City of the Sun (33 page)

“You are welcome to stay here,” Allegra added firmly.

There was no doubt that she meant it. Maya had clearly underestimated her.

“Can you tell us who the man on the list is?” Erik asked.

“He’s my brother,” Allegra answered flatly.

Her head gently bobbing against the window of the metro as it rattled toward Cairo, Maya kept her eyes shut, still shaken by what she had just learned, while Lili, oblivious to the danger descending on her family, rambled on about Fernando. The girl had been sulking since the ball because Fernando had neglected her and chosen to watch the fireworks with his aunts. But he’d recaptured her good graces when he called last night, whispering sweet nothings. Maya couldn’t take Lili seriously. Here she was, babbling as if she were ready to get married, yet she continued to sunbathe on the balcony in her scanty suits, enjoying the stares of the young men below. The girl was a paradox. At times she seemed superficial and frivolous, but then she would surprise Maya with her keen interest in things as esoteric as Turkish pottery and, of course, her staunch commitment to do her share for the war effort. In truth, deep down, Maya saw her as a kindred spirit who shared the same longing to be free and who had now become her partner in crime.

However, at this moment, while Lili could barely sit still from the excitement of having won her freedom for the next few hours,
Maya was despondent. She was torn as to what to do about Mickey. Any attention to her family, especially from a journalist writing about Jews, could potentially place the Levis and their other benefactors in danger if the Muslim Brotherhood caught wind of it. She wasn’t exactly sure who Mickey was talking to as he investigated his story. She sighed deeply. Should she take a chance and tell Mickey the truth? She trusted him. He would never do anything that could possibly hurt her, and if anything, he might be able to help. But what did she want from him, anyway? In two or three weeks, she and her family would be in Palestine. And then what? She shook her head, realizing how ridiculous she was to be looking so far ahead. They’d really only known one another for a few weeks, and their romance was in its infancy. Still, she was not sixteen anymore, and she knew that the feelings she had were all too rare and special to ignore. Though there was very little time, she wanted to give this a chance. She resolved to push away her worries about her circumstances and meet Mickey with as open a heart and mind as she could.

“Are you listening to me?” Lili asked, snapping her fingers in front of Maya’s face “I was asking, how far have you ever gone with a boy? Nothing below the waist, I hope,” she said with a straight face.

“Liliiii,” Maya reprimanded, embarrassed but grateful that Lili had shown enough discretion to ask her question in a low voice.

“Sorry, I was just curious.”

Maya averted her eyes. It was true that she’d never gone below the waist with any of her boyfriends, even with Jean-Jacques, who had tried a few times to bring her to his
garçonière
. But she had locked away the secret memory of that fateful night outside of Poitier when British bombers had killed the farmer’s youngest boy. The older son, a doctor in the medical corps, happened to be home after being wounded on the Eastern Front. Maya had heard
him sobbing in his room and went to comfort him. Torrents of her own tears poured out of her, for him and for the cruel tragedy that her own life had become. She hadn’t even been able to grieve for her own mother. She had held him tightly, trying to ease his pain and desperately needing to be held herself. Before she knew it, they were making love on the floor. The urgency with which their bodies had sought one another was primal and liberating, a defiant affirmation of life while the world around them crumbled. It was not the way Maya had fantasized her first sexual encounter, but she’d never regretted it.

“We’re almost there,” Lili declared, nudging Maya’s knee.

Maya looked up and saw the iconic statue, “The Reawakening of Egypt,” in front of the Ramses train station as the metro came to a stop. From here they would take a tram downtown. Outside, they were met by the blowing gusts of the khamseen and a wall of sand gummed up their eyes and chafed their skin. They valiantly pressed forward, fighting to hold their dresses down in the fierce wind, and boarded the tram, each with her own agenda. Lili jumped off first. Maya rode on a few stations farther toward Midan Ismail Pasha, Cairo’s largest square, but the conductor announced that they would have to disembark one station before that because Mustafa Nahas Pasha was giving a speech and the square was closed to traffic.

Maya didn’t know who Nahas Pasha was but realized he had to be important when she saw the size of the crowd. Close to a thousand people, mostly in traditional Arab dress, had gathered around a man in a three-piece suit who was standing on a platform in the center of the enormous square. He was too far away for her to make out his face, but he was a forceful orator, wailing passionately into a megaphone to the wild cheers of his banner-waving fans. Most of the signs people carried were in Arabic, though some were in English: “Egypt for the Egyptians.” Local police as well as soldiers
on horseback were monitoring the crowd, which included many women and children.

She nervously crossed to the other side of the esplanade and headed toward the pink stone Museum of Antiquities, relieved to be moving away from the expanding throng, which had begun to spill onto the bridge. Mobs invariably made her tense; they reminded her of the first anti-Jewish demonstration she had witnessed back in Düsseldorf. She knew they could turn violent in an instant. When she reached the museum, the gates were closed and Mickey was not there.

A gunshot rang out and she whirled. Police were wading into the crowd. She had no idea who had fired the shot. Some men shouted angry slogans at the speaker, shaking their fists. She climbed onto the rim of one of the tall flowerpots framing the museum’s gate to get a better view and watched the struggle going on in front of the speaker’s platform. More people were now involved, shouting and jostling each other to see what was happening. Suddenly, the Pasha stopped speaking and disappeared into the crowd. Another shot sounded and the mob began to panic. Troops on horseback entered the melée, firing their pistols into the air, screaming for calm. But it was too late.

Pandemonium ensued.

The mob started to disperse, but in the hysteria, women and children were knocked down and trampled. Maya watched in horror as two men pulled out knives and moved toward one of the soldiers, dragging him down from his horse. He was engulfed by the furious crowd. She heard glass breaking and saw men smashing the windows of the shops surrounding the square. The air smelled of gunpowder and she knew it was time to run. But her feet wouldn’t move. As she began to scream in fear, someone grabbed her hand and pulled her away. It was Mickey.

“Run!” he shouted.

CHAPTER 31

Mickey flashed his press badge and the security guards let them cross through the museum’s vast courtyard to the riverbank. With the smell of gunpowder in the air they raced to the corniche, but they found the road closed to traffic. A crowded British military checkpoint permitted only resident pedestrians to pass through to their homes. Mickey’s press papers got them through once again, but the MP warned him that he wouldn’t be able to move his car. The entire area had been cordoned off so that the agitators who had disrupted Nahas’s speech could be contained and arrested.

“I couldn’t tell who started firing first. Maybe it was the Egyptian soldiers,” Maya rasped, struggling for breath as Mickey held her elbow and quickly ushered her to the quieter side of the street along the river, while stranded drivers honked in frustration.

“I doubt they would do something that stupid,” Mickey said, catching his breath. “Nahas is a hero to the Egyptian people, their voice of independence. If anyone had an axe to grind against him, it would be the Brits.”

“You don’t really think the British were behind this?” she asked, slowing her pace now that they were out of harm’s way.

“I can think of a hundred reasons why they’d want the speech stopped, but I’m sure that their priority is to keep things stable right now.” He stopped and pointed north. “My
car is near the American University, but we might as well wait here until this blows over. At least we’ll be safe.”

“Hi,” she said gently, pulling his arm and making him stop. She faced him, expectantly, so drawn to him that she felt her legs buckling under her. Her attraction to him was visceral, but she noticed stubble on his chin and that his eyes were bloodshot.

“Hi,” he said, making only fleeting eye contact. “It’s nice to see you.” He gave her a peck on her lips and resumed their stroll.

What? She was confused. Not that she expected him to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately in the middle of the street, but he could certainly have been more affectionate. She tried to mask her disappointment and continued cheerfully, “Is this what you were planning for my surprise? A riot?”

He smiled a little. “I’m sorry. I wanted to change our meeting place but I did not know how to reach you.”

“No, this is fine. I like walking.”

He glanced at her and then away, his face expressionless.

“So, how long did you end up dancing with Madame Samina?” she asked after a moment, seeing that he was not volunteering to tell her where he’d planned to take her. “She is beautiful. Don’t you think?”

“She’s attractive.” He then turned and looked at her tenderly. “But she’s not even in the same league as you.”

She smiled as their eyes locked in a sweet moment, making her heart skip a beat. But again, his gaze veered away. He seemed lost in thought.

They passed under the bridge close to the square, the site of the demonstration. Gunshots and screams could still be heard, but they couldn’t see anything from down below.

He sneezed. “That damned wind.”

She tugged on one of his earlobes and then the other, and before he had a chance to ask why, she explained, “It’s to guard against the
evil eye.” She chuckled. “Haven’t you learned how superstitious Egyptian Jews are?
Hamsa
!” she teased, flashing the palm of her hand in front of his face. “Another charm against evil.”

“Is that what those hands on chains around women’s necks mean?”

“Yes,” she said. “And you must never leave a shoe upside down. That will bring bad luck as well. See all the valuable things you learn from me!”

He cracked a smile.

“How are you doing with your story? It’s been awhile, no?”

He shrugged. “It’s going. Those stories can take on a life of their own. Do you know this part of town?”

She shook her head.

“It’s a beautiful residential area called Garden City. It’s the palace district. One royal palace after the other,
Kasr
this and
Kasr
that. Each one has its own garden on the Nile. Most of the embassies are here. It used to be known as the European quarter.”

“I wish I could assemble a book of photographs of just the windows and doors here,” she said, admiring the buildings. “I love the interesting mix of ornamentation.”

They passed an intricate black iron gate with the Queen’s emblem protecting a large white Victorian house. Stone lions stood guard on either side.

“That’s the British Residency,” he said.

She peeked in. “Beautiful lawn.”

“It stretches down to the Nile. I was at a party here once.”

They walked in silence. He did not try to kiss her, nor did he compliment her on her outfit. He didn’t ask about the status of her family’s plans to leave. And worst of all, he did not say one word about what had passed between them Saturday night. He was just making small talk and cursing the sandy wind. And now that she looked at him more closely, she realized that it was not just stubble
that he had under his chin, but rather sizeable patches of beard. That was one poor job of shaving for a guy who was planning to see a girl he was supposedly crazy about. Something was wrong, very wrong.

They were back on the corniche and passed a small group of people who were sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass devouring thick slices of watermelon with white cheese and green pimentos. “Beer and watermelon taste better in Egypt than anywhere else,” he pronounced, breaking another silence between them.