“And if it is God’s will to place upon my shoulders at so young an age the responsibility of royalty, I recognise the duties that shall be mine, and I am ready to make every sacrifice necessary... My most noble people, I am proud of you and of your loyalty. Let us work together. We shall succeed, and we shall be happy. Long live Egypt!” King Farouk had declared when he addressed the Egyptian people.
Tonight, however, King Farouk needed entertainment. More than governance, Farouk enjoyed parties, sweet foods and women. The king was a regular at the Pyramids Club in Cairo, a sophisticated place where he ate the finest foods and drank Coca-Cola. Ah, Cairo! A city so vibrant, so Parisian since the time of Ismail the Magnificent, and so glamourous. Cairo was the richest city in all of the Middle East. At the Pyramids Club, Salma the belly dancer entered the room as King Farouk looked on, enraptured. Even in the company of his two mistresses, Irène Guinle and Barbara Skelton, the king was fascinated by the dancer; everyone knew about King Farouk’s penchant for Jewish women. She crept like a panther, her fierce gaze fixed upon the king’s placid expression. “She’s beautiful and a fine performer. I like her,” he whispered to his mistress Barbara, who responded with a sullen look. Farouk was a paltry lover, and she was at a loss to get rid of him. He had a taste for beautiful women but not for seduction. He was as pudgy as a Turkish delight, and his money, his power and his responsibilities had not endowed him with the ardour of a warrior king. Still, all he had to do was fall for this common belly dancer, and that would give her a good excuse to take the huff and leave. “Why not invite her to play cards at the palace?” she suggested. Farouk paid her no attention; a waiter had just served him an enormous rack of French-trimmed lamb chops.
As was his habit, Farouk finished his dinner and began balling up bread in his fingers — the French baguettes he insisted on being served were perfect for this purpose — then throwing the little dough balls at the other patrons of the club. He was the king, after all, and no-one could deny him these little amusements. Irene attempted in vain to dissuade him, but Farouk knew what he wanted. “There are kings who love war, blood and conquest. There are kings who love money and steal from their people without a care. Myself, I like throwing bread at people; it is but a slight indulgence, as I see it!” he replied to his mistress. Irene burst out laughing. Farouk was a child, but he had spirit in spades. One of the bread balls landed on the plate of a noble Egyptian lady. She reacted with a horrified cry as the foreign object splattered into her duck à l'orange. She looked around for the culprit. Who would dare? She finally met eyes with the delighted King Farouk. It was the first time she had dined at the Pyramids Club, and she was not yet aware of the king’s antics. “Good evening Madame, and bon appetit!” he jibed. She was speechless. This was not how a king should behave; it was not how any man should behave. She smiled politely at him before removing the bread ball with her fingertips. “She didn’t send her plate back to the kitchen...she wouldn’t dare...” Irene whispered to her lover. Farouk laughed his frank, resounding laugh. The whole room turned to observe him. And they began to laugh with him, without knowing why. Soon they were in stitches, holding their sides, laughing so hard that hardly anyone noticed the belly dancer had left.
Alan Alfredo Geday