City of the Sun Page 11

  The men screamed for an encore, but Samina appeared to believe that audiences, like lovers, were best left wanting more.

  “You liked that,” Sally whispered as she stroked his leg.

  Hugh whistled. “We should set that woman loose on the Germans.”

  Soldiers threw bread balls at Mickey, who felt his face turning red in embarrassment as they cried, “You lucky sod.”

  “Now look, you’ve gotten everyone jealous,” Sally said, passing her fingers over Mickey’s lips. “I think we should move on.”

  Mickey pushed his chair back. He couldn’t agree more.

  CHAPTER 14

  Crass and shameless, Kesner thought as he opened the stiff and itchy collar of his Polish uniform. He was annoyed with himself for becoming aroused once again by Samina’s blatant sexual overtures. He used to report whores like her to the Gestapo back in Germany. They corrupted the morals of the Reich’s young men. But he’d heard that prostitution had now become a fact of life back home, apparently spiraling into an epidemic on the streets of Berlin.

  When the crimson curtain closed to rapturous applause, Kesner rose to his feet and started toward the Kit Kat star’s dressing room. The door to the diva’s dressing room was ajar and he slipped in. Sitting in front of her makeup mirror in a Chinese silk robe, Samina was peeling off her false eyelashes. Her tiara lay on the dresser and her long black hair cascaded down her back.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she gasped, catching his reflection in the mirror. Her eyes, so seductive onstage, flashed with venom and cold fury. She spoke with an exotic accent, part Arabic and part French—a perfect Lebanese blend.

  “I heard you had a letter for me,” Kesner said.

  “You are putting me in danger,” she shot back angrily. “Last week the police interned two of the girls. Every cop in town is here tonight and you come barging in like you own the place.”

  Kesner wanted to say, “I don’t own the place, but I own you, sweetheart,” but he held his tongue. There was no telling what the whore might do if antagonized, and she was too important an ally to lose. Not only was she his key liaison for getting mail to and from Germany, but he’d used her several times on sensitive matters involving high-level Western officials. The extra service was costly, but invaluable. The Italians, whom she’d previously worked for, had warned him about her mercenary nature but promised she was worth it.

  “Dr. Massoud’s assistant said you stopped by his office twice this week. The information must be important.” He approached the dressing table and played with a sparkly wig that was lying on it. Samina’s robe was loosely draped around her; her erect nipples showed through the thin material. A small stream of perspiration ran between her ample breasts, making her skin glisten. He wondered if she sweated like that when she fucked.

  Samina snatched the wig away and put it back on the dresser before rising and fetching a brown envelope from her purse in the closet. “Next time you wait until you hear from me. This is my life, and I’m not going to risk having you or anyone else screw it up. Understand?”

  He had a powerful urge to throw her on the floor and fuck her, but he smiled, as if amused by her hysteria. He slipped the letter into the pocket of his uniform and gently stroked the side of her neck with his index finger. “You ought to show more appreciation. I’ve asked the Abwehr for more money for you.”

  “I’ll do the asking myself,” she said, brushing his hand away before cinching her robe tightly around her, covering her cleavage.

  “You gave quite a performance tonight, Samina. Somehow I felt much of it was for my benefit, but I suppose every man must have felt that way.”

  “I need to fix my face,” she growled and showed him the door with her chin.

  Kesner blew her a kiss, and as he headed for the door, he passed a wall where a photograph of her children, a boy and a girl, was pinned. Under Lebanese law, custody had gone to the father after her divorce, and this, her weak spot, was where Kesner’s leverage lay. She needed money for the lawyers.

  When Kesner returned to his dahabieh he opened a bottle of Sandman sherry in celebration. Hurra! The SS was giving him a second chance. In their detailed letter, he was authorized to find the Jew and to use any means necessary to prevent him from falling into the hands of the Americans or the English. They noted that this matter was of the utmost importance to Hitler himself.

  Kesner removed his Polish uniform jacket and lay down on the cushions in the living room, enjoying the soft breeze from the whirring corner fans. He felt a swell of pride. Finally, after months of negotiating with slimy officials and raving fanatics, he’d been called to serve the führer.

  He removed the letter from his pocket and took pleasure in reading and rereading it.

  He had more information now. The Jew, Erik Blumenthal, was born in Düsseldorf in 1911, the same year as himself. He was one of twenty Jewish German PhD physics students that Niels Bohr had sponsored to work with him in Denmark in 1933. He was last employed by the Collège de France in Paris. He’d failed to report when instructed to appear in front of the Vichy civic hall in Bordeaux, the last place he’d been registered. His name was subsequently picked up in Istanbul and he was put on the Gestapo’s list of wanted men. He’d written a paper that was of importance to the Reich’s ballistic missile program. The Jew had sent it to Bohr in Denmark, and the SS had, naturally, intercepted it. They needed to question him about his findings. Kesner’s instructions were to hold him until General Rommel arrived. The letter also advised that the scientist was traveling with his sister, Marianna, and his father, Viktor. They’d included a family photo. Kesner committed the letter to memory before lighting a match to it. But he kept the photo, taking particular notice of Blumenthal’s sister, finding her pretty but too skinny.

  He had intercepted and decoded two more communiqués from the American Embassy regarding the Jew, both of which were sent by someone called Fastball. One of them referred to Blumenthal as “a needle in a haystack.” Why were the Americans involved in this? Kesner kept wondering. Could Roosevelt be planning to enter the war even though the American people were opposed to it?

  He went back to his bedroom and fetched his diary, which he kept hidden in the mahogany chest that blocked the entrance to his communication room. He opened his bottle of specially concocted ink and dipped his pen into it.

  You’re a good boy, Schwarze Hund, he started writing. His head was brimming with ideas of how to search for the scientist as he watched the black ink turn to brown before fading away.

  CHAPTER 15

  Mickey thought it was a good thing Sally’s apartment wasn’t far away from the Kit Kat Club and that at this late hour the streets were deserted, because Sally’s wide, drunken turns could have sent them either to the hospital or to jail. They climbed the stairs to her second floor studio, one wobbly step at a time, holding each other up, not sure who was more intoxicated. He slipped his hand up her skirt as they reached the landing. She responded by sliding her tongue into his mouth and curling her leg around his. He pressed her hips closer to his body as they shared a wet kiss.

  “Hold off,” she said, panting and fumbling with her keys, but he kept kissing the back of her neck and fondling her breasts, his need urgent.

  Once inside, she kicked the door closed and pulled off his jacket, her tongue running around his lips as she led him to the bedroom, where they collapsed on the bed. Breathless already, she unbuttoned her blouse while he unzipped her skirt and threw it on the floor. He stubbornly struggled with her brassiere as she sat at the edge of the bed removing her stockings. Equally impatient, she took over and in a snap freed her breasts and straddled him. She placed a nipple in his mouth while she unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down. A moment later his cock was in her mouth. She was as hungry for him as he was for her. The hell with foreplay! It ended with her riding on top of him and climaxing with a victorious scream. It was delicious and delirious, and like a dam bursting, with her fingers in his mouth and
his hands grabbing her butt cheeks, he released. He closed his eyes and let out a winded breath.

  She collapsed next to him on the pillow, purring like a satisfied cat. She was happy and cuddled tightly up against him.

  What seemed like hours later, he opened his eyes. The drapes were open to the full moon, but it was still too dark to read his watch. He reached for the bedside lamp. It was three-thirty. He’d only slept for two hours.

  Sally stirred and opened an eye. She lazily rolled onto her side and reached across him to grab a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. “Smoke?” she offered.

  “No, thanks.” He got up to go to the bathroom. He didn’t want to spend the rest of the night with her.

  He splashed his face with cold water and looked at himself in the mirror. Pretty sorry looking. He had a busy day ahead. He needed to go home for a few good hours of sleep and a change of clothes, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. When he returned to the bedroom, however, she was getting dressed.

  “I’m going to sleep at the base,” she announced casually. “Tomorrow is an early day. Want a ride home, dolly?”

  Surprised and relieved, Mickey kissed her on the lips. “I’ll walk. Some fresh air will do me good,” he said.

  Outside, the night air felt crisp. Sally’s ambulance was parked askew in front of the building. He noticed a soldier’s helmet in the backseat, and then saw that it was only half of a helmet, badly mangled on one side. How could she deal with this day in and day out? he wondered.

  It was a good twenty-minute walk to his apartment. He jammed his hands in his pockets and strode away. If he walked west, he would eventually run into Sharia Kasr el-Aini and take it all the way north to downtown.

  The Abdeen district had increasingly become populated by foreigners, pushing the Arab neighborhoods ever further east to the medieval area. It had seen the sprouting of numerous bars and clubs in recent months. At this late hour, however, the streets were deserted and the bars and clubs were closed in compliance with a new ordinance. Only the Scarabee, famous for its milky Circassian girls who danced behind barbed wire, was open. Its burly bouncer was throwing out the last boisterous customer as Mickey passed by. He quickened his pace.

  He made a right turn, expecting it to lead to the Maglis el Sha’ab grand avenue, but found himself on a tiny side street. Ahead of him three soldiers staggered on and off the sidewalk, slurring as they sang, “King Farouk, King Farouk, you’re a dirty old crook. Queen Farida’s very gay, when Farouk has got his pay.” They found their improvisations hilarious as they swayed along.

  A man screamed angry curses at them in Arabic from an apartment window, and another stepped onto his balcony and raised his fist in a tirade at the drunken soldiers.

  “Piss off,” one of the soldiers yelled before lurching forward.

  No wonder the Egyptians wanted the Allies out of here, Mickey thought. War or no war, this was unacceptable. In Detroit, the police would have picked up those morons long ago and locked them up for the night.

  An Arab in a white galabeya and a tarbush emerged from a side lane and walked toward the soldiers. Mickey smelled trouble.

  Sure enough, when the man passed by, one of the soldiers knocked his tarbush off his head. Without a word, the man bent down to pick it up, but the soldier snatched it back and threw it to one of his buddies. The three lads began tossing it back and forth, like a volleyball.

  “That’s enough, guys,” Mickey shouted as he neared them. None of them was a day over eighteen. He grabbed the closest one by the shoulder. “Knock it off,” he ordered. “This is not a game.”

  The soldier’s eyes were glazed over. He snorted and tried to brush Mickey’s hand away, but was so drunk that he missed it.

  “Give the man his tarbush,” Mickey insisted. But his demand fell on deaf ears as the soldiers continued their game. “I said enough,” he yelled and jumped up, intercepting the hat. “Leave him alone.”

  “What’s it to you?” blustered the tallest of the three, and he hit Mickey with a surprise right cross that struck him just below the eye.

  Mickey reeled backward. When he straightened up, he found the three squaddies circling him, ready to brawl. He didn’t like to fight, but he would if he had to.

  “You don’t want to fight me,” he warned them, looking each of them in the eye. He was a lot more sober than these stupid kids.

  “Give us a try,” the tall one taunted.

  Feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, Mickey launched his attack. The tall squaddie fell to the ground with a groan. Mickey turned to the next, and it didn’t take much to send this one tumbling into the gutter. He caught a glimpse of the third soldier’s back as he rounded a corner at a swift clip.

  Brushing the dirt off his hands, Mickey picked up the crushed hat. “Here you go, old timer,” he said to the Arab, dusting it off and doing his best to restore its shape.

  The old man snatched it away and stared Mickey hard in the eyes. Then he spat in his face and turned sharply on his heels and strode away.

  CHAPTER 16

  After three weeks at the Levis’ it was clear to Maya that the household revolved around two main activities: eating and cleaning. It started at the crack of dawn when two young servants brought fresh rolls from the bakery. Their delicious aroma never failed to beckon Maya into wakefulness. Then the smell of coffee pervaded the house. Joe called it Turkish, but Allegra called it Greek. No matter its name, it was the strongest stuff Maya had ever tasted, surpassing even French double espresso, and was guaranteed to give you a mouthful of coffee grounds.

  By the time she arrived in the kitchen to claim a cup, Allegra and Sayeda were already hard at work pressing prodigious quantities of orange, mango, and guava juice for the family’s breakfast. Joe, an early riser, would usually have returned from the fish and meat markets with his wife’s needs for the day.

  Once breakfast was over and the children were off to school and Joe to work, the serious cooking and cleaning began. Allegra spent all day in the kitchen cooking and baking, making everything from scratch—from mayonnaise to yogurt. Sayeda helped, but she’d also clean and supervise the two other servant girls, whose main responsibilities were washing and ironing. It was fortunate that help was cheap in Egypt since housework seemed to be never ending. Rugs were turned over every day and pounded by hand to extract the dust. Furniture was polished, crystal cleaned, chandeliers dusted, and floors scrubbed. The house sparkled, and Maya was introduced to a whole new standard of cleanliness.

  Maya knew to stay out of the way since her offers to help were always turned down, and she spent her days either on the rooftop or on one of the two balconies. Each had its own charms and provided respite from the heat at different times of the day.

  The north balcony opened to Hamman Street, which was perfect in the morning when the street merchants paraded under the window with their baskets balanced atop their heads. In piercing voices, they sang the praises of the fruits and vegetables they were selling, and invariably, Allegra or Sayeda called down to them. Negotiations took place at the entrance to the building, after which the bawab carried the purchases upstairs. The rear balcony faced east and was always shaded in the afternoon. It was a good, quiet place to read or think.

  After she spent the better part of the afternoon mending the last batch of uniforms Lili had brought home, Lili rewarded her with a deluxe beauty treatment, including manicure, pedicure, and haircut and set. She included, of course, the lemon treatment she had previously urged her to do. Relaxed, now Maya looked forward to a little private time on the roof where she could grab some sun. She needed time alone—a lot of it. That was the only way she could renew herself. She took deep breaths, using each one to chase away a layer of anxiety, until she could think clearly.

  She cinched the belt of her robe and had started toward the spiral staircase at the back of the house that led to the roof when she saw Erik leaning on the drawing room door for support. He seemed to be in a lot of pain. Th
e doctor in Istanbul had warned him that because of all the physical strain he’d endured, he needed to follow a tight regimen of exercise therapy or risk losing the use of his right leg altogether. The doctor had prescribed leg braces for him, but the local hospitals here wouldn’t accept a foreign prescription. With his polio flaring up, Erik refused to leave the house to be seen by a local doctor and insisted he was fine hobbling around the apartment in his current state. “Erik …” she started to say reproachfully.

  He turned, and knowing what was coming, he waved her off as he limped inside and turned on the radio.

  Maya placed a hand on her hip. What a stubborn fool. If he wanted a paralyzed leg, that would not just be his problem, it would be hers, too. His stupid pride was actually pure selfishness. She felt a wave of anger starting to swell, but quickly shut it off, deciding she was not going to let this ruin her day. She needed to bring some lightness into her life. Since that drink with the American journalist, she’d realized how much she’d been denying herself even the simplest of pleasures, like flirting, or smoking a cigarette, or having a conversation about life or politics with a stranger.

  “I’m going up to the roof for a smoke,” she proclaimed.

  “Keep it at one,” Erik admonished her.

  “You’re not my father,” she snapped, surprised at how readily she stood up to him. She bit her lower lip and headed to the stairway.

  After an instant he shouted after her, “Just make sure no one sees you in those curlers. They’ll get scared and call the police.”

  She ascended the stairs and settled into one of the rooftop chairs with the Cairo guidebook. She felt restless. They’d first expected their papers within two weeks, but now three weeks had passed, and they were told it would be a minimum of two weeks more. She’d gone off for walks around the neighborhood, but maybe she should visit Cairo after all. Her brother and father seemed to be doing fine at the Levis’ and there would be no harm in going off for a few hours.