The Key to Rebecca (7 page)

The heat hit him first, then the dust. It had been relatively cool, up in the sky; now he felt as if he had stepped into a furnace. He began to perspire immediately. As soon as he breathed in, a thin layer of sand coated his lips and the end of his tongue. A fly settled on his big nose, and he brushed it away.

Von Mellenthin, Rommel’s Ic—intelligence officer—ran toward him across the sand, his high boots kicking up dusty clouds. He looked agitated. “Kesselring’s here,” he said.

“
Auch
,
das noch
,” said Rommel. “That’s all I need.”

Kesselring, the smiling field marshal, represented everything Rommel disliked in the German “armed forces. He was a General Staff officer, and Rommel hated the General Staff; he was a founder of the Luftwaffe, which had let Rommel down so often in the desert war; and he was—worst of all—a snob. One of his acid comments had gotten back to Rommel. Complaining that Rommel was rude to his subordinate officers, Kesselring had said: ”It might be worth speaking to him about it, were it not that he’s a Wuerttemberger.” Wuerttemberg was the provincial state where Rommel was born, and the remark epitomized the prejudice Rommel had been fighting all his career.

He stumped across the sand toward the command vehicle, with von Mellenthin in tow. “General Cruewell has been captured,” von Mellenthin said. “I had to ask Kesselring to take over. He’s spent the afternoon trying to find out where you were.”

“Worse and worse,” Rommel said sourly.

They entered the back of the command vehicle, a huge truck. The shade was welcome. Kesselring was bent over a map, brushing away flies with his left hand while tracing a line with his right. He looked up and smiled. “My dear Rommel, thank heaven you’re back,” he said silkily.

Rommel took off his cap. “I’ve been fighting a battle,” he grunted.

“So I gather. What happened?”

Rommel pointed to the map. “This is the Gazala Line.” It was a string of fortified “boxes” linked by minefields which ran from the coast at Gazala due south into the desert for fifty miles. “We made a dogleg around the southern end of the line and hit them from behind.”

“Good idea. What went wrong?”

“We ran out of gasoline and ammunition.” Rommel sat down heavily, suddenly feeling very tired. “Again,” he added. Kesselring, as commander in chief (South), was responsible for Rommel’s supplies, but the field marshal seemed not to notice the implied criticism.

An orderly came in with mugs of tea on a tray. Rommel sipped his. There was sand in it.

Kesselring spoke in a conversational tone. “I’ve had the unusual experience, this afternoon, of taking the role of one of your subordinate commanders.”

Rommel grunted. There was some piece of sarcasm coming, he could tell. He did not want to fence with Kesselring now, he wanted to think about the battle.

Kesselring went on: “I found it enormously difficult, with my hands tied by subordination to a headquarters that issued no orders and could not be reached.”

“I was at the heart of the battle, giving my orders on the spot.”

“Still, you might have stayed in touch.”

“That’s the way the British fight,” Rommel snapped. “The generals are miles behind the lines, staying in touch. But I’m winning. If I’d had my supplies, I’d be in Cairo now.”

“You’re not going to Cairo,” Kesselring said sharply. “You’re going to Tobruk. There you’ll stay until I’ve taken Malta. Such are the Fuehrer’s orders.”

“Of course.” Rommel was not going to reopen that argument; not yet. Tobruk was the immediate objective. Once that fortified port was taken, the convoys from Europe—inadequate though they were—could come directly to the front line, cutting out the long journey across the desert which used so much gasoline. “And to reach Tobruk we have to break the Gazala Line.”

“What’s your next step?”

“I’m going to fall back and regroup.” Rommel saw Kesselring raise his eyebrows: the field marshal knew how Rommel hated to retreat.

“And what will the enemy do?” Kesselring directed the question to von Mellenthin, who as Ic was responsible for detailed assessment of the enemy position.

“They will chase us, but not immediately,” said von Mellenthin. “They are always slow to press an advantage, fortunately. But sooner or later they will try a breakout.”

Rommel said: “The question is, when and where?”

“Indeed,” von Mellenthin agreed. He seemed to hesitate, then said, “There is a little item in today’s summaries which will interest you. The spy checked in.”

“The spy?” Rommel frowned. “Oh, him!” Now he remembered. He had flown to the Oasis of Gialo, deep in the Libyan desert, to brief the man finally before the spy began a long marathon walk. Wolff, that was his name. Rommel had been impressed by his courage, but pessimistic about his chances. “Where was he calling from?”

“Cairo.”

“So he got there. If he’s capable of that, he’s capable of anything. Perhaps he can foretell the breakout.”

Kesselring broke in: “My God, you’re not relying on spies now, are you?”

“I’m not relying on anyone!” Rommel said. “I’m the one upon whom everything else relies.”

“Good.” Kesselring was unruffled, as always. “Intelligence is never much use, as you know; and intelligence from spies is the worst kind.”

“I agree,” Rommel said more calmly. “But I have a feeling this one could be different.”

“I doubt it,” said Kesselring.

ELENE FONTANA LOOKED AT HER FACE IN THE MIRROR AND THOUGHT: I’M twenty-three, I must be losing my looks.

She leaned closer to the glass and examined herself carefully, searching for signs of deterioration. Her complexion was perfect. Her round brown eyes were as clear as a mountain pool. There were no wrinkles. It was a childish face, delicately modeled, with a look of waiflike innocence. She was like an art collector checking on his finest piece: she thought of the face as hers, not as her. She smiled, and the face in the mirror smiled back at her. It was a small, intimate smile, with a hint of mischief about it: she knew it could make a man break out into a cold sweat.

She picked up the note and read it again.

Just like that, she thought.

She tore up the note and its cheap sentiments. Claud was a fat, half-French and half-Greek businessman who owned three restaurants in Cairo and one in Alexandria. He was cultured and jolly and kind, but-when it came to the crunch he cared nothing for Elene.

He was the third in six years.

It had started with Charles, the stockbroker. She had been seventeen years old, penniless, unemployed and frightened to go home. Charles had set her up in the flat and visited her every Tuesday night. She had thrown him out after he offered her to his brother as if she were a dish of sweetmeats. Then there had been Johnnie, the nicest of the three, who wanted to divorce his wife and marry Elene: she had refused. Now Claud, too, had gone.

She had known from the start there was no future in it.

It was her fault as much as theirs that the affairs broke up. The ostensible reasons—Charles’ brother, Johnnie’s proposal, Claud’s wife—were just excuses, or maybe catalysts. The real cause was always the same: Elene was unhappy.

She contemplated the prospect of another affair. She knew how it would be. For a while she would live on the little nest egg she had in Barclays Bank in the Shari Kasr-el-Nil—she always managed to save, when she had a man. Then she would see the balance slowly going down, and she would take a job in a dance troupe, kicking up her legs and wiggling her bottom in some club for a few days. Then ... She looked into the mirror and through it, her eyes unfocusing as she visualized her fourth lover. Perhaps he would be an Italian, with flashing eyes and glossy hair and perfectly manicured hands. She might meet him in the bar of the Metropolitan Hotel, where the reporters drank. He would speak to her, then offer her a drink. She would smile at him, and he would be lost. They would make a date for dinner the next day. She would look stunning as she walked into the restaurant on his arm. All heads would turn, and he would feel proud. They would have more dates. He would give her presents. He would make a pass at her, then another: his third would be successful. She would enjoy making love with him—the intimacy, the touching, the endearments—and she would make him feel like a king. He would leave her at dawn, but he would be back that evening. They would stop going to restaurants together—“too risky,” he would say—but he would spend more and more time at the flat, and he would begin to pay the rent and the bills. Elene would then have everything she wanted: a home, money and affection. She would begin to wonder why she was so miserable. She would throw a tantrum if he arrived half an hour late. She would go into a black sulk if he so much as mentioned his wife. She would complain that he no longer gave her presents, but accept them nonchalantly when he did. The man would be irritated but he would be unable to leave her, for by this time he would be eager for her grudging kisses, greedy for her perfect body; and she would still make him feel like a king in bed. She would find his conversation boring; she would demand from him more passion than he was able to give; there would be rows. Finally the crisis would come. His wife would get suspicious, or a child would fall ill, or he would have to take a six-month business trip, or he would run short of money. And Elene would be back where she was now: drifting, alone, disreputable—and a year older.

Her eyes focused, and she saw again her face in the mirror. Her face was the cause of all this. It was because of her face that she led this pointless life. Had she been ugly, she would always have yearned to live like this, and never discovered its hollowness. You led me astray, she thought; you deceived me, you pretended I was somebody else. You’re not my face, you’re a mask. You should stop trying to run my life.

I’m not a beautiful Cairo socialite, I’m a slum girl from Alexandria.

I’m not a woman of independent means, I’m the next thing to a whore.

I’m not Egyptian, I’m Jewish.

My name is not Elene Fontana. It’s Abigail Asnani.

And I want to go home.

 

The young man behind the desk at the Jewish Agency in Cairo wore a yarmulke. Apart from a wisp of beard, his cheeks were smooth. He asked for her name and address. Forgetting her resolution, she called herself Elene Fontana.

The young man seemed confused. She was used to this: most men got a little flustered when she smiled at them. He said: “Would you—I mean, do you mind if I ask you why you want to go to Palestine?”

“I’m Jewish,” she said abruptly. She could not explain her life to this boy. “All my family are dead. I’m wasting my life.” The first part was not true, but the second part was.

“What work would you do in Palestine?”

She had not thought of that. “Anything.”

“It’s mostly agricultural labor.”

“That’s fine.”

He smiled gently. He was recovering his composure. “I mean no offense, but you don’t look like a farmhand.”

“If I didn’t want to change my life, I wouldn’t want to go to Palestine.”

“Yes.” He fiddled with his pen. “What work do you do now?”

“I sing, and when I can’t get singing I dance, and when I can’t get dancing I wait on tables.” It was more or less true. She had done all three at one time or another, although dancing was the only one she did successfully, and she was not brilliant at that. “I told you, I’m wasting my life. Why all the questions? Is Palestine accepting only college graduates now?”

“Nothing like that,” he said. “But it’s very tough to get in. The British have imposed a quota, and all the places are taken by refugees from the Nazis.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” she said angrily.

“Two reasons. One is that we can get people in illegally. The other ... the other takes a little longer to explain. Would you wait a minute? I must telephone someone.”

She was still angry with him for questioning her before he told her there were no places. “I’m not sure there’s any point in my waiting.”

“There is, I promise you. It’s quite important. Just a minute or two.”

“Very well.”

He went into a back room to phone. Elene waited impatiently. The day was warming up, and the room was poorly ventilated. She felt a little foolish. She had come here impulsively, without thinking through the idea of emigration. Too many of her decisions were made like that. She might have guessed they would ask her questions; she could have prepared her answers. She could have come dressed in something a little less glamorous.

The young man came back. “It’s so warm,” he said. “Shall we go across the street for a cold drink?”

So that was the game, she thought. She decided to put him down. She gave him an appraising look, then said: “No. You’re much too young for me.”

He was terribly embarrassed. “Oh, please don’t misunderstand me. There’s someone I want you to meet, that’s all.”

She wondered whether to believe him. She had nothing to lose, and she was thirsty. “All right.”

He held the door for her. They crossed the street, dodging the rickety carts and broken-down taxis, feeling the sudden blazing heat of the sun. They ducked under a striped awning and stepped into the cool of a café. The young man ordered lemon juice; Elene had gin and tonic.

She said: “You can get people in illegally.”

“Sometimes.” He took half his drink in one gulp. “One reason we do it is if the person is being persecuted. That’s why I asked you some questions.”