City of the Sun by Juliana Maio

Jews are forced to live under the same rules, and they have heavy financial penalties. In Morocco, the German army has turned synagogues into military storerooms. Why don’t you write about that?”
    He was taken aback by the look she gave him. “I’m really focusing on the Jews of Egypt, and—”
    “But you just made a casual generalization about the Jews in North Africa that was entirely incorrect,” she interrupted again. “You can’t say such things in your article.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound glib, but the focus of my article is how the Jews here, in Egypt, are thriving. They’ve become an integral part of the infrastructure of this country. The government would never hand them over to the Germans like the other countries did.”
    “That’s your American optimism,” she said, straightening her posture. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve got to run. I’m sorry to have been so adamant. It’s just that so little of this is covered by the press, and you in particular are in a position to …”
    She didn’t need to finish her sentence for Mickey to guess the rest of her thought. She didn’t expect he’d do much to help.
    She bent down to pick up her purse, but stood up abruptly, putting a hand to her head, her body swaying as if she were about to fall.
    He grabbed her elbow. “Here. I have you.”
    “I’m just not used to drinking. I’ll be fine.”
    “Sometimes it doesn’t take much. I’ll walk you out.” Without giving her the chance to protest, he slipped his arm around her waist. “Where to?”
    “The lift,” she whispered.
    As they approached the elevator in the lobby, the doors opened and a man greeted the girl as he stepped out. “Mademoiselle Levi! Your uncle is looking for you.”
    “Have a good evening,” he said just before the doors closed.
    She raised her hand and waved.



CHAPTER 8
    Mickey hurried back to the Moorish Hall, feeling stupid for shooting his mouth off, but at least he knew the girl’s name, Mademoiselle Maya Levi—a Jewish name. He wondered what her story was. She seemed to have liked him at first. He wished they could have talked more.
    He strode into the cocktail lounge and scanned the room for Dorothy, but didn’t see her. He suddenly realized he’d forgotten the refugee shelters list and rushed back to his table. Luckily, it was still there. It would have been a disaster had he lost it. He slipped the notebook into his jacket pocket and downed the rest of his champagne. As he did, he noticed a thin book peeking out from under the girl’s newspaper on the banquette and picked it up. Le Mur (The Wall) by Jean-Paul Sartre. Hmm … in addition to being a knockout, she was smart. He shoved the book into his pocket, happy to have found an excuse to get in touch with her again.
    Slowly, the sound of fingernails clicking persistently on glass drew his attention. It was Dorothy, sitting in a nearby alcove, nursing a martini and daintily smoking a cigarette, a bowl of pistachio shells in front of her. She waved at him, her lips pursed.
    “You’re late,” she reprimanded as he approached her. “Even later than me. I hate waiting for a man.”
    “Sorry,” Mickey said, letting out a sigh as he sat down. “Iwas actually here early, but I had to help a young lady who wasn’t feeling well.”
    “I bet you did,” she replied, her tone friendlier. “Got a girl back home, slugger?”
    Mickey pulled his chair closer to the table and shook his head. “Used to.”
    “You hold out for the right one. There should be a law against marriage before thirty. Take it from me,” she said. Then, after looking him up and down, she exclaimed, “You look awful. Stop at Antoine’s and get fitted for some new clothes. We’ll pick up the tab. We can’t have you running around looking like that.”
    He snapped his fingers to attract a passing waiter’s attention and gave Dorothy a quick rundown of his last few days searching the city’s