City of the Sun (27 page)

These people have never known a day of suffering, she thought. Perhaps Vati was right: The Sephardim only care about material things and good times, while the Ashkenazim are the deep thinkers and intellectuals. “Name one important Sephardic composer or mathematician,” Vati had challenged her. She could only think of Moses Maimonides, the great philosopher from the Middle Ages. But now, as she spotted Lili welcoming the guests and pointing them to their tables with the warmest of smiles on her lips, Maya had a revelation. They have grace and laughter and generosity, she would now answer, and they don’t
kvetch
! Maybe that’s what brought us Ashkenazim our troubles. Better do as the Sephardim say: “Smile to life so that life smiles back to you.”

“Please remain seated, sir,” she heard a volunteer gently reprimand an elderly gentleman as he started to rise. “The king will enter soon. Then we will all rise at the same time.”

Where was Mickey? Maya wondered, her stomach a ball of nerves. Most people were now in their seats, and just a few latecomers were trickling in. Could there be another man named Mickey Connolly? What were the chances of that? She kept her eyes on his table, where his seat remained empty. But so was Madame Cattaoui’s. Perhaps the two were upstairs chatting?

Suddenly a pair of hands folded over her eyes from behind, startling her.

“Guess who?” the voice asked.

She twirled around, a surge of joy sweeping through her. It was him. He looked so dapper in his tuxedo that she barely recognized him. She instinctively moved forward to greet him with a kiss as she would a friend, but stopped. There was more than friendship there; a kiss even on the cheek would be loaded with sensations as their skin brushed. They both shifted awkwardly on their feet, grinning. He made the first move, taking one of her hands as he stepped away to better admire her. He shook his head.

“You’re a flower,” he finally said. “Your cousin told me you wrote the menus for the dinner.”

“And the seating cards,” she added.

He let go of her hand and crossed his arms, frowning. “Then I should be angry with you,” he said. “You knew all this time I was here, and you didn’t even try to find me. How come?”

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.