City of the Sun Page 14

  “No offense, but you need new everything,” Lili said. Then, untying the scarf, she wrapped it back around Maya’s neck. “Show off your eyes, will you!”

  On the glass double doors of the eatery was a notice warning customers that the shop would be closed on November 2, the anniversary of the Balfour Declaration. Maya felt a chill run down her spine as she read it. Maybe this was a sign she shouldn’t be meeting with the American. What was she thinking? But, sensing Maya’s hesitancy, Lili took her arm firmly and dragged her inside.

  The place was abuzz with soldiers and civilians, their jolly voices bouncing off the high-domed establishment. Some waited to be seated, while others ordered French pastries that were displayed behind the immaculate glass étagères. Maya felt mildly scandalized by the insouciance of the patrons. Hadn’t the Eighth Army just lost an important stronghold? She broke free of Lili and started marching out.

  “Mon Dieu, you really are impossible.” Lili grabbed her and pinched her arm.

  “What are you going to do while I have coffee with him?” Maya asked.

  “Hide in the bathroom.” Lili kissed her on the cheek and then, taunting her, singsonged, “Destiny!”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Can’t talk. I’ve got something to do for Kirk,” Dorothy said hurriedly as she grabbed Mickey’s hand and pulled him in from the back door to the ambassador’s office. “We just received the Daniel Sieff Institute’s curriculum via diplomatic pouch from Tel Aviv.” She handed him the booklet and started striding toward her office.

  When she reached her office door she paused and, with her hand on the doorknob, began to quickly brief him. “Donovan is tracking down the other scientists in Blumenthal’s field who left Germany. I’ve checked up on Bose, the Indian. He’s working for the engineering department of the East India Railway and is no longer teaching, so it’s doubtful that Blumenthal is headed to India. I’ve contacted the Anglo American Hospital here, but no one treats polio. However, I did find someone at the Israelite Hospital named Dr. Ben Simon, who specializes in the disease, but I can’t pin him down for an appointment. You’ll have to wear some nice cologne and be charming to his secretary. That’s it for now.” She squinted for a second and studied his face. “Your eye is looking better, Connolly. You’re almost pretty again.”

  “I’ve been putting some kind of magical Arab concoction on it,” he said. “Can we go inside and talk instead of doing this on the fly? I’ve got some news of my own.”

  She cocked her head and sighed. “Spit it out, Connolly, I’m a busy girl,” she said as she opened the door a crack.

  “Erik Blumenthal is here in Cairo,” he announced. “I found out through the Israelite Hospital; Dr. Ben Simon’s office, no less.” He tried to sound casual, but he couldn’t control the self-congratulatory grin that spread across his face. “Some gentleman tried to obtain leg braces for a friend of his with a prescription for custom fitting from Istanbul. The friend’s name was Erik with an Ashkenazi last name. The nurse remembered the Erik part because she’d never seen Erik spelled with a K. Anyhow, it’s policy not to honor a foreign prescription. Fingers crossed, the real Erik will eventually show up. She knows how to contact me.” Mickey was pretty pleased with himself to have dug this one up.

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” She opened the door to her office wide and shoved him inside.

  Mickey was still rubbing off the lipstick from the kiss that Dorothy had planted on his cheek when he floated into Groppi’s at three-thirty, right on time for his date with Maya. He had confirmed that Blumenthal was in Cairo, but he hadn’t actually gotten any closer to finding the man. With forty thousand new refugees having fled here from Alexandria since the fall of Tobruk, and with emergency trains running round the clock, the task had grown even more daunting. Life had been much simpler when he was just a reporter, even though reporting on the war had become more and more like taking dictation from the British PR team.

  He found Groppi’s much too crowded for his liking, and his ears throbbed from the shrill cacophony of laughter mixed with the sharp clinking of teacups, forks, and knives. How would they ever be able to make conversation amid this din? He had tried to suggest a more intimate setting for their rendezvous, but Maya had insisted they choose a place that was easy to find, casual, and very public, though for some reason she’d nixed the Shepheard’s flat-out.

  Frustrated at being unable to find the hostess, Mickey started wandering around the main room haunted by a nagging feeling that the girl was not going to show up. She had called him three times to push back the date and was never able to commit to an exact meeting time. Her calls had come at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning, and she could never talk for more than a minute. But her voice had a lovely, velvety quality to it and it lingered in his mind. She’d teased him for being asleep while she’d been up for hours, making loaves of bread and cakes for her family, which she was going to take to the neighborhood baker’s oven for baking. She’d promised to bring him a sample. She sounded pressed, and though her tone was light, he felt the lightness was somewhat forced. The girl intrigued him, and he’d been looking forward to seeing her all week. Should he have tried sending flowers or chocolate via her uncle? Just as he was giving up hope the girl would show up, he reached the garden patio in the back—and there she was.

  Hunched over a newspaper, her elbow on the table, holding her chin in the palm of one hand while twirling a lock of hair with the other, she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered, despite the fact that she was frowning. She sat with one leg entwined around her ankle, her foot shaking as if beating to some unheard music. An empty cup and plate sat on the round, white cast iron table in front of her, along with a tall glass of water. Behind her, goblets were neatly lined up on mirrored shelves next to a fountain. She looked like … a flower was the first word that came to his mind. This would make a beautiful picture, he thought, and he raised his hands to his eyes as if he were holding a camera and made a clicking sound.

  She looked up and smiled.

  An unruly curl fell across her forehead, and he felt his knees buckle. Forget Rita Hayworth. The most beautiful girl he’d ever seen was right here in Cairo.

  He moved closer, hands in his pockets, terribly self-conscious about walking like a gentleman in his new beige linen suit. He wracked his mind for a clever greeting line and came up with “Hi.”

  “Hello,” she replied, seeming pleased to see him. “I’ve been here since three. I wasn’t sure what time I’d said.”

  “What’s in the news?” he asked, taking a seat across from her and indicating her paper. “More fancy weddings?”

  “The Germans are laying siege to Leningrad,” she said. “They’ve taken both Peter the Great’s and Catherine’s palaces.”

  “I know. It seems there’s no stopping the Hun,” he said, staring into her eyes as he took the paper from her hands. “Can we forget the news for now? I’m glad to see you.”

  Unlike the first time he met her, her eyes today were heavily circled in black and appeared to be dancing in her face. Her lips were drenched in an alluring red, and once again her bare arms grabbed his attention. Bits of glistening skin revealed themselves as her shawl hung down off her shoulder, exciting his imagination.

  “Nice suit,” she commented. “I had given up on you as a dresser.”

  “I’m a man of many layers and surprises,” he grinned. “So … you’ve let on that you’re a baker. Are you any good?”

  She laughed. “Very good! I was going to make a cake with figs and walnuts today, but one of my little sisters beat me to it. It wasn’t ready or I would have brought you a piece.” She shrugged and flipped her hair back. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Oh, some stupid fight I got into, trying to salvage a bit of dignity for an ungrateful Arab. It was four or five o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What happened?” she pressed.

  He told her about th
e incident with the drunken Tommies and how he’d been spat on by the Arab after recovering his hat. “I guess all Westerners are the same to them.”

  “What were you doing out at that time in that part of town?”

  “I was on my way home.”

  “From where?”

  “Aren’t we curious?” He shifted in his seat.

  “I told you I am.” She leaned over the table and smiled expectantly. “Tell me.”

  “A party, if you must know.”

  “A party with a girl?” she grinned devilishly. “Why would you have been so disoriented otherwise?”

  “You really are curious.” He was feeling hot, and he loosened his tie.

  “You said you like that about me.” She batted her eyes, enjoying having him cornered. “So, was it with a girl? It doesn’t matter to me, but I think it’d give your story a poetic dimension. Feeling all soft and cozy from his night with a girl, the ace reporter bravely faced the unknown to battle for justice!” she said theatrically.

  “Please!” He laughed nervously, feeling himself reddening.

  “Tell me,” she said again.

  “I was with a friend.”

  “A friend who is a girl?”

  “Yeah, but not a girlfriend.”

  Her smile disappeared and she sat up straight in her chair. She’d trapped him.

  “I knew it!” she declared, summoning a brave smile. “You were with a girl.”

  “It was nothing. I barely knew her. Don’t be upset.”

  “Who says I’m upset? You don’t owe me any explanation. You’re a free agent. I’m just disappointed. I don’t like a man flirting with me when he’s already involved with someone else. I don’t have time for games.”

  “I told you it was nothing.”

  He could see the wheels in her head turning as she studied him for a while.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come,” she finally said, her face crumbling, pained and vulnerable. “My family doesn’t even know where I am. Thank you for returning my book. I was very angry with myself when I thought I had lost it.” She started to rise, but he reached for her forearm.

  “Please,” he said, “just stay for coffee. I don’t like games either. Honestly, I am not involved with anyone.” She remained still, just staring at him. “I know you think I like to play the field, but I don’t. I had a steady girlfriend for three years until six months ago.”

  “What happened?” she asked, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but still not budging.

  “She dumped me,” he admitted and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said, shaking her head. “I’ve developed the reflex to run at the first sign of trouble. I have to learn to control that.” She relaxed back into her seat. “What did you think of the book?”

  “I enjoyed it, though ‘enjoyed’ may not be the right word,” he said.

  “You did not like the character of Pablo?”

  “I thought he was smug, and he was pretty nasty to his cellmates. You like him?”

  “I’m ambivalent, though I admire his bravery in the face of death.”

  “I’m sure Jean-Jacques has a very highbrow opinion on this,” he scoffed, greatly exaggerating the French pronunciation of the name with the intonation of a jealous lover, which made her smile. “You know, it’s a classic ploy for a man to give a girl a philosophy book to win her affection. I hope you didn’t fall for that.”

  “And what if I did?”

  “Did you? No games now!”

  She smiled. Touché! “It’s in the past. I was young and impressionable. I’m seeing things very differently now.”

  “Well in my case, I was a fool and not that young. But I really don’t give a damn about her now.” He immediately bit his lip, realizing how bitter he must sound.

  “Breaking up hurts, even if it’s the right thing to do,” she said, looking him in the eye, expectantly.

  He did not look away. What the hell! We said no games, he reminded himself.

  “She ran off with her ex-boyfriend,” he blurted out, “a month before our wedding.” There it was. He felt naked and foolish for exposing himself that way.

  “Monsieur-dame,” the waiter interrupted, “what can I bring you?”

  She ordered a millefeuille, but he wasn’t in the mood for dessert. All he wanted at this point was to get out of there, having embarrassed himself and ruined his chances with the girl. “I don’t know …”

  “A millefeuille also for monsieur,” she told the waiter. “It’s a napoleon. They’re my favorite.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, smiling warmly. “So tell me about America.”

  “Well … it’s big. It’s protected by two oceans …” he started to joke.

  “C’mon,” she said, taking her hand away and letting her shawl slide down her arms. “Let’s start over … I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Me too” he said. “I thought about you all week. Tell me more about yourself, besides your talent as a baker.”

  “And cook,” she added with a little smile.

  “Syrian dishes?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “It’s easy. We just smother everything in apricots—mesh mesh.”

  “And you’re a refugee here?”

  She lowered her eyes and nodded.

  “I’m sorry about my ignorance the other day. I’ve been studying up. Apparently, a couple months ago fourteen hundred Syrian Jews were escorted to the Palestine border, only to be turned away by the British. Many of them were killed in the conflict.” He shook his head. “Unbelievable … having to flee their homeland like that. I can’t imagine what they’d even take with them.”

  “Very little,” she said. “Important papers, a few photos, a small suitcase, some food, and lots of prayers. Embroidered linens and the family china become very insignificant.”

  “I don’t doubt that. What about you? Are you planning to settle here in Egypt?”

  “I’m not sure what my family is going to do at this point.”

  “Of course. It’s all so uncertain, for everybody. Are you staying with your uncle in Heliopolis?”

  “No,” she protested. “And how do you know he lives in Heliopolis?”

  “Ace reporter!” He thumbed toward himself. “I’m guilty of curiosity.”

  “Please, don’t bother my uncle again,” she said. “We’re staying with some cousins. And I really don’t like to discuss my situation here in Egypt. I was hoping that this would be …” She shrugged. “How is your article coming?”

  “Promising,” he said, respecting her wish to change the subject. “But I’m still not sure what the best angle is. I’m finding that Egyptian Jews are extremely generous people, and they seem comfortably assimilated, but below the surface there is a lot of fear, and not just about the Germans invading. They’re very careful not to rock the boat and jeopardize their position here.”

  She leaned in closer. “What do you know about the Muslim Brotherhood? Do you think they represent a real threat to the Jews here?”

  “Under the present climate? Absolutely. But their problem with the Jews is really a political one, nothing like in Europe.”

  “My uncle says that the Brotherhood hates the English.”

  “True, and they’re a thorn in the Brits’ side. Their guerrilla tactics are very hard to defend against, but the organization is extremely dependent on its leader and the British are pulling out all the stops to make sure that he is recaptured.”

  She sat back and frowned, ruminating for a moment before asking, “Who actually runs this place, the Egyptians or the British?”

  “Officially, the English have nothing to do with the government, but in reality they run the country,” he said, noting the intensity of her gaze as she listened carefully. “There is a parliament and a king, but they fight all the time, and the Egyptian Constitution doesn’t have checks and balances, so the English are the arbitrators.”

  “I guess better the British than these Nazi p
uppets, the Vichy French, who run Syria,” she said, accepting Mickey’s offer of a cigarette. “My brother hates to see me smoke.” She grimaced. “What kind of name is Connolly, anyway?”

  “Irish. My family is from the south of Ireland.”

  “Catholic, then?”

  “Is that a problem?” He looked into her eyes.

  “Why should it be?” Her gaze veered away.

  “I don’t know … In America the Jews don’t mix much with—”

  “Gentiles?” It was she who sought his eyes this time. “I didn’t know gentiles wanted to mix with Jews.”

  “That all depends.” He made light of it. “When I was a kid I carefully avoided some of the tough Jewish neighborhoods! Ever heard of the Purple Gang?”

  She shook her head and puffed on her cigarette, and he realized she wasn’t inhaling. “I only heard about the Chicago gangs from my roommate who was from there. I went to boarding school in Switzerland,” she told him. “Chicaaago, as she would say.” She laughed.

  The sight of her face lighting up made him smile.

  “Do you really think Americans in Detroit will care about the Jews in your article?” she asked. “I’ve read about Father Coughlin and his anti-Semitic radio broadcasts.”

  “The world is full of bigots, but I believe a good story will sell, even one about Jews. But back to you for a moment. How come you went to boarding school? In America only the very rich can afford that. Do many girls in Syria do that?”

  “I love my parents, but they are real snobs.” She looked away and seemed to be reflecting on what she’d said.

  He took the opportunity to stare at her shamelessly, drinking in every feature, from the small scar on her temple to the fine blond fuzz gracing her cheeks. He watched her nostrils delicately flare as she breathed. Yes, a flower, that’s what she was. He wished he could kiss her.

  “Maya,” he said, wanting to reach for her hand, but afraid that would scare her away. “It’s a very pretty name. Did you know it means ‘illusion’ in Hindi?”