[EGY] A Royal Invitation

[Kelly the Mad]

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To: Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman
From: The Office of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan

Subject: Invitation to Cairo

Security Clearance: Personal; Private

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Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman,

You are hereby formally invited to hold a special audience with Our Sultan, His Greatness Daoud Abdel Moneim II. If you choose to accept, a private plane will be chartered for your departure from Beirut. We hope you will attend.

Office of the Sultan,
Sultanate of Egypt and the Sudan

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Jay

 

[Jay]

The afternoon light filtered through the jacarandas, scattering violet blossoms across the cracked stones of Rue Makdisi. From the awning of the Café des Oliviers, Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman observed the slow drift of traffic on Hamra Street, the rhythm steady and indifferent, much like the man himself. His voice, warm and gravelled from years of cigarettes and long conversations, slipped easily into French as he addressed the two tourists seated nearby, a couple from Marseille, judging by their clipped vowels and careful attire.

“You must forgive Beirut, monsieur et madame,” Orhan remarked, shifting the brass ashtray slightly along the iron table. “It is a city that never quite agrees with itself. Too much memory in too little space.”

The woman, late forties, auburn hair pinned back carelessly beneath a straw hat, smiled over her glass of mint lemonade. “And yet, monsieur, it has charm. Beaucoup de charme. We were told it was dangerous, but so far we have only found cafés and poets.”

Her husband, compact, balding, dressed with that studied informality the French reserve for holidays abroad, gave a knowing shrug. “Les journaux exaggerate, as always.”

Orhan allowed himself a small nod. His left hand cupped the thin porcelain demitasse, thumb rubbing unconsciously along its rim. The ring on his finger, heavy with the old tughra seal, caught a brief flash of sun but went unnoticed.

“You have not been here long enough, then,” he said, voice dry. “Wait until parliament dissolves again. Or the lira falls another five percent. Then even the poets will start throwing stones.”

The man laughed, folding the newspaper on the table, an old copy of Le Monde, creased and thumbed at the corners. “We are used to such things. In Marseille, the fishermen riot twice a year, more if the sardines disappoint.”

Orhan’s smile was thin but not unfriendly. “Ah, but your fishermen only riot against their local officials. Here, the targets change weekly.”

The waiter passed by, deftly sweeping a few breadcrumbs from their table, and Orhan gestured absently for another coffee.

“You have lived here long, monsieur?” the woman asked. Her tone was polite but tinged with the faint curiosity of travelers sensing a story.

Orhan exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting past their shoulders to where the Corniche shimmered faintly in the distance.

“Long enough,” he replied. “I was born in Istanbul, educated in São Paulo. Married here, twice.” His voice carried no embellishment. “I left once, during the Civil War. Advised some men in Damascus who thought themselves clever. Then I advised others in Tirana who thought themselves wiser. Now I am back, because this place…” His hand swept gently toward the street. “It pulls men home whether they like it or not.”

Orhan’s new coffee arrived, dark and strong. He lifted it, inhaling the bitter steam. His left elbow rested lightly on the table, his posture relaxed.

It was near the end of the hour, the café’s shadow stretching long over the uneven sidewalk, when the boy approached. No older than twelve, his sandals slapped lightly against the stones. In his hand was an envelope, cream-colored, thick, sealed with green wax stamped in the unmistakable emblem of the Sultanate of Egypt and the Sudan.

The boy held it out without ceremony. “Effendi, for you.”

Orhan regarded him for a long second before setting down his cup. “Who gave you this?”

The boy shrugged, glanced over his shoulder toward the street, then extended his hand again, not for another letter but for payment. Orhan exhaled through his nose, extracted a folded note from his wallet, and pressed it into the boy’s fingers.

“Ya walad, you’re a capitalist already,” he muttered. The boy grinned and disappeared between the parked scooters and fruit stalls.

He turned the envelope in his hand. The wax bore the crescent and sunburst of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II, an emblem seldom seen in Beirut, and rarer still addressed to men like him. Orhan slit it open with his thumbnail. His dark brows lifted imperceptibly as he read. No outward display, only a slight tightening of the jaw.

Orhan turned the envelope slowly in his hands. The wax bore the crescent and sunburst of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II, rare even in Cairo, let alone Beirut. The French couple had fallen silent, their gazes now lingering on the letter with polite confusion.

“An old acquaintance?” the man asked lightly.

Orhan’s brows lifted ever so slightly. His thumb broke the seal in one clean motion.

“Family business,” he said simply, unfolding the thick vellum. His eyes flicked across the contents. He refolded the letter, slipped it into his inner pocket, and rose fluidly from his chair.

Orhan adjusted his cuffs, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out from beneath the café’s striped awning. The jacaranda blossoms continued to fall in slow, indifferent spirals. He folded the letter and slipped it into his inner pocket. The two French tourists had already resumed their quiet conversation, oblivious. Orhan rose from the table, nodding once to the elder man at the register, and stepped into the thickening dusk of Beirut’s streets.

Later That Evening

The apartment overlooked the Corniche, its balconies bleached by the salt air, shutters cracked and sun-faded. Inside, the scent of cardamom lingered faintly in the kitchen. His youngest daughter, Aylin, sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching with charcoal on coarse paper. His eldest son, Selim, leaned against the window ledge reading the day’s An-Nahar, brow furrowed in the habitual expression of men who thought the Levant could be deciphered through newspapers alone.

His wife, Yasemin, stood at the counter slicing figs, her dark hair tied loosely at the nape. Her beauty had not dimmed over the years, it had merely settled into something quieter, more enduring.

He kissed her temple and laid the letter beside her hand. “They want me in Cairo,” he said. His voice carried no particular inflection. He might have been remarking on the weather.

She wiped her hands on the towel, broke the seal cleanly, and read it once. No questions, no surprise. She had lived long enough at his side to expect such things.

“And?” she asked.

“I have not set foot in Egypt in decades. I left before Daoud's father was crowned. They remember me still.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the children. “ I have no idea about why a Sultan’s office sends a summons now. They are not in the habit of pleasantries.”

Yasemin folded the letter again, pressing the crease sharply. “Better to go and hear what he wants, Orhan. Better that than rot away here, waiting for Beirut’s storms to end.” Her tone was soft, but unambiguous.

He nodded once, as though her answer had merely confirmed what he had already decided. He crossed the room to the bureau. From its drawer, he removed a slim leather folio, worn from years abroad, its corners rounded smooth by use, and laid it on the table.

It contained the documents every man like Orhan Sleiman kept ready: his travel papers, his Ottoman lineage certificate, and the old letters from Ankara, Cairo, and Riyadh. He flipped through them with the practiced speed of a man accustomed to crossing borders without fanfare.

Outside, the lights of the Corniche blinked on one by one, reflecting off the darkened Mediterranean. He closed the folio and thought to himself…what could the Egyptians want?

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From: Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman
To: The Office of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan
Subject: Invitation to Cairo
Security Clearance: Personal; Private

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Your Majestry Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan,

In the name of the Most Merciful and Compassionate,

It is with deep honor and abiding respect that I, Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman, receive your gracious summons to audience with His Majesty, the Sultan.

The bonds of history, faith, and shared legacy between our noble houses are not lost upon me. I am humbled by the invitation and view this occasion not merely as a formal courtesy, but as a rekindling of sovereign brotherhood forged in the fires of empire and preserved through generations.

Accordingly, I accept this most generous invitation. I shall make arrangements for immediate departure from Beirut upon your instruction and in accordance with the hospitality extended by your august office.

May the meeting of our houses be marked by dignity, wisdom, and divine favor.

With reverence and fraternity,
Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman

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Kelly the Mad