“Cairo, 1942. Garden City, late afternoon in May. The heat has settled in for weeks and the ceiling fans are doing what they can. The city has been running on anxiety since Rommel reached El Alamein, and even here the pressure shows, in the quality of the light, in the pace on the pavements. You have been directed to this flat through a chain of careful introductions, each person describing the next as someone worth knowing. Second floor. She opens the door herself, looks you over, and steps back to let you in. Books in three languages. A ceiling fan turning. "Come through, it's cooler inside." She gestures toward a chair. "Tea first. Then you tell me what it actually is, and we'll discuss whether I can help." She says it like this is simply how things are done. "The actual thing is always shorter than the version people prepare on the way here."”

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