped away and stopped close to one of the large columns in the back. While her eyes searched the room for him, she couldn’t help gawking at the fabulous dresses the women were wearing. The influence of Hollywood was undeniable. There were Empire-waisted gowns with ties in the back or trains, low and dramatic necklines edged with wide scallops or ruffles, and butterfly sleeves. Accents such as bows and fabric flowers abounded. Maya spotted a woman wearing a carbon copy of the dress worn by Joan Crawford in Letty Lynton, a dress so striking that Maya had never forgotten it, though she was only fourteen when she saw the movie. Her own dress seemed embarrassingly modest compared to these.

  These people have never known a day of suffering, she thought. Perhaps Vati was right: The Sephardim only care about material things and good times, while the Ashkenazim are the deep thinkers and intellectuals. “Name one important Sephardic composer or mathematician,” Vati had challenged her. She could
only think of Moses Maimonides, the great philosopher from the Middle Ages. But now, as she spotted Lili welcoming the guests and pointing them to their tables with the warmest of smiles on her lips, Maya had a revelation. They have grace and laughter and generosity, she would now answer, and they don’t kvetch! Maybe that’s what brought us Ashkenazim our troubles. Better do as the Sephardim say: “Smile to life so that life smiles back to you.”

  “Please remain seated, sir,” she heard a volunteer gently reprimand an elderly gentleman as he started to rise. “The king will enter soon. Then we will all rise at the same time.”

  Where was Mickey? Maya wondered, her stomach a ball of nerves. Most people were now in their seats, and just a few latecomers were trickling in. Could there be another man named Mickey Connolly? What were the chances of that? She kept her eyes on his table, where his seat remained empty. But so was Madame Cattaoui’s. Perhaps the two were upstairs chatting?

  Suddenly a pair of hands folded over her eyes from behind, startling her.

  “Guess who?” the voice asked.

  She twirled around, a surge of joy sweeping through her. It was him. He looked so dapper in his tuxedo that she barely recognized him. She instinctively moved forward to greet him with a kiss as she would a friend, but stopped. There was more than friendship there; a kiss even on the cheek would be loaded with sensations as their skin brushed. They both shifted awkwardly on their feet, grinning. He made the first move, taking one of her hands as he stepped away to better admire her. He shook his head.

  “You’re a flower,” he finally said. “Your cousin told me you wrote the menus for the dinner.”

  “And the seating cards,” she added.

  He let go of her hand and crossed his arms, frowning. “Then I should be angry with you,” he said. “You knew all this time I was here, and you didn’t even try to find me. How come?”