City of the Sun (19 page)

Erik stared at her, stone-faced for a moment before continuing, “Last year’s bombing of two synagogues, killing three and seriously injuring fifteen, and the looting of Jewish stores on Kasr el-Nil—”

“Joe never told us about that,” Maya interrupted. “He just said a few bombs had been placed in Jewish homes.”

“Egyptian police and British infantry troops have committed to placing additional security at the gates of Haret el Yahud, the Jewish quarter, to guard against a repeat of last year’s violence by youths demonstrating against Jewish immigration to Palestine,” Erik went on.

He was reading excruciatingly slowly, and Maya grabbed the paper from him. She didn’t have all day. “Let me see this.” She scanned the rest of the article, which went on to explain how the 1917 Balfour Declaration was a sore point for both the Jews and the Arabs. The Jews felt that the British had gone back on their promise of allowing a Jewish homeland in Palestine, and the Arabs had immediately denounced it as invalid.

“Read out loud,” Vati suddenly demanded, turning around.

Maya froze at the sight of her father. It wasn’t just the prayer
tallis
that he wore over his shoulders, but now, like the orthodox Jews, he’d wrapped the long leather straps of a
tephilim
around his arm and head and positioned its little black box on his forehead. Only loosely observant, he must be feeling so desperate now to dive into religion this way.

“Go on,” Vati grumbled.

Maya pressed her lips together, trying to smile, camouflaging her shock, and with a soft voice started to read:

The Brotherhood, which was begun in 1928 by Hassan al-Banna, then a young teacher, has developed into a political force with five hundred branches in Egypt and a growing network in neighboring Arab countries. Its membership is estimated at half a million, with an equal number of sympathizers.

She looked up. With the wave of his hand, Vati urged her to go on. “Their popularity is not only due to Egyptian nationalism, but to the medical clinics and the social and educational programs they run.”

“A small group of fanatics!” Erik snorted, recalling Joe’s dismissal of the group. He sat up and started to rise.

“Not so fast,” she warned, rushing toward him. But it was too late. Erik had already twisted his foot, his leg too weak to withstand the pressure of his weight. Thankfully, he fell back on the bed before anything worse happened.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and use the crutches Joe gave you?” Maya reprimanded. “And keep them close to your bed.” She walked to the corner and handed him an old set Joe had once used when he broke his foot. Erik shrugged.

“I want to know why Mr. Levi played down the truth about these extremists,” Vati stated.

“And why it’s taking so damned long to get our papers,” Erik added.

Maya looked at Erik. He had aged five years in the last five weeks. The uncertainty and delay were taking their toll on him. “Just think how much you will miss Allegra’s cooking!” Maya said lightly, trying to cheer him up.

“Aren’t you supposed to go to the city today?” Vati asked Maya.

“And it’s getting late,” Maya said.

“Go, go,” Erik said. “Enjoy.”

She blew Erik a kiss and wrapped her arms around her father. “I’ll bring you back some chocolate truffles.”

She hurried down the corridor and locked herself in the bathroom. She hastily applied some of her new red lipstick, but in her rush to add mascara to her lashes, she poked herself in the eye. Now it was tearing up, and her black eyeliner was running. Calm down, Maya. Get a grip on yourself. She cleaned her face and straightened the black sleeveless turtleneck she wore over her gray skirt, hoping that the American wouldn’t notice she’d worn this same outfit when she’d first met him, though today she’d added a belt for panache. As Mutter used to say, “A well-chosen scarf, belt, or brooch turns drab into dazzling.” It was all in the accessories. She thought about adding Mutter’s hairpin, the only talisman she still retained, but dismissed it since this would mean returning to the bedroom and being questioned by Lili about why she was wearing makeup.

She examined herself one more time in the mirror, surprised that she cared so much, and was about to exit when she heard Allegra softly singing as she passed by. Allegra’s repertoire consisted mainly of Ladino songs whose lyrics were recipes for Sephardic dishes. This was how recipes were passed down from generation to generation. Maya had been taken by surprise once when what she had assumed to be a love song turned out to be a recipe for eggplants.

All was quiet now, and Maya stuck her head into the hallway. No one. She tiptoed toward the front door and heard Joe’s voice coming from the living room. She froze. She didn’t want to risk facing him either. What if he offered to drive her to the museum?

She liked Joe and he’d been nothing but hospitable, but he had
not expected to shelter her family for so long, and Erik and Vati were not the easiest of guests. His four boys were crammed into one bedroom and were always quarreling. The Levis must be getting weary of them, especially with Allegra’s pregnancy, and probably feeling resentful about not being able to invite friends and family over to the house. Joe seemed very concerned about attracting unwanted attention. He’d coached Maya ad nauseam about the ways of life in Syria in the event a nosy neighbor questioned her. As for Allegra, she was usually aloof and as tightly wound as a coiled spring. But there were occasional bursts of kindness, like this morning when she’d surprised Erik at breakfast with blintzes.

Maya took a deep breath and didn’t let it out until she reached the landing, carefully closing the front door behind her. Freedom! She raced down the stairwell, but had barely reached the ground floor when she heard Lili calling after her.

“Maaaaya, wait up!”

Maya squeezed her eyes shut. Now what?

“My dress is ready,” Lili exclaimed, breathless when she caught up to her after flying down the stairs. “You must come with me to pick it up at the tailor’s. My parents won’t let me go downtown alone, and they’re both busy.”

“I’m on my way to the museum,” Maya said firmly, peeved at Lili’s demanding tone. “We have to do it another time,” she added.

Lili was stunned that her request was being denied. Her face metamorphosed into that of a spoiled child, her lower lip turned down. “Please, pleeease,” she begged. “It can’t wait. I must find a shawl for my dress.” And then, eyes lowered, she confessed in a whisper: “I just found out that Fernando will be at the B’nai B’rith ball. I have to look perfect. What if I can’t find a wrap I like?”

Maya was nonplussed. Lili was such a child. There were still another ten days before the big fund-raiser soirée on King Farouk’s yacht, plenty of time to find the “perfect” shawl for Lili’s “perfect”
dress. The girl had to learn to accept “no.” Maya looked her squarely in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Lili, but not today.”

Lili didn’t say anything and cracked her knuckles. Then slowly opening her mouth, she pronounced in all innocence, “This time you should wear a
fichu
. The wind will mess up your hairdo.”

Maya’s resolve began to melt. She was unable to suppress a smile. These Egyptian Jews had the most quaintly endearing way of speaking. Though their French was impeccable, they used so many archaic words that she sometimes hardly understood them. “Around our neck and on our head we wear not a fichu, but a
foulard
(a scarf),” she corrected Lili once again.

“I know,” Lili replied with a sad smile. “And I shouldn’t keep pronouncing my Hs. I keep forgetting H is silent in French. It’s ve
r
y difficult
r
emembe
r
ing it all.”

Here she was trilling her Rs, like the locals did in their flowery, singsong accent! Maya’s resolve continued to melt. Lili could be so annoying, but she was certainly well meaning. Maybe there was time to both go shopping and meet with the American.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asked.

It turned out to be a good thing that Lili was accompanying her on her foray into the city. The metro to the Ghamra station was a forty-minute ride, after which they had to take a tram, changing twice before arriving at Midan Soliman Pasha, the heart of the shopping district. Maya would never have found it by herself. After leaving Heliopolis, camels and donkeys had gradually given way to fancy cars, and cotton galabeyas had yielded to linen suits as they passed through the last of the Arab neighborhoods and arrived in the center of town.

“The museum is just ten minutes away, off Midan Ismail Pasha,
the largest square in Cairo,” Lili said as she fought her way through the mostly western crowd.

Except for the
épicerie
and the flower shop in Heliopolis that had closed up in the aftermath of Tobruk, it seemed that people had taken again to the streets in droves. Lili, eager to prove her gratitude, pointed out various landmarks on their way, taking seriously her role as guide. She showed off the colossal stone statue “The Reawakening of Egypt,” which the Egyptian people were very proud of, and which Maya had noticed outside the train station when she first arrived. Lili then gushed about the Ezbekieh Gardens, behind the Shepheard’s Hotel, where every year she and her brothers celebrated the Jewish holiday of Purim in masks and costumes. The opera house came next, and she explained that it was modeled on La Scala and built by an Italian architect, like many of the buildings here. Finally, the tour wound up in Ataba Square, Cairo’s main commercial venue, which was home to the city’s central food market, post office, and fire station, as well as the Sednaoui department store. Lili said that she personally preferred to shop at Shemla or Cicurel, where they were headed next. Maya drank it all in.

Maya had never studied architecture, but she knew the difference between the Italian Renaissance buildings with their arches, domes and classical columns, and the French Baroque style with wrought iron balconies, richly sculpted surfaces and strong curves. And then there were the unmistakable art deco buildings, with their flat rooftops and etched glass windows and doors. Added to this eclectic mélange were structures with strong Islamic elements. But one thing they all had in common was an abundance of ornamentation, whether it was Egyptian motifs such as lotus flowers, palm leaves and scarabs, or European ones, like medallions, angels, and garlands. There wasn’t a single door, window, or façade that didn’t have one form of embellishment or another.

Maya turned and smiled at Lili. She liked it here. “I can’t believe
I’m just seeing this now,” she said, eyeing the arcaded boutiques along the streets, which reminded her of the Rue de Rivoli in Paris. And what of the open-air terraced café across the avenue? With its small round tables and green wicker chairs, it reminded her so much of the bistro where Jean-Jacques had kissed her for the first time. She still reddened at the thought of their brazen public kiss. A far cry from her first kiss at sixteen, when she’d insisted her boyfriend put a handkerchief between their lips.

“Groppi’s is across the square,” Lili said, linking her arm with Maya’s. “Come, my tailor is on the other side, just down the avenue.”

Made of shiny black satin with a thick, mustard yellow beaded trim that followed the plunging V of the décolleté, Lili’s dress for the B’nai B’rith ball was truly beautiful, and she looked ravishing in it. However, since finding a matching yellow wrap proved impossible and Lili rejected every black shawl they saw as boring, she settled on a red bolero, which she would wear with a red flower in her hair. At the time of payment, she surprised Maya with a gift—a magnificent, shimmering aqua scarf of sublime softness that she’d seen Maya admire. She’d insisted on underlining Maya’s eyes with black kohl. This way her eyes were alive like never before, attracting everyone’s attention because their hue took on every one of the shawl’s blue and green shades, depending on the light.

“Wait,” Maya said as they approached Groppi’s red-and-green awning as the clock tower across the plaza rang three o’clock. She had tried wearing her new scarf around her neck, but her outfit was so dull that she decided instead to tie it around her waist as a belt, letting it drape over her hips. “What do you think?” she asked, suddenly feeling very nervous. “I need a new skirt.”

“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.