Free City of the Sun by Juliana Maio Page A

her milky pale bare arms. While some men could not see beyond breasts or legs, Mickey was a skin man.
    The girl suddenly turned toward him again and gave him a cursory smile before folding the paper and fetching a book from her purse. She seemed nervous as she crossed and uncrossed her legs before opening her book.
    Mickey looked away. He had business to do and felt agitated himself. He took out the community center’s refugee shelters list and thumbed through it. It was as thick as a book and of course did not include the Red Cross, the Red Crescent, or dozens of other makeshift aid organizations that had mushroomed all over the city. Hotels, schools, synagogues, mosques, churches, retirement homes, hospitals, and even brothels had been turned into relief centers. And not just for the Jews; it seemed that all of Europe was flockinghere. All he could do was to approach the search in a systematic way, and he started marking off the places he’d visited today, scribbling notes about each while he still remembered.
    As he wrote, he noticed that the girl was sneaking sidelong glances at him. With her hands crossed over her lap and her shoulders hunched over, there was nothing in her body movements that could be construed as flirtatious. She had put down her book and was looking at the newspaper’s society section. She seemed restless.
    The waiter walked over and carefully placed Mickey’s beer on the table. “A Stella for monsieur. And you, mademoiselle? Another citron pressé? ”
    The girl sat up straight and answered in perfectly accented French. “Non, un verre de champagne, s’il vous plaît.”
    “It’s bad luck to drink champagne alone,” Mickey said. He raised his beer and took a swig directly from the bottle.
    “Cheers,” she said, raising her hand as if she were holding a glass.
    “I’m glad to see your mood has brightened,” he said. “When I first walked in and saw you reading the paper, I thought you were going to cry.”
    “It’s the war,” she said, “but since nobody around here seems to notice it, I’ve decided to forget about it too, at least for an hour.”
    There was something going on behind her pretty face. He put his pen down. “I can’t figure it out,” he said, turning toward her. “When I first arrived in Cairo, I wasn’t sure what I was witnessing. Good God! The wolf, or let’s say the Desert Fox, is practically at their door, yet they refuse to acknowledge it. They just bury their heads in the sand.” He passed his fingers through his hair to push a lock away from his eyes and extended his hand. “I’m Mickey Connolly. I’m a reporter for the Detroit Free Press .”
    “I’m Maya,” she said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you writing about the war?”
    “I was,” he said, “but like you, I’m taking a break from it. Censorship is making real reporting impossible. Not that I want to put a frown on your face, but the truth is that the situation is ten times worse than they’re letting on. Not surprising, since the High Command wouldn’t know how to fight their way out of a paper bag. But never mind, you and I are celebrating now, and everything is just dandy.” He raised his beer bottle in a toast and saw a trace of a smile at the corners of her lips.
    “A penny for your thoughts,” he offered.
    “You do look American!” she teased.
    “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
    “To America!” She raised the flute of champagne that the waiter had just brought.
    He clicked her glass with his bottle and took a generous swig while she sipped her champagne, but he caught her grimacing at the taste.
    “So … what’s the latest scandal in Cairo’s society?” He pointed to the paper.
    She laughed apologetically. “It seems that husband-hunting is every girl’s obsession right now.”
    Mickey leaned in closer and read out loud. “‘Lucette Sapriel, Denise Harari, Mimi Wissa, Yvette Zarb. These ladies have now been transformed into Mrs.