This particular series is inspired by the movie, The English Patient although without giving away too much this one has a happier ending. It's set in Cairo in 1939, several months before Hitler's invasion of Poland.
*****
AN ACCIDENTAL MEETING
The first time Helga met Harriet it was in a Cairo souk where she was haggling over the price of an ornament that was apparently discovered at an archaeological dig in Palestine. The woman was determined to beat the price down and the stall owner kept pleading that he had to feed his entire family.
"How many children?" Harriet asked him in an accent that sounded almost American.
"Twelve," he replied.
"You don't look old enough to be the father of twelve children," she flicked a lock of auburn hair back under her hat, "are you sure they're all your children?"
"I am insulted," his face flushed, "you insult my family and my wife's name."
"Just asking," she showed her palms, "okay, how about ten shillings, take it or leave it," she held out the money and the man wavered and then finally nodded.
"Ten shillings."
As Harriet placed the ornament into her bag she stepped to one side to let someone else browse the items on the table and promptly trod on Helga's foot. Her driver, Mohammed promptly moved forward to see to her welfare and then the woman turned suddenly.
"So sorry," she stopped as she took in her white face beneath the white hat, "I didn't see you there."
Helga tried to look away but the woman was still staring at her a moment later as she held out her hand and smiled.
"I'm Harriet Michaels and you are?"
"Helga," she slid her hand into Harriet's hand, "Helga Bornhoffen."
"German?"
"Yes," she looked down and then up again as Harriet addressed her in perfect German.
"How long have you been in Cairo?"
"Nine months," she replied in English and then switched to German, "your German is very good."
"Languages are one of my passions," she released her hand and looked at her driver and switched to Arabic as she asked his name. That impressed Helga for two reasons, the first being her disregard for the protocols of polite society and the second because she knew the language. Mohammed replied in Arabic and then took a step back to put distance between himself and the women. This gave Helga a brief moment to take stock of this multi-lingual woman. She was wearing a white blouse tucked into a brown trousers, the wide collar was folded over a matching brown jacket and the wide-brimmed, white hat complemented her blouse perfectly.
"What brings an English woman to Cairo?" Helga asked, "you are American or English?"
"Born in Sussex but moved to New York eighteen years ago when my mother married an American, I'm a foreign correspondent for the New York Times," she touched her elbow and nodded past her, "and this is part of my story."
"I do not understand," Helga fell into step beside her as she moved away from the stall.
"Antiques or more to the point, fake antiques," she slipped a hand into the crook of her arm as they kept walking, "our friend back there claims this little idol was from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom but chances are it was made locally from a copy."
"That is illegal."
"In America and Germany perhaps, but here?" Harriet looked around, "it's a sound business venture to sell fake antiques. Western tourists hate haggling and the stall owners know this, so why not take advantage of gullible Europeans? I know I would," she said this with a conspiratorial wink.
"But you didn't tell me why you're in Cairo?" Harriet went on.
"My husband works at the embassy," she replied.
"A responsible job indeed," Harriet glanced at her belly, "do you have children?"
Helga hesitated before replying.
"No, not so far, I lost the first at three months," she fumbled with the clasp at her throat.
Harriet's next question however took her completely by surprise.
"I'm sorry to hear that," she paused, "what was the child's name?"
Helga came to a complete standstill and stared blankly at her as she tried to process the question and then finally swallowed and looked past her at a line of stalls of fruit.
"Nobody asks that question."
"Why not?" Harriet's smile remained fixed, "you must have chosen a name."
"Hans," she finally replied, "I would have called him Hans, after my grandfather."
"Hans," Harriet nodded, "a fine name."
"Thank you," her eyes shifted, "I am sorry, I did not expect you to ask me that."
"Well I never was one for protocol," Harriet smiled crookedly, "now my mother was raised on protocol and ethics, how the hell she and my stepfather get along is proof that opposites attract. My stepfather can make friends with street urchins and diplomats, and treat them both with equality, but my mother is a slave to the class system."
They started walking again and by the time they exited the souk she'd learned a great deal more about Harriet Michaels. She was the second oldest child from her mother's first marriage to a retired sergeant major who succumbed to shell shock when he swallowed a bullet twenty two years ago. Harriet's mother, Emily had met her second husband, Paul at a theatrical performance put on by the local Shakespeare players and according to Harriet it was love at first sight. They had waited for six months before announcing it to the three children, who had been referring to Paul as Uncle Paul. Harriet was a flower girl and candidly admitted she loved her new father much more than her real father.
"Father was a drunk, and the only times he ever told mother that he loved her was when he'd had a couple of lagers, but after a few more lagers he turned mean. Paul was the opposite of my father, kind, respectful and attentive. We moved back to America eighteen years ago when he finished his teaching placement at university."
Emily gave birth to two more children, both girls and although she'd long said she wanted to give him a boy, Paul always said he was perfectly happy with two girls.
"He loves us all equally," Harriet added with a smile.
"It sounds perfect," Helga looked past her as Mohammed made his way to the car, "and yet you are not married?"
"I am," she smirked, "my husband is back in New York."
