City of Gold

by Len Deighton

  She heard the street cleaners calling, and the back door of the kitchen slammed, as they dragged the sacks of rubbish outside. Traffic was moving. She didn’t open the curtains. She knew that by now the brawny woman across the street would be hanging washing on a clothesline on the roof. She was Italian. Egyptians always laid their washing flat to dry in the sun.

  She looked again at her reflection. Everything mother warned her about had come true, or almost everything. Had her mother still been alive, Peggy would have written her a letter to confirm those old fears of hers. Her mother had always got some grim satisfaction from having her apocalyptic predictions come true. Her mother had said that Egypt was no place to have a baby. As unreasonable and irrational as it so obviously was, Peggy had never been able to forgive her mother for that letter. Had the baby lived, everything might have gone differently. Karl loved children. He might have got another job that didn’t involve endless travelling.

  Peggy combed her hair more carefully and put clips into it. She wasn’t yet thirty and she was still very attractive. What was there to worry about?

  6

  Peggy’s fears, about taking Alice Stanhope to the Base Hospital, and getting her a job there, abated soon after they arrived the next morning. Alice Stanhope made every possible effort to fit in. The senior surgeon, Colonel Hochleitner, who had been landed with the administration problems, had been in Cairo since before the war. He greeted Alice warmly, and liked her, and that was all that really mattered. When Alice was taken into his private office she looked at the chaos of paperwork – and the piles of scribbled notes that had almost buried the typewriter – with that same placid look with which she greeted everything except Corporal Cutler, took off her cardigan, and sat down at the desk. She didn’t even complain about that ancient Adler typewriter, which clattered like a steam engine. She was not the fastest typist in the world, but she could spell long words – even some medical words and Latin – without consulting a dictionary, and the typed result was clean and legible.

  ‘Now perhaps the doctors in this bloody hospital can spend more time on the wards, and less time ploughing through War Office paperwork,’ said ‘the Hoch’ approvingly.

  Peggy was pleased, but her pleasure didn’t last long. It was soon inspection time. She hated to walk through ward after ward that had been emptied in expectation of new casualties. The empty beds, their sheets and pillows crisply starched and their blankets boxed expertly, were exactly like the lines of fresh graves and the white headstones under which so many of the casualties ultimately ended their journeys from the battlefront.

  She looked at her watch. There was not much time to get ready; then it would be like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The floor of the operating theatres slippery with blood and the mortuary crammed. Tank crewmen burned, mine-clearing sappers with missing legs, and all those dreadful ‘multiple wounds’, soldiers maimed by shell fragments and mortar fire. Gunshot wounds were less common this far back; those men died before getting here.

  She nodded her approval and signed the book. She would check the operating theatres, make her usual rounds, and then sit down for a moment before the new arrivals. Lost in her thoughts, Peggy went striding along and did not notice the nurse until she almost blundered into her.

  ‘Nurse Borrows, what are you –?’

  ‘Sister West. Ogburn, the boy with the leg wound, died in the night.’

  Peggy looked at her. The tears were welling in her eyes. She had kept it bottled up. But now that Peggy had arrived she’d said it, and, having said the terrible words, she lost control. ‘Pull yourself together, nurse.’

  ‘He was fine yesterday at doctor’s rounds: pulse, heart, temperature normal. And he was laughing at something on the wireless –’

  ‘How many times have I told you not to write letters for them?’

  ‘Just the one letter for his mother.’ Her name was Borrows; her screen-struck parents had named her Theda after some exotic Hollywood star. But there was nothing exotic about Nurse Borrows right now. Her eyes were reddened, and so was her nose, which she kept wiping on a tiny handkerchief.

  ‘We have visitors to do that for them. Visitors talk to them, help them with jigsaw puzzles, and sort out their problems.’

  ‘I didn’t neglect my duties, sister. It was my own time. He wanted me to write it. He said he liked my handwriting.’ Nurse Borrows was a plain mousy little thing but, like so many of the other nurses in this town, where European women were as rare as gold, she had suddenly become Florence Nightingale.

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ Peggy didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Haven’t you seen men die before? My God, we’ve lost enough of them in the past week.’

  ‘He was just a boy.’

  ‘You’re a nurse,’ said Peggy more gently this time. ‘Don’t you know what a nurse is?’

  ‘I thought I did.’

  ‘You’re not a woman; you’re not a man. You’re not a soldier, and you’re not a civilian. You’re not a layman, and you’re not a doctor. You’re not a sweetheart, or a mother; you are a nurse. That’s something special. These men believe in us. They think we can make them well … Yes, I know that’s stupid, but that’s what patients like to believe, and we can’t prevent them.’

  ‘He was from Lancashire, not far from me.’

  ‘Listen to me, nurse. These patients are not from anywhere. As soon as you start thinking about them like that, this job will tear your heart out. They’re patients, just patients. They are just wounds and amputations and sickness; that’s all they are.’

  ‘He was shot trying to stop the German tanks. They put him in for a medal.’

  It was as if she wasn’t listening to anything she was told. Angrily Peggy said, ‘I don’t care if he was being treated for an advanced case of syphilis, he’s a patient. Just a patient. Now get that through your silly little head.’

  ‘I loved him.’

  ‘Then you are a stupid girl and an incompetent nurse.’

  The young woman’s head jerked up and her eyes blazed. ‘That’s right, sister. I’m a foolish nurse. I care for my patients. I finish each shift sobbing for them all. But you wouldn’t understand anything of that. You are an efficient nurse. You never sob. Men don’t interest you, we all know that, but some of us are weak. Some of us are women.’ Peggy had got her attention, all right, but only at the price of wounding her.

  ‘I am trying to help you,’ Peggy said.

  The nurse had used up all her emotions, and for a moment she was spent. She said, ‘Don’t you ever see them as men who have given everything for us? Don’t you ever want to kiss them, and hold them, and tell them that they are glorious?’

  ‘Sometimes I do,’ said Peggy. The admission came to her lips as if she were speaking to herself. She was surprised to hear herself say it, but it was the truth.

  Nurse Borrows sniffed loudly and made a superhuman attempt to pull herself together. She stood upright, like a soldier on parade. ‘I’m sorry, sister. I didn’t mean what I said.’

  ‘Why don’t you take an hour off? Doze for a moment or have a shower. There is nothing to do here until the ambulance convoy arrives.’

  ‘I just got so tense that I couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘We all get like that sometimes,’ said Peggy. She looked around to be sure there were no other weeping nurses. It was not an unusual event. There were many deaths when the casualties were coming fresh from the battlefield. Many arrived here before the shock had taken its full effect, and the arduous journey shortened the life of many serious cases. Most of the army nurses were too young for this sort of job, but there was such a shortage of nursing staff that none of them could be assigned to other duties. That was why the army had added civilians like the Hoch, Peggy, and Alice to the hospital staff.

  She went downstairs and across the courtyard to see how Alice was getting on in Administration.

  ‘All right?’

  Alice looked up and smiled grimly. ‘Someone b
rought me tea. I assume that’s a mark of approval.’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Peggy.

  ‘And Blanche has been very helpful.’

  ‘Good,’ said Peggy.

  Alice Stanhope did not stop working, but she looked up for a moment to compare Peggy with the AID TO RUSSIA poster that was affixed to the wall behind her. There could be little doubt that someone had selected it and put it there on account of the striking similarity between the Russian nurse depicted in the poster and Peggy West. Peggy shared her high cheekbones and wide mouth with this idealised Slavic beauty. But there was something else too. Peggy West also had the other qualities the artist had depicted: authority, determination and competence, plus compassion and tenderness. All nurses were supposed to have those qualities to some extent – it went with the job – but Peggy had them in abundance.

  ‘I’ll have tea later,’ said Peggy. ‘I just wanted to see that you were doing all right.’

  On her way back to the main building, Peggy met Colonel Hochleitner’s stepdaughter, Blanche, and discovered that Alice’s arrival had not been greeted with unqualified joy on every side. Blanche was disconcerted at being displaced from her role as the hospital’s champion typist. Now she was afraid of losing her position as Hoch’s secretary, and that meant a lot to her. She didn’t complain, of course. Blanche was a thirty-year-old blonde divorcée; she’d learned a lot about the game of life. She smiled and congratulated Peggy on finding such a gem. She made self-deprecatory asides and said how lucky they were to have Alice Stanhope with them. But Peggy knew Blanche too well to take these toothy smiles and schoolgirl tributes at their face value. Blanche would await her opportunity to talk to her stepfather; she knew exactly how to twist the Hoch round her little finger.

  Blanche was not the only one with reservations about Alice. A thin red-haired nurse named Jeannie MacGregor – the daughter of a tobacco farmer in Northern Rhodesia – took Peggy West aside to voice her worries about the newcomer.

  ‘What do we know about her?’ Jeannie MacGregor’s grandfather had lived in a castle, and through him Jeannie claimed to be a direct descendant of Rob Roy, the famous Scots outlaw. Jeannie’s accent and her passion for Sir Walter Scott novels had been acquired during her visits to her grandfather.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ said Peggy West.

  ‘And all her airs and graces, and parking her red sportscar in the front.’

  ‘That’s only for today,’ said Peggy. Parking cars at the hospital was a never-ending source of arguments. ‘I’ll see she knows.’

  Jeannie nodded, acknowledging her little victory. She was a wartime volunteer. By hard work and intelligence she’d become a skilled theatre nurse almost the equal of Peggy West. Having the right instruments ready for the surgeons meant fully understanding the progress of every operation. Perhaps Jeannie should have gone to medical school and become a doctor. In her present job she was becoming an argumentative know-all, upsetting everyone. But good theatre nurses were desperately needed, and Peggy treated Jeannie’s tantrums with delicate care.

  ‘I saw her at tea break, going through the Hoch’s private files,’ said Jeannie.

  ‘Yes, she’s trying to get the office in order. It’s a terrible mess. You know Blanche never files anything.’

  ‘Before coming to us, this Alice woman was working as a clerk in that big military police building, the one opposite the railway station,’ said Jeannie and looked at Peggy, smiling triumphantly. ‘She admitted it.’

  ‘Yes, she told me. What about it?’

  ‘Didn’t you read what the newspapers said about police spies watching everywhere. Is she a police spy?’

  ‘Oh, Jeannie, I’ve not had an easy morning. Surely you don’t believe all that rubbish the papers print?’

  Jeannie would not abandon her theory: ‘And Hochleitner is a German name, isn’t it?’ She bit her lip and stared at Peggy.

  Peggy West took a deep breath. ‘Jeannie, you’re a senior nurse. Are you seriously suggesting that Alice is some sort of spy sent here to find out if the Hoch is a Nazi?’

  ‘I know it sounds farfetched,’ admitted Jeannie. The lowered tone of her voice suggested a retreat from her previous position, but she didn’t like the way that Peggy was trying to make her feel foolish. ‘But there are spies everywhere, you know that.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Peggy. ‘All I know is that there are stories of spies everywhere! How I wish everyone would calm down and be more sensible. We’re English, Jeannie; let’s try to keep a sense of proportion.’

  ‘I’m not English, I’m a Scot,’ said Jeannie sullenly.

  Peggy laughed. ‘That’s no excuse,’ she told her.

  Only with great difficulty did Jeannie MacGregor keep her temper. Her admonition was soft but bitter. ‘You used to be so sensible about everything.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. But you are piling the agony on. Alice is a nice girl … and she’s a good typist. Things are not so good at the front. Any day now we might be fighting Rommel in the suburbs of Cairo, so I suppose the police have to keep an eye on people. Meanwhile we British all have to help each other.’

  There was a long silence. Then Jeannie said, ‘I have instincts about people and that girl is trouble. I’m always right about these things, sister. You mark my words.’

  So it was one of Jeannie’s ‘instincts’? Oh, my God, thought Peggy. Her instinct was another treasured thing she’d inherited from her grandfather. ‘The Hoch has taken her on,’ said Peggy. ‘Nothing can be done about it now.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Jeannie spitefully. ‘That girl is a viper; I can see it in her face. I’ll get rid of her. I’ll see her off, if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell!’ said Peggy and turned away. Immediately she regretted it. Had she spent five more minutes with her she might have brought her to a more amiable point of view. Jeannie MacGregor had all the tenacity of her race. If she wanted to make things difficult for Alice, or anyone else, she’d find ways of doing it.

  ‘The dispatch riders are here,’ someone called from the window. ‘That usually means the ambulances are right behind them.’

  ‘It’s too early,’ said Peggy.

  ‘I heard there will be two convoys,’ called Jeannie. ‘I’d better get back to my girls and make sure they’re ready.’ She was more positive now she had work to do.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy with a sigh. Perhaps she could get nurse MacGregor an exchange posting to one of the new Advanced Surgical Centres, where emergency operations were done as near the battlefield as possible.

  She heard the ambulances arriving. It was starting. ‘Time to earn our pay,’ said Peggy loudly. She always said that when the ambulances arrived.

  7

  No one claimed to remember when or where or why the little gatherings began, but it had become a custom that, early on Friday evenings, a glass or two of chilled white wine and some tempting snacks, were freely available on the top floor to the residents of the Magnifico and any hangers-on.

  ‘Happy days, Piotr,’ said Peggy West nodding to the prince as more wine was offered to her by Sammy, his Egyptian servant dressed in a long black galabiya with elaborate gold facings. ‘What do you think of your neighbours, Alice?’

  ‘It’s so good of you to let me have the room,’ said Alice, also taking a second glass of wine.

  Peggy smiled and looked round the room. Captain Robin Darymple, in starched khaki shirt and pants, was always among the first to arrive. Talking to him there was a sleekly beautiful Egyptian girl, Zeinab el-Shazli, and her brother, Sayed. There were strangers too. Some of them must have started drinking in the afternoon, for there was a loud buzz of talk and laughter.

  Peggy smiled across the room at the two Egyptians. She described them briefly to Alice. They were both students at the American University and living on the first floor of the Magnifico. Sayed was a handsome young man. His light-coloured healthy skin and clear blue eyes were s
aid in Cairo to be the legacy of Circassian concubines, women renowned for their beauty. Captain Darymple was holding forth about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, using his free hand to bomb his wineglass. America’s entry into the war had been the predominant topic of conversation for weeks. Sayed, an Egyptian army reserve officer, was listening to Darymple with a patient look on his face. Peggy pushed past them and, raising her glass to the prince, said, ‘Thank you, Piotr.’

  Alice looked him: this was the man who was said to be Rommel’s spy in Cairo.

  The prince dwarfed everyone in the room. He was a tall, large-framed man dressed in a black velvet smoking jacket and white trousers. At his neck there was a patterned silk cravat, fastened by a gold pin set with diamonds. Ever since the war started, Piotr Nikoleiovich Tikhmeibrazoff had been calling himself Colonel Piotr. If challenged – as once he had been by Captain Darymple, who lived on the second floor – he calmly pointed to a photo of a smart infantry regiment marching past the Rossisskaya cotton mill during the disturbances in St Petersburg in January 1913. His father, Prince Nikolei, had owned that regiment, lock, stock and barrel. When his father was killed in action in 1916, Piotr Nikoleiovich inherited it along with vast acreages of land, farms and villages, the grand townhouse, and the seaside summer palace in the Crimea. The title of ‘Colonel – retired’ was a modest enough claim under the circumstances.

  Piotr Nikoleiovich had been studying archeology at Oxford University at the time of his father’s death. He remained there during the revolution, which came soon after it. In 1925 he’d visited Russian friends in Cairo and decided to make it his home. Some of the treasures to be seen here in his apartment had been in the twenty-seven packing cases of clothes, furniture, carpets, paintings, icons and ornaments that his mother had selected and sent from Russia as essential to him while he was at university in England. He liked to talk about his days at Oxford and lately was apt to call himself ‘a student of world affairs’. This was to account for the way in which he spent most of his mornings reading newspapers and many of his afternoons in the cafés and bazaars, drinking coffee with a large and cosmopolitan collection of leisured cronies.