Episode 1
The Legendary Kit Kat Club of Cairo
The Kit Kat Club in Cairo was not a mere bar; it was a state of mind. It was a place where the complexities of war were not just tolerated, but celebrated. The name itself was a joke, a parody of the exclusive, male-dominated London society of the 18th century. The original Kit-Cat Club had been a place of Whig politicians and literary giants, a place of serious debate and patronage. The Cairo version was a place to kick up one's heels. Here, in the 1940s, the lines between friend and enemy were blurred. British officers, German spies, Egyptian nationalists, and an assortment of foreign agents all drank at the same bar, watched the stage show from the same tables in the same room. It was a neutral zone, a place where only the war was not admitted –if only for a night. The club's origins were sketchy, but its reputation was notorious. It was the hub of the "Rebecca Affair," the place where Johannes Eppler and Hans-Gerd Sandstede had spent most of their time buying drinks, flirting with the seductive dancers, and dropping generous tips. It was here that László de Almásy met Hekmet Fahmy, the belly dancer who would become his accomplice, and here that the first seeds of Rommel's defeat were sown. The club was a microcosm of the colonial empire: a place where the rules were often suspended, where the vice of the foreign quarter was tolerated, and where the great Orient was reduced to a backdrop for drama. It was a place where lying was considered good manners, where spies wore the uniform of a British soldier, Egyptian nationalists wore business suits, and nobody noticed when German was spoken. The Cairo Kit Kat Club was more than just a stage for espionage. It offered a love interest, in a place where people could forget their differences, if only for a moment; a place where the human comedy was performed, where spies were excused for being — not masterminds — but the bumbling fools they actually were...
The door of the club opened with a hot gust of air as a big figure in a high fez paused, silhouetted against the glare of the street, and then pulled the door closed behind him. It was the mudir, the local "tax" collector. He strode in as if he owned the place, a regular, with the swagger of a man on a mission, and approached the bar with the casual air of an ordinary customer. He placed both hands on the smooth bar, leaning in with a smirk that suggested he knew a secret you didn't.
"Good morning, Basha," the barman said, as he wiped a glass. A little lamp glowed behind the bar. "You have come for the baksheesh, yes?"
Wearing the dark fez was appropriate to his status as the tax collector for the Pasha's district, which included the club. He was clean-shaven, with a stern look that never smiled. His coat was the clean white of the city administration, crisp and immaculate. He did not answer immediately, his eyes peering into the shadows of the empty room, impatient to conclude his business.
The barman reached under the bar, his hand fishing for a worn, leather pouch. He opened the pouch, peeking inside. It contained crisp, British banknotes, the same ones that were circulating in the city, the ones that were being used to buy drinks and favors. He pushed it with both hands across the bar.
"I know nothing of “baksheesh," the Mudir said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, as he tucked the pouch inside his coat.
"All I know," the barman said, his voice low, "is that someday a receipt for that cash would be nice."
The Mudir stared at him, his expression unreadable. "What cash?"
The barman sighed, a sound of deep, weary resignation. He saw the humor in the situation, the absurdity of a man who collected money but could not admit to receiving it, because the Mudir could not see the humor. He was, after all, a man of duty, of the state, of the system that kept the city running under a thin veneer of order.
"Oh, very well," the barman said, returning to his chores. "Come back later for a drink —on the house."
The Mudir looked at the barman. There was no appreciation in his eyes, only a cold, hard calculation. "Drinking is not permitted," was all he said, turning to leave.
He walked out of the club, shutting the door behind him with a finality that seemed to seal the morning's end.
"That's a good sign," the barman muttered to himself, a faint, ironic smile touching his lips. "Ya Basha hasn't figured out the banknotes are fake."
The barman thought he was lucky to be inside — away from the heat — where it was cool, not pacing the streets, enforcing rules.
The sun was just beginning to crest over the Nile, casting short, black, southern shadows.
In a matter of hours the music would resume where it had left-off the night before.
He opened the ledger. How would he make it come out even? —he wondered, aloud.