City of the Sun

by Juliana Maio

  He was jolted back into the present when he heard loudspeakers from a van roaming the street below, blaring away in Arabic. The only words he could make out were Inglisi out, which meant “out with the English,” and idrub, which meant “fight.” The proponents of the transportation strike were now taking their message to the street in a big way, he thought.

  He was fed up with Cairo and everyone in it. Already feeling bad enough about his disastrous blunder with the Nazi spy, he had been chewed out again yesterday for it by the field police and MI5, who’d questioned him ad nauseam about his relationship with Samina. But thanks to his testimony that had led to incriminating documents they found in her home, they’d allowed him three days to leave the country instead of the original twenty-four hours. He didn’t give a damn. He was ready to go as soon as he heard from Maya.

  Suddenly he heard the crackle of machine-gun fire. What the hell was going on?

  He threw the covers aside and raced to the window, stubbing his toe against the trunk he’d bought to carry the clothes and junk he’d accumulated since his arrival. He howled in pain.

  Except for smoke billowing far away on the horizon toward the pyramids, everything seemed normal, just a typical, lazy Sunday morning, until he looked down on Soliman Pasha square and saw a Whippet armored car with a machine gun poking out of its turret. Just then the phone rang.

  “Have you heard?” Hugh asked breathlessly. “There was a coup at Abdeen Palace last night. Lampson showed up with tanks and guns and forced the king to comply with a number of demands or lose his crown. He presented him with an abdication statement.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mickey exclaimed as the implications dawned on him. “There will be riots.”

  “I’m afraid they’ve already started. There’s a mob down in Giza. A gang of arsonists have destroyed the Auberge des pyramids and the Club Royal de Chasse et Pêche. The Mena House was spared, heaven knows why,” Hugh informed him. “My friend Ali is in jail, mate. Just hung up the phone with his parents. He was caught a little while ago stealing an ammunition truck. He could be executed for treason. I’ll tell you all about it. Can we still try to have lunch? Might be our last chance.”

  “For sure,” Mickey said, wanting to see him before Hugh left for the front on Tuesday. It was time to reveal that he had been moonlighting as a spy, without providing the key details. He needed to warn him that MI5 might question him about the night they saw Samina at the Kit Kat Club. “Can we meet downtown or do you think the riots will spread to the center of the city?”

  “I doubt it. I’m sure we already have it filled with armored vehicles, but it’s going to be ugly. What can I tell you, mate? Empires rise and empires fall.” Hugh spoke with resignation in his voice. “It won’t be long before Gandhi kicks us out of India as well. Anyhow, I’ll meet you at twelve at the Turf Club. I’ve just become a member. It’s next door to that Jewish temple … You know …”

  “Temple Ismalia. See you then.”

  On his way out of the building, Hosni hurried to warn him about what was being said over the loudspeakers outside—exhortations aimed at Egyptians employed by foreigners to poison their food or to strike against them because of last night’s explosive events. Hosni was not proud of this.

  “It’s going to be a mess,” Mickey told him ruefully.

  When he arrived at the Turf Club, two buttoned down British officers were banging on the door. The doorman, a pompous sort, allowed them in, but turned Mickey away for not wearing a tie, even though there surely must have been one available for him to borrow. Club policy, the doorman proclaimed, and shut the door.

  As he paced the street waiting for Hugh, the doors of the synagogue opened and a humming crowd, dressed to the hilt, came out along with a wedding party. Mickey watched with interest as the bride and groom emerged and the guests celebrated by throwing almond candy at them until a chauffeured limousine pulled up and whisked them away.

  A young man approached him while removing his yarmulke. “Aren’t you the American writing about the Jews here? I’m Bernard Agami,” he introduced himself. “We met outside my uncle’s orphanage in Daher.”

  “I remember. You work at the UK General Electric,” Mickey said, recalling the young man’s forthrightness and his generosity with his time.

  “My cousin just got married,” Bernard said, explaining his presence here. “Did you ever find the man you were looking for?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Mickey answered. “I’m afraid Mr. Nissel wasn’t very cooperative.”

  “Did you know that he and his family are in prison?” Bernard said. “He vanished from his office last week, and the next thing we knew, the whole Nissel family was arrested on a train bound for Palestine for using falsified visas.”

  “Is that right?” Mickey was surprised, having been told by Nissel’s son that they had given up on the idea of going to Palestine.

  “The Egyptian police received an anonymous phone call tipping them off.” Bernard shook his head, scandalized. “Who would do such a thing? You must be finished with your article by now?” he asked in the same breath.

  “I’m about to file it,” Mickey said absentmindedly, his mind racing to Nissel’s inscription of gratitude in Léon Guibli’s book of bridges. Gratitude for what? Mickey would not be surprised if the lawyer had helped them. Surely Guibli, a Zionist sympathizer with high-level connections in the Egyptian government, would be in an excellent position to help. It all began to make sense. The new state needed men of science and engineering to build its future. Men like Nissel and Blumenthal. Mickey had a very strong inkling that the lawyer had been helping not only Nissel but Blumenthal as well. He had to get to him as soon as possible. But it was Sunday.

  Mickey politely disentangled himself from the young man and left a note for Hugh at the Turf Club saying that something had come up and that he would call later. He strode off toward the Jewish community center around the corner, intent on getting Guibli’s home address from Jacques.

  It turned out that the lawyer was not a registered member of the community, and there was no record of his home address, but Jacques knew that he lived in Heliopolis, and suggested he drop by the home of Guibli’s sister, Allegra Levi, who lived in Heliopolis as well. Allegra was very active in Jewish affairs, and Jacques was sure she would be happy to let him know how to contact her brother. As he left the center, Mickey decided it would be wise to tell Kirk he was pursuing the case again. He tried calling him, but the ambassador could not be reached. He considered calling MI5 but hesitated. His information was not firm enough yet and he did not want to incur their wrath. He’d go it alone.

  He sped down Sharia El Gheish toward Heliopolis, narrowly missing the mob that was forming around the railway station. He made sure to avoid Ataba Square, where Jacques had warned him that firefighters were putting out blazes at Barclays Bank and the Rex Cinema. There was no telling which foreign institution would be the next target for the gangs of arsonists that had sprung up throughout the city, or where the next riot would start. Mickey had gotten a small taste of this danger when he left the Jewish community center and found a group of angry students a mere fifty yards away from his Jeep rocking a British truck back and forth with its terrified occupants inside.

  As he entered Heliopolis, however, he was surprised to find the residents of the elegant suburb lunching al fresco along its pretty tree-lined avenues, oblivious to the rampaging taking place practically next door. The Arabs he’d stopped to ask for directions were courteous. It was as if the news of the night before had not reached this enclave. When he finally arrived at the Levis’ building, the bawab was away from his station. He checked the names on the long wooden mailboxes and found a J. Levi on the second floor. Must be it.

  When he reached the apartment he rehearsed his story. He would say that he was from the American Embassy and needed to get ahold of Allegra’s brother concerning an acquaintance of his whom the embassy was looking for. He would keep it vague and casual.

&nb
sp; Mickey was taken aback by the sobbing and weeping he heard inside the apartment when a portly servant opened the door. Behind her another maid was covering the foyer’s mirror with a black cloth, and he could see another black cover on the wall in the living room. Someone had just died in this household, and he felt awkward about his bad timing. “I’d like to speak to Madame Levi,” he said. “It’s about her brother, Léon.”

  The servant shook her head. “Pauvre monsieur Léon (Poor Mr. Léon),” she said, looking disconsolate. “I don’t know if Madame—”

  “My mother can’t talk to anybody,” a female voice said from inside the house as she made her way to the door. “Who is it?”

  Mickey froze.

  Lili was standing right in front of him, her face a mess from crying but looking just as much aghast at seeing Mickey there.

  Surrounded by Joseph Levi, his wife, and Lili, Mickey frantically dialed the number of the British MI5 agent he had dealt with after failing to reach Kirk. He was reeling from the double whammy that Léon Guibli had been murdered and that Maya was Erik Blumenthal’s sister. Blumenthal had been under his very nose the entire time. But he couldn’t care about anything right now except finding Maya. The Levis knew nothing about the Nissel family but had told Mickey about the Brotherhood’s target list. The body of Léon Guibli had been found a few hours ago dumped in front of the Bassatine Jewish cemetery with a sign around his neck: Palestine Forever Islamic. Mickey was alarmed that the Brotherhood, which had participated with the German spy in the aborted ambush, might have learned that the Blumenthals were on the train to Palestine and told the spy.

  “Commander Toppington is on the other line,” an aide apologized.

  “Please tell him it’s urgent. Urgent,” Mickey repeated, tapping his feet on the floor. He could barely breathe. “I have important news regarding a man the American Embassy has been looking for. He will know what I’m talking about.”

  It took forever for the Englishman to finish his call, and when he did, he shouted into the phone, “I’ve already warned you, Connolly, lay off this case. You’ve created enough problems for us.”

  Mickey quickly brought the commander up to speed. “They’re on the two o’clock train to Ismailiya. You’ve got to stop that train,” Mickey cried.

  “First off, mate, it’s Sunday, and I’m the only one here. Second, just in case you haven’t noticed, Cairo is in flames and all our men are needed now. And third, we don’t need you Yanks to tell us what to do.”

  Mickey lost it. “No wonder you slimy limies are losing this war,” Mickey yelled, incensed by the man’s obtuseness. “We’ll probably have to come in and rescue your sorry asses. I’ll go it alone.” He slammed down the phone. He checked his watch. With some luck he could overtake the train.

  “I’ll show you the fastest way out of town,” Mr. Levi offered.

  CHAPTER 44

  Sitting across from each other, Erik and Maya looked out the window in silence as the train chugged north along the Nile. Water buffaloes turned waterwheels by the river’s edge, while further downstream, boys herded flocks of sheep and goats in neat single files—a tableau that must have existed since ancient times, Maya thought. After passing only sand dunes since leaving Cairo, the land here was brilliantly green. Nourished by water from the river, farms were flourishing. Fields of cotton and rice stretched out before her. The vitality of the landscape contrasted sharply to the way she was feeling.

  “No peace for the wicked,” Erik said, without turning his head, his face pale as a ghost. These were the first words he’d spoken since they’d boarded the train to Palestine.

  Maya shook her head. “When will it ever stop?” she said.

  She’d expected long embraces and perhaps tears when saying their good-byes to the Levis, but not the agony and guilt that she, Erik, and Vati had felt after learning that Allegra’s brother had vanished. The police couldn’t say for sure that the lawyer had been kidnapped, but it was a distinct possibility. The family, of course, feared the worst. The Blumenthals had refused to leave Egypt under the circumstances but the Levis vehemently insisted, explaining that there was nothing Maya’s family could do and that their presence would possibly pose an increased danger to them. As a precaution, they’d put them in a hotel close to the train station the night before. Maya and her family couldn’t help feeling responsible for what had happened to Léon, even though the Levis had assured them that they had all lived anticipating this possibility for some time. Léon had been involved in all sorts of risky and clandestine Zionist activities and knew what the consequences might be.

  Maya absentmindedly twirled the seashell bracelet Lili had given her as a parting gift. Lili had also packed a suitcase full of clothing she insisted would look better on Maya than on her. And at the door, Allegra had handed them a glass of water, insisting that Maya and her family drink from it, honoring the custom that a symbolic sip of water from the Nile would guarantee their return in good health.

  It had been two hours since the train had left Cairo, and they had drifted away from the river. The landscape was now just a large expanse of rolling sand dunes. Most signs of life had disappeared, except for rusty petrol cans that lay alongside a road that ran parallel to the railroad tracks and the occasional figure of a solitary Arab, miles from anywhere. Doing what? Going where? Maya wondered.

  “Joe told me the American reporter was at the premiere,” Erik said, jolting her from her reverie and awakening the Egyptian couple who shared their compartment.

  “So?” she responded, feeling defensive.

  “Nothing,” Erik said. He looked at her as if it were the first time he’d seen her for a long time. “You look … well. I mean good. Pretty. That’s all,” he added.

  “Sambousseks, boyos, and pasteles,” Vati announced as he opened the bag of food Allegra had given them the night before and pulled out some nicely wrapped containers. Sitting next to Erik, he placed each item on the seat between them. “Look! Dates! Of every color,” he exclaimed as he continued pulling things out of the bag.

  Maya smiled. It must have been Lili who’d put them there. She knew how much Maya liked them.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” their Egyptian neighbor asked. “We’re going to the dining car.” He tugged his emaciated wife along, looking dour in her long black skirt.

  Maya smiled and shook her head, but as she did, the train jerked to a stop, propelling everyone forward and sending the food to the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Erik asked, pulling himself back up in his seat.

  Maya got up and looked out the window. “There is an army lorry next to the tracks,” she said as she watched two soldiers jump out of it while a third stood by, rifle at the ready.

  The Egyptian man went to the window to see for himself. “Egyptian soldiers.”

  The floor was a mess with food all over. Maya knelt down and was helping her father gather it when she heard a commotion in the corridor.

  The door suddenly slammed open, and two soldiers stood in the doorway. They sized up the group and exchanged a few words in Arabic with the Egyptian couple.

  Maya straightened up, her heart pounding. Somehow she knew they’d come for them.

  “Herkowitz?” one of the soldiers barked.

  “Not here,” Vati answered from the floor.

  But Maya and Erik exchanged concerned looks. This was their name on their new passports.

  “What is it?” Erik asked.

  “Papers,” the soldier demanded. “For you and you,” he pointed to Erik and Vati, whom he helped back to his seat, grabbing him by the arm.

  Maya did not like the way he manhandled her father and panic shot through her. “What is this about?” she asked as calmly as she could.

  “Not you,” the soldier barked back at her. “You and you,” he repeated, poking Erik’s and Vati’s shoulders with the tip of his rifle.

  Erik coolly pushed the soldier’s rifle aside. “I don’t know what it is you men want,
but our papers are in order. Maya, please,” he gestured to her to hand over their documents.

  As she started to dig through her purse, her father stood up.

  “I protest,” he declared in German, his jaw quivering. “You have no right to judge me. I am not garbage.”

  As the soldier moved to push him back down, Erik grabbed his father’s hand, pulling him down to his seat. “Father, this is only perfunctory. There is no problem, is there, officer?” he managed to say in a soothing voice.

  The soldier did not respond and gestured for Maya to hurry. “Papers!”

  She found them and timidly tendered all three passports to the commanding soldier, who gave them to his comrade to examine. The two soon started to argue, fixing their gazes on Erik and Vati. One of them tossed Maya her passport, which she caught in midair. They addressed the Egyptian man in the compartment.

  “They want to know which one of you is Erik Blumenthal,” the man relayed.

  “I am,” Vati said, beating his chest and standing up again. “And I’m proud to be a Jew.”

  “Father, don’t say stupidities. Sit down,” Maya demanded, before addressing the soldiers. “My father is not well in the head, I’m sorry.” She twisted her index finger against her temple to indicate that he was crazy.

  “You and you. Come,” the commanding soldier ordered Erik and Vati, pointing to the corridor with his thumb.

  “Is something wrong with our papers?” Erik asked.

  “Come.” The commanding officer stepped forward and gripped Erik and Vati by their arms, getting them on their feet.

  “I protest,” Vati shouted, trying to wriggle out of the soldier’s grip, but his comrade stepped in and, taking a firm hold, dragged him out of the cabin, while the other followed, tightly holding on to Erik, who did not even try to resist.

  “Leave them alone! Stop it,” Maya cried, and with the protective instincts of a mother bear whose cub is in danger, she jumped on the soldier who was dragging Erik out. But with the palm of his hand spread across her face, the man pushed her back inside. She lunged at him again and struggled to free her brother, but this time, the soldier slapped her sharply, sending her reeling back into the cabin and knocking her head against the wall. She was so stunned by the blow that it took a couple of seconds for the pain to sink in. The Egyptian couple came to her aid, the man yelling in Arabic at the soldiers, who yelled back at him and slid the door closed behind them.