Free City of the Sun by Juliana Maio

customs. We think they don’t have much … how can I say? Savoir-faire ? Manners? You should watch them eat. Even the educated ones, they will always be peasant stock. If my sister brought one home it would be as bad as marrying a gentile.”
    “But we should not generalize, should we?” Jacques said. “Come, can I offer you some tea?”
    Mickey absentmindedly nodded yes. His mind was stuck on the words “peasant stock,” which was just how Detroit’s longtime Irish residents described newer immigrants.
    No wonder there wasn’t much of a German Jewish community here: They were not very welcome. So what was Blumenthal doing here?

    Mickey spent the next few days traipsing through the refugee shelters set up by the Jewish community center on the long list Jacques Antebie had given him. He must have visited at least thirty of them. So far, nothing had panned out, and he wished he had better news to give Dorothy. He jumped out of the tram, flustered and cursing the unpredictable Cairo traffic. He was half an hour late for hismeeting with Dorothy and rushed to the Shepheard’s Hotel on the grand avenue of Ibrahim Pasha Street. He hoped she had waited for him. He quickly perused the patrons on the hotel’s renowned white wicker terrace, but Dorothy was nowhere to be seen, so he raced up the stairs to the lobby, two at a time, pushed his way through the massive oak door, and hurried into the Moorish Hall.
    Covered by an enormous colored glass dome that was supported by tall lotus pillars like those found in the ancient Egyptian temples, and adorned with imposing palm trees over white marble floors which contrasted with the rich burgundy wall panels, the Moorish hall was the heart of the hotel. Women in stylish hats conversed quietly with men in uniforms on overstuffed, quilted chairs around small octagonal wood tables. It was all so tasteful, but best of all, it was marvelously cool here. He could see why some argued that the Shepheard’s rivaled the pyramids as Cairo’s most famous landmark. The colonial den had accommodated some of the most famous names in history and many heads of state during its hundred years of existence.
    Searching for Dorothy, Mickey walked across the hall to its very end, from which swept up a magnificent staircase, flanked by tall ebony caryatids. She wasn’t there either. His gaze turned to the adjacent saloon doors of the Long Bar from which raucous laughter could be heard, but he knew the bar was off-limits to women. Straightening his rumpled bottle green blazer and smoothing his hair, he inquired at reception and was told that Miss Calley had phoned in with a message that she was running late. Perfect. He had a few minutes to collect himself and returned to the Moorish Hall.
    “This is the only table available at this time, sir,” offered the maître d’, impeccably dressed in a black suit with a white handkerchief peeking from his vest pocket. He showed him to a banquettenext to a young woman engrossed in a newspaper, her chin propped up on one hand. Without bothering to look up, she slid an inch away.
    “Sorry, miss,” Mickey said as he sat down next to her and asked the maître d’ to have the waiter bring him a Stella beer. As he spoke, the girl turned to him and stared as if surprised to find him there. Their eyes locked for a few awkward seconds. He wasn’t quite sure what color her eyes were. They could be blue, or green, or even violet, but they were light and alive, yet at the same time contemplative, almost somber. He sensed some troubling uneasiness in them.
    “Is something wrong?” he asked.
    The girl blushed slightly and shook her head before turning her attention back to her paper. He studied her for an instant. Though her hair was pulled back in a matronly bun with a few rebellious strands hanging loose, and she wore no trace of makeup except for the faint rose color on her full lips, she was a stunner. Especially appealing was the smoothness of her complexion and