information could she have possibly gained that would have made her feel that her life was in jeopardy? None of it made any sense.
That afternoon Ursula decided to visit Eugenie Mahfouz to see whether her investigations had yielded anything further regarding Katya’s death. The Mahfouz residence was a modest limestone villa in the heart of fashionable Alexandria. Eugenie Mahfouz kept to the old Egyptian traditions, however, and Ursula’s driver stopped at the door that led through to the courtyard and the women’s quarters, at the rear of the residence. Ursula had been here before and needed no guidance as she navigated across the courtyard, through the curtained doorway, and up the stairs to the harem. One of the Sudanese eunuchs who served as a servant met her at the door at the top of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Mehmed,” Ursula said with a smile. “Is Mrs. Mahfouz available?”
The servant nodded his head. “Please wait here, I will let her know you are here.”
“Thank you,” Ursula replied.
Only a few minutes passed before the door was reopened by Eugenie herself, and Ursula was welcomed with open arms into the elaborate antechamber that led to the women’s parlor. Eugenie was wearing a long gray dress and a silvery light cloak that seemed to shimmer about her. Once again Ursula was struck by the duality that surrounded Eugenie’s life. Despite her European origins, Eugenie seemed to have accepted the situation as a necessary part of assimilating to her husband’s way of life in Egypt. As always, there was a fleeting image of a young Egyptian woman, veiled with kohl-rimmed eyes, only to be superimposed on another image—this time of la belle époque , conjured up by the peek of a dark curl from beneath Eugenie’s veil, the curve of her waist, and the unmistakable smell of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue perfume.
“I am pleased you have come,” Eugenie said quietly. “I will tell you what I have learned about Katya.” She moved a box of Groppi chocolates from the table. “Mehmed!” she called out. “Bring us more tea!”
First, Ursula told Eugenie what had transpired at the customs house earlier in the day and about the postcard inscription she had found amid Katya’s belongings.
“I have heard nothing about a place called Hartuv or of a ship called the Bregenz, ” Eugenie commented when Ursula finished. “It seems odd that Katya would be interested. But then, what about this incident makes any sense to us? Ah, thank you, Mehmed. Here, Ursula, you should try some of the gâteau aux fruits. It is my mother’s recipe.”
Ursula settled back in her seat, and Eugenie began to speak. “After we met last week, I made inquiries through a friend of mine, Aminah Nasif. She is heavily involved in the Red Crescent society, helping repatriate refugees from the Italian-Libyan conflict. She met Katya briefly at one of their charity dinners. Aminah told me that Katya asked about helping fund a relief center. What was interesting was that Katya also mentioned providing money to a relief group with definite nationalist sympathies.”
Ursula frowned. “But that totally undermines the theory that nationalists targeted Vilensky—I mean, why would they bite the hand that feeds them?”
Eugenie nodded vigorously. “I agree. But unfortunately, that is all I have discovered so far. Apart from Vilensky’s donations to the museum, I haven’t heard anything of interest to us. You are aware, of course, of Vilensky’s relationship with Whittaker, but that seems to relate solely to governmental matters. Then there are the extensive loans to the Dobbs Steamship Company, but I am sure you know all about those.”
Ursula’s jaw tightened at the mention of Christopher Dobbs’s company. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. Any reference to Dobbs always made her uneasy, but now she was also frustrated. She couldn’t put all the elements together to make any coherent story. Was Whittaker somehow involved?
That afternoon Ursula decided to visit Eugenie Mahfouz to see whether her investigations had yielded anything further regarding Katya’s death. The Mahfouz residence was a modest limestone villa in the heart of fashionable Alexandria. Eugenie Mahfouz kept to the old Egyptian traditions, however, and Ursula’s driver stopped at the door that led through to the courtyard and the women’s quarters, at the rear of the residence. Ursula had been here before and needed no guidance as she navigated across the courtyard, through the curtained doorway, and up the stairs to the harem. One of the Sudanese eunuchs who served as a servant met her at the door at the top of the stairs.
“Good afternoon, Mehmed,” Ursula said with a smile. “Is Mrs. Mahfouz available?”
The servant nodded his head. “Please wait here, I will let her know you are here.”
“Thank you,” Ursula replied.
Only a few minutes passed before the door was reopened by Eugenie herself, and Ursula was welcomed with open arms into the elaborate antechamber that led to the women’s parlor. Eugenie was wearing a long gray dress and a silvery light cloak that seemed to shimmer about her. Once again Ursula was struck by the duality that surrounded Eugenie’s life. Despite her European origins, Eugenie seemed to have accepted the situation as a necessary part of assimilating to her husband’s way of life in Egypt. As always, there was a fleeting image of a young Egyptian woman, veiled with kohl-rimmed eyes, only to be superimposed on another image—this time of la belle époque , conjured up by the peek of a dark curl from beneath Eugenie’s veil, the curve of her waist, and the unmistakable smell of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue perfume.
“I am pleased you have come,” Eugenie said quietly. “I will tell you what I have learned about Katya.” She moved a box of Groppi chocolates from the table. “Mehmed!” she called out. “Bring us more tea!”
First, Ursula told Eugenie what had transpired at the customs house earlier in the day and about the postcard inscription she had found amid Katya’s belongings.
“I have heard nothing about a place called Hartuv or of a ship called the Bregenz, ” Eugenie commented when Ursula finished. “It seems odd that Katya would be interested. But then, what about this incident makes any sense to us? Ah, thank you, Mehmed. Here, Ursula, you should try some of the gâteau aux fruits. It is my mother’s recipe.”
Ursula settled back in her seat, and Eugenie began to speak. “After we met last week, I made inquiries through a friend of mine, Aminah Nasif. She is heavily involved in the Red Crescent society, helping repatriate refugees from the Italian-Libyan conflict. She met Katya briefly at one of their charity dinners. Aminah told me that Katya asked about helping fund a relief center. What was interesting was that Katya also mentioned providing money to a relief group with definite nationalist sympathies.”
Ursula frowned. “But that totally undermines the theory that nationalists targeted Vilensky—I mean, why would they bite the hand that feeds them?”
Eugenie nodded vigorously. “I agree. But unfortunately, that is all I have discovered so far. Apart from Vilensky’s donations to the museum, I haven’t heard anything of interest to us. You are aware, of course, of Vilensky’s relationship with Whittaker, but that seems to relate solely to governmental matters. Then there are the extensive loans to the Dobbs Steamship Company, but I am sure you know all about those.”
Ursula’s jaw tightened at the mention of Christopher Dobbs’s company. She rubbed her temples with her fingers. Any reference to Dobbs always made her uneasy, but now she was also frustrated. She couldn’t put all the elements together to make any coherent story. Was Whittaker somehow involved?
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