City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  She felt her cheeks reddening. “I didn’t know until a few moments ago,” she mumbled. “They only just gave me your name for a seating card.” Recovering her wits, she put a hand on her hip and added pointedly, “Sitting with royalty now?”

  “I’ve got friends in high places,” he said, flashing his best smile. “The US Embassy is behind this. They really want to see my article published in the Foreign Service Journal, and one of the guests at the table could be a mother lode of information.”

  She wasn’t familiar with the journal, but it sounded impressive, and she nodded appreciatively.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here,” he said, looking her straight in the eye, his sincerity completely disarming her.

  “This is the third time our paths are crossing,” she said, feeling her heart beating fast.

  “And three is the charm. It looks like the winds of fate are blowing in our favor.”

  She shrugged. “Or the winds of coincidence,” she said.

  “Whichever, you’re mine tonight.”

  She didn’t know what to say and felt increasingly ill at ease with his intensity. She craned her neck. Everyone was seated now. She said, “You should …”

  “I know. Sit down. I will. After I’m done with my business at the table, I will find you.”

  “Won’t be hard. I’m stuck here all night.” She indicated the bar behind her.

  “No, you’re not,” he said. He kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them against her lips before rushing to his seat.

  She was light-headed. She was flummoxed. Had he actually stolen a kiss from her? She realized that the band had stopped playing and that Madame Mosseri had taken the microphone on the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman announced, “the king!”

  A herald trumpeted the king’s arrival, and the guests rose, all attention riveted on the double doors at the end of the room. They swung open, and the king entered, cutting a dashing figure in his naval officer’s double-breasted blue coat, which was adorned with an array of gold braids and medals. Maya thought him quite handsome, but younger looking than his twenty years. A striking blond who looked like Jean Harlow and wore a sequined and feathered green dress was on his arm. Maya presumed her to be his infamous mistress, who was rumored to be paid by the English to be with him. Gossip about the couple’s sex life, or lack thereof, abounded, though the king had a reputation for being a skirt chaser, believing it was his absolute right to demand that any girl sleep with him, whether she was married or not.

  Maya watched with fascination as he and his small entourage settled in at the head table with King George of Greece, King Peter of Yugoslavia, the British ambassador, the Egyptian prime minister, and several high-ranking Allied generals.

  Once everybody sat down again, Madame Mosseri acknowledged the presence of the two European kings, thanked King Farouk for his generosity in allowing B’nai B’rith to hold this event on his yacht, and praised him for maintaining the strong relationship his father, King Fuad, had forged between the royal family and Egypt’s Jewish community. Her remarks were often drowned out by applause, but the most thunderous ovations came when she spoke about the Jews’ love for Egypt and her people, concluding, “May our tradition of friendship with our Arab brothers continue forever.” On their feet, the crowd joined her for a toast to Egypt with such verve that Maya felt a lump in her throat as she was reminded that she herself belonged nowhere. Madame Mosseri then dedicated a toast to England, thanking their British friends for their consistent generosity and fearless protection in this hour of need, before introducing Ambassador Lampson.

  Maya glanced toward Mickey’s table. She could only see his back, but he was clapping and whispering something into the ear of his neighbor, Madame Cattaoui, a petite woman in a simple black gown, who must have just slipped into her seat. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned and caught her staring, which made her blush. He picked up his glass and toasted her. She raised her palm to acknowledge him and returned her attention to the stage, where the courtly Lampson was kissing the hand of the hostess with much grace.

  “Once again, Madame Mosseri has shown us that war is no impediment to throwing a good party,” the British ambassador said, prompting laughter from the audience and cries of “Good show.” Then, one hand in his pocket, oozing confidence, he continued, “The commander of British troops in Egypt, General Wilson, and the Allied commander for the Middle East, General Auchinleck, couldn’t be here this evening, but they have given me the task of relaying this message to you.” He wrapped the microphone with his two hands and cried, “This is it. I’m sure you have all heard the news that the line has held at a place called El Alamein. We want you all to know that this will be the turning point. We are going to stop the Nazis here and chase them right back into Libya.”

  The crowd cheered and applauded wildly.

  “I can’t believe they are sticking you in a corner for the night,” Lili whispered, sidling up to Maya.

  “I know.”

  “You had to see the smile on his face when I told him you were here.”

  Maya hid her delight at hearing this. She knew it must have been true.

  CHAPTER 26

  “He’s truly revolting,” whispered Countess Sunderland, loud enough for Mickey to hear though his head was momentarily turned to the back of the room as he searched for Maya, who was no longer standing by the column.

  “Who is?” he asked, turning his attention to the countess, assuming she was referring to Lampson, who had been thanking the Jews for their contributions to the war effort and the enrichment of life in Egypt.

  “The king!” the countess said. “That’s who! He’s having a bread ball fight with his friends.”

  Mickey followed her gaze to Farouk’s table. He didn’t see any food flying, but the king did seem to be up to no good as he clowned with his cronies, oblivious to the ambassador’s remarks.

  “His Majesty seems to be a prankster,” he said in a low voice.

  “Indeed.” The countess frowned. She cupped her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Did you know that when he met Churchill, he pickpocketed his watch?”

  “That must have created an interesting first impression,” Mickey offered, smiling at Madame Cattaoui when he noticed her watching him from the corner of her eye. She had dressed modestly, with only a pair of diamond earrings as adornment to her evening gown, and had seemed sensible and pleasant enough when he’d introduced himself.

  “Good God, the ambassador did not thank the king!” exclaimed Prince Fawzi, sitting to the right of Madame Cattaoui, when Lampson stepped down from the stage.

  “Tsk, tsk. A terrible faux pas,” Mickey hastened to agree. “I agree with you …” he began fumbling for the proper term of address when he felt Madame Cattaoui kick his foot under the table.

  “Royal Highness,” she mouthed to his rescue.

  “… Your Royal Highness,” Mickey finished quickly. “Perhaps the ambassador was a bit nervous on stage.” He nodded thanks to the lady-in-waiting.

  “I doubt that,” the prince said. “He’s a seasoned speaker.”

  The microphone creaked as Madame Mosseri, the hostess, came back to the podium. “And, of course, we thank you again, Your Majesty, for your generosity,” she said in an attempt to rectify Lampson’s glaring error. “Dance and be merry! The king has a wonderful surprise for us later this evening.”

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” Mickey said in a low voice to Madame Cattaoui as the band struck up a soft tune. “I’m afraid we don’t learn how to address royalty in America.”

  “Perhaps that’s what gives you Americans your charm,” she responded.

  He was about to ask her if she’d ever visited the United States, but he felt the countess pull at this sleeve.

  “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about this Madame Samina,” she whispered, her gossipy eye now targeted on the Egyptian dancer, who was sitting at a nearby table
, her forehead decorated with a gold pendant. “She’s utterly vulgar as far as I am concerned. What do men see in her?”

  Mickey shrugged and wisely avoided responding to that question, but when he turned toward Madame Cattaoui again, Prince Fawzi and his wife had captured her attention. He reached for the menu in the center of the table and smiled as he admired Maya’s exquisite calligraphy. He turned again to look for her. Suddenly he saw her face peeking out from behind the column. He wiggled his fingers hello, and her full face appeared, bearing a huge grin, before disappearing again entirely. A suffragi arrived to serve the dinner’s first course—truffles à la sauce de champagne, thinly sliced mushrooms under a delicate white sauce.

  Seated to the left of the countess was US Air Force Brigadier General John Meyer, who was dominating the conversation as he bragged about the capabilities of the latest American aircraft, the B-24 Liberator. He punctuated his speech with gestures and sound effects, dramatizing a town being wiped off the map by these new stratospheric bombers. He was boring everybody, even the British RAF colonel next to him, Thomas White, who only nodded politely.

  Mickey leaned toward Madame Cattaoui. “Are you still sure that we Americans are so charming?” he asked softly.

  “Perhaps not all of you,” she chuckled.

  “King George looks gloomy,” the countess interrupted, tugging on Mickey’s sleeve again. The Greek monarch was being pulled aside by a guest who was undoubtedly offering his condolences for the travails of the king’s country. “And with good reason,” she added. “His country is being ravaged and he just narrowly avoided death. You’ve heard the story, I suppose? He escaped on a donkey, like Jesus Christ. Eventually the Royal Navy rescued him, just after German paratroopers landed only three hundred yards away. A terribly close shave.”

  “Terribly!” Mickey said. He returned his attention to Madame Cattaoui, but she was busy soothing the prince, who had been scandalized by the lurid paintings he’d seen in the yacht’s Royal Chamber. Mickey sopped up the succulent sauce of the mushroom appetizer with a piece of bread, his mind drawn back to Maya. He wanted to turn his head again and look for her, but he restrained himself so as not to be impolite to his tablemates. How incredible that she was here tonight. Maybe his lucky purple cummerbund was doing its job. Speaking of which, where the hell was Dorothy?

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell you how sorry I was, Countess, to hear that your husband had been captured,” Colonel White told her, jumping at the first chance to break away from the overbearing American general.

  “Thank you,” the countess replied. “General Auchinleck assured me that prisoners of war are being taken overland to Tripoli and from there to Italy. My husband is probably sunning himself in Brindisi, for all I know.”

  “You should be grateful that the war is over for him,” Colonel White said. “You’re going back to Blighty, aren’t you?”

  “I am going to Palestine, actually,” the countess replied.

  Mickey’s ears perked up.

  “Without my husband, there isn’t much for me to do here in Cairo. I’ve decided I might as well make myself useful, so I’m leaving for Jerusalem next week to help in the administration. They are desperately short of secretaries and support staff.”

  “The Arabs and the Jews are at each others’ throats there,” White said. “There is nothing but trouble in Palestine. If your husband were here, I’m sure he’d warn you to be careful.”

  “You needn’t worry on my account. Nothing will happen to me.” The countess daintily dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

  “Palestine is a lot quieter now than it was before the war,” General Meyer commented.

  “Probably because Churchill has mollified the Arabs with the latest White Paper restrictions,” Mickey said, thrilled that the conversation had turned this way.

  “I’m afraid restrictions is no longer an appropriate term,” Madame Cattaoui corrected him. “There is now a complete ban on immigration.”

  What do you know! The lady-in-waiting had been eavesdropping on their conversation, and from the flush of her cheeks, he saw that the subject was an emotional one for her.

  “It’s a temporary expediency,” White said. “The loyalty of the Arabs has to be gained at any price, or we risk their forming an alliance with the Nazis.”

  “I’m afraid that alliance has already been forged,” Mickey said. “Isn’t the Mufti of Jerusalem in Germany with Hitler as we speak?”

  “Exactly,” Madame Cattaoui nodded in agreement, resting a soft hand on his arm.

  “If we don’t put a freeze on Jewish immigration right now, we risk a full-scale Arab revolt, and where would that leave us?” White asked.

  “But where does this leave the Jews?” Mickey retorted. “Nobody wants them.”

  “Including your own president,” the British officer fired back.

  “Now in all fairness, President Roosevelt—” Meyer started to say.

  “In all fairness,” the countess interrupted, “it is not right that exceptions are being made for members of the British staff here to be transferred to Palestine, while they won’t allow even the Jews who work closely with them on high security matters to emigrate there. If the Germans arrive here, they would undoubtedly be the first ones to suffer.”

  “How can this be?” Mickey asked, turning to Madame Cattaoui for an explanation. “The Jews here are major contributors to the war effort,” he gestured around the room. “Surely the British ambassador—”

  “There is nothing Ambassador Lampson can do,” Madame Cattaoui interrupted. “The Palestine administration categorically refuses to relax its rules under any circumstances.”

  “The king will protect the Jewish people in the unthinkable event that Rommel takes Egypt,” the prince said.

  “But how long will he be able to do that?” Mickey asked. “I know Jews can count many Arabs as friends, but in the mosque Hassan al-Banna of the Muslim Brotherhood is winning over the hearts of more and more Egyptian people every day.”

  “That will be the day, when the Egyptians turn against us!” Madame Cattaoui answered. “It will never happen. They are our greatest allies.”

  “Absolutely,” said the prince. “Did you hear about the Egyptians who risked their lives by saving thirteen German Jews and smuggling them into Palestine?”

  “No. When did that happen?” Mickey asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Just before the war broke out,” Madame Cattaoui responded. “This is off the record, of course. An Egyptian policeman told his surgeon at the Jewish Hospital in Alexandria that there were thirteen Jews being held hostage offshore aboard a German freighter. I don’t remember all the details, but between the surgeon and the policeman and his fellow friends on the force, they created a ruse to get the refugees off the ship and arrested by the port authorities. The refugees were then transferred to the prison in Port Said, and from there they were put on board a police patrol boat and taken to a fishing vessel that carried them outside of Egyptian waters and on to Haifa.”

  “What an exciting story!” the countess exclaimed.

  “I should point out,” the prince added, “that many Egyptian policemen and their families are treated by Jewish doctors at the Jewish Hospital in Alexandria. There is a lot of goodwill there.”

  “When the authorities found out, the Egyptians received only a slap on the wrist. Everyone closed their eyes. Even the British authorities in Palestine did not pursue the incident,” Madame Cattaoui went on. “That would not be the case today.”

  “But Jews today must be finding ways to get in,” said the countess.

  “You tell me how,” Madame Cattaoui responded. “Bribes don’t work anymore.”

  “Can they buy visas on the black market?” Mickey asked.

  “Oh, you journalists!” the countess said, giving him an affectionate tap on his head. “You look for intrigue everywhere.”

  Mickey forced a smile, but registered Madame Cattaoui’s body tensing sli
ghtly. As an intimate of the queen, she had to be wary of reporters. He wanted to strangle the countess.

  “Let’s talk of brighter subjects,” Madame Cattaoui said, turning to the prince.

  “One more question, if you don’t mind my asking, madame?” Mickey said, alarmed that he was losing his chance to pursue this line with the lady-in-waiting and deciding to take a gamble.

  “As you know, madame, I’m writing about the Jews of Egypt,” he started. “And I’m interested in the role of Zionists in Egypt today.”

  Madame Cattaoui looked into his eyes. She crossed her arms, guarded.

  “I know that the Zionist organizations were disbanded, essentially by the Jewish community itself, in the face of intimidation by Arab zealots. But I’m sure that the Zionist dream of a Jewish homeland still exists and that people are still working for the cause,” he pressed on. “Can you give me some guidance about how I might find such people who are still active? The world needs to be informed about the tremendous pressure being felt by the Jews here and in other parts of the Arab world as a result of British policy in Palestine.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, and you shouldn’t be so quick to judge us,” she finally responded. “I would like to point out that the well-to-do German Jews in your own country lobbied the State Department to restrict Jewish immigration to America, and they didn’t face the pressures that my brethren here do. No one is bombing Jewish homes in New York, as far as I know.” She turned to the prince.

  The game was over. He would get no more from her.

  As the yacht glided through the darkness and the suffragis began serving coffee and tea, Mickey could see faint firelights on the banks of the river through the dining room windows. Madame Mosseri had invited everyone to the dessert table, and some diners were already lighting cigars, reclining in their chairs, satiated and happy. Others were table-hopping, greeting friends, or dancing. At Mickey’s table half of the guests had left, including Madame Cattaoui. It was safe now for Mickey to go find Maya without being rude.