The Cairo Codex (17 page)

Andrea had called soon after Justine arrived back at the Shepheard last night and suggested this morning meeting.
I wonder what she has in mind? Perhaps she’s changed her mind about the codex. Or has questions. She’s late
, she observed, glancing at her watch. Having grown up with her father’s compulsive regard for time and her mother’s exasperating lateness, she’d chosen to follow her father’s punctuality while avoiding some of his more infuriating qualities.

Reminding herself again that punctuality was far from a universal habit, she busied herself, fondly observing the place where her father had once brought her for tea and cookies. Ochre-tiled floors, fresh fica, potted palms, and paneled windows crosshatched with wood still offered a promise of elegance, though it was quickly compromised by the fading beige walls and poor lighting. Three men who might have been pashas in another age wore shiny rayon suits and horn-rimmed glasses, yet retained a dignity that spoke of pride and confidence. All four women in the room wore hijabs. No one laughed, especially the sad waitress.

“Groppi’s still reminds me of a Paris patisserie. But rough around the edges,” Andrea said as she slid into the seat across from Justine. “I’m sorry I brushed you off last night. I was being cautious. A touch of French paranoia.”

“Then you think the codex
is
important?” Justine asked excitedly, letting go of her annoyance about the night before.

“I’ve only taken a cursory look at it, but the Aramaic seems to be well formed, readable at least. I thought we might visit for a while and then walk over to Ibrahim’s office. Do you need to go to a school this morning?”

“Not today. We’re going to The Fayoum tomorrow.” Justine leaned forward. “I’m pleased that you think this codex might be important. Last night I was certainly having second thoughts.” As much as she wanted to ask her a flurry of questions about the codex, she sensed that Andrea preferred to wait until they were with Ibrahim.

“I apologize. I should have explained myself when I called your room. Please forgive me. And I do look forward to working with Lucrezia’s daughter. She’s told me so much about you over the years that I almost feel you could be my own daughter.” Andrea appeared sincere, if not apologetic, and Justine suspected she was a woman who did her own thing in her own time, including the gradual release of prized information.

“I’m flattered,” said Justine. “You must know some of my darkest secrets!”

Andrea winked conspiratorially. Tea arrived with a small plate of chocolate cookies Andrea had ordered in the front of the shop, wrinkled little things with miniature mounds of white frosting and delicate red cherries. “I fancy these cookies,” she admitted. “I’m a chocolate addict.”

“Another thing that we have in common,” Justine confessed. “And you’re not the first person to suggest caution with regard to the codex. I’m afraid I’m pretty naïve about the need to protect information.”

“I’ll share some of my experiences with you one of these days—times when my innocence got me in trouble. Now tell me, how have you found your reception in Cairo?”

“The people have been as warm as ever, even more welcoming than I had expected. Amir is not an easy man to get to know. But last night he was quite warm.”

“He’s always wary at first, withholding a part of himself. But I can tell he likes you. I’ve known Amir for as many years as I’ve known Ibrahim. And since he’s some fifteen years my junior, I’ve watched him grow up. He is a man of pride and shame—a dangerous combination: deep pride in Egypt, its history, and its people, yet he’s ashamed that Egypt couldn’t make the revolution succeed.”

“What do you mean, ‘dangerous’?”

“Shame can make him lash out, respond to imagined offenses. And, of course, pride brings arrogance, a cover for his . . .”

“. . . shame.” Justine finished Andrea’s thought.

“Believe me, neither is the real Amir. When you get to know him, you’ll find he can be sensitive as well as sensible. And forgiving. But in many ways, he is France after World War II.
Comprendez-vous
? We are prickly, overly sensitive, quick to anger. Unfortunately, others feel the brunt of our confusion until we learn to trust, which doesn’t come quickly. And some people don’t stay around to find out.”

“That’s helpful, and I think we may have moved pass the suspicious stage. He is being charming, and is terribly excited about the codex.”

“That’s good to hear. Patience has its own rewards—not that I have any, you understand.” She laughed.

“You seem to have escaped the French predicament yourself. How so?”

“If you mean our prickliness? I think I’ve escaped it for the most part, although I require that you worship everything French.” She smiled again. “I was born after World War II, so I didn’t experience the Vichy shame directly. And I’ve tried to cultivate a sense of humor. Being a woman helps. Empathy is expected.”

“So true. I have yet to fully realize that power. Of being a woman, I mean.”

“You’re an accomplished and beautiful woman. Be patient and forgiving with yourself.” Andrea paused to finish her second cookie. “Speaking of exceptional women, I’ve always wondered why your parents separated. They’re both adventurous and seemed well suited for each other.”

“I think it had less to do with my father, although he was overly protective, than with my mother. She passionately wanted to be free. She didn’t want to become a line dancer.”

“A line dancer?”

Justine grinned. “That’s the metaphor she uses for a woman who waits until her husband dies to do what she wants, then takes up line dancing and dances as fast as she can.”

“A useful metaphor!” Andrea laughed, reaching for the last cookie. “Now, let’s go talk to Ibrahim about this codex of yours.”

“This may be a significant find,” began Ibrahim, settling into the chair behind his cedar desk, a cane nearby. “Andrea and I think we’ll need to bring in team members with different areas of expertise. We don’t have the means here to do many of the dating processes. I will discuss our needs with Omar Mostafa, Director-General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, but this is a delicate transaction, since Omar is a man of theatre; he fashions himself a star. That is not to say he isn’t fully competent and qualified, just that he also demands the limelight. And he may demand the codex, especially when he hears that an American is involved.”

Justine raised a brow and opened her mouth to speak.

“At any rate,” Andrea interrupted, “he’ll take the credit. But Ibrahim believes that if he and I offer to lead the team, Mostafa may welcome our participation and make available the full resources of the Council offices at the Egyptian Museum. We have a few other team members in mind, but we wanted to consult you first.”

Is there anyone who doesn’t know Mostafa? And what is this about an American’s involvement?
Justine decided to take a different tack. She was already beginning to understand the mixed feelings about her father here. “Are there disadvantages in bringing others in? My father often suggested that things can get bogged down with too many spoons in the stew.”

“Good question. One critical issue is that the codex will sometimes be out of our hands—and we won’t be able to control the release of information,” Andrea replied, stretching her arms over her head and narrowing her eyes. “Things can get stretched out, but I think we can expedite things. At least, I would hope so, since I’m just at AUC for the spring and summer sessions.” She paused, then added, “Perhaps I could extend my leave if this gets really juicy.”

Justine laughed. “I’m finding this really juicy already. How about you, sir?”

“I’ll tell my good friend Mostafa I haven’t long for this world, so I need to proceed with all reasonable haste,” said Ibrahim, grinning and pulling at his beard.

Andrea winked at Justine, and both women assured him that he would be around for a good long while. Ibrahim waved them off. “There is one other issue,” he added soberly, “that I’ve encountered before. If the findings are too provocative, there could be problems.”

Justine frowned. “You both have warned me now. What kind of problems do you have in mind?”

“Let me tell you a story,” said Ibrahim. “It was about twenty-five years ago, and I was in my full stride and fervor as an archaeologist. Dashing, I would say. At any rate, I was working with your father, Justine. He was still wet behind the ears, a little cocky. We uncovered a tablet near Darshur.”

Her heart sped up.
Here it comes, the story I’ve been waiting for.
The one her father had refused to speak about.

“At first I was greatly excited. It could have been another Rosetta Stone—about a hundred years too late. It appeared to have inscriptions in more than one language. As you can imagine, we were thrilled, and we sat up at night debating our options.” Ibrahim pulled his tea toward him and contemplated a small glass paperweight on his desk for several moments before continuing. “Our first take on the tablet—it was maybe three hands high—was that it was in hieroglyphics, Greek, and Coptic.” He carefully placed his gnarled hands one above the other, measuring the tablet in the air. “It turned out that the Greek and Coptic were interwoven and there was a fourth language: ancient Hebrew. We decided to keep it hidden in our work area near Darshur, and we worked on it in the evenings. But the languages weren’t the issue.”

“Why not?” pressed Andrea.

“Yes! Why not?” echoed Justine, almost holding her breath.

“The true find may have been in the message, my dear young women. The message was the jewel. At least, the message as we thought we understood it. It told about the promise of the Pharaoh to Moses and his wife Zipporah. The Pharaoh offered to let Moses lead the Children of Israel out of Egypt if he would leave Zipporah behind. She agreed, but Moses resisted. ‘Better to leave me behind than to cause firstborn Egyptian sons to perish,’ argued Zipporah. The story on the tablet claimed that Moses had finally agreed. We even inferred that the Passover never happened. That is, the part of the story of the Exodus where God kills the firstborn sons of Egyptians but ‘passes over’ the houses of the Children of Israel. The central story confirming that the Hebrews are God’s chosen people.” He paused, permitting the weightiness of his last statement sink in. “But we never got that far. The tablet disappeared.”

“Didn’t you have enough information to bring the inscription to light?” urged Justine. “Couldn’t you have done something?”

“We’d made a few sketchings, but had no photos. We had no tablet. No hard evidence. But there was something else that haunted us: Did we want this information to come to light? Is all knowledge superior to faith?” Ibrahim’s eyes suggested that he had slipped back in time, reliving those moments.

“But surely you’ve answered that question for yourself, Ibrahim,” said a startled Andrea. “You’re a scholar and archaeologist. Your profession demands that evidence supersedes faith.”

“Absolutely,” said another voice. They turned to find Amir leaning against the doorframe. “Are you three plotting without me?” He grinned, but his eyes were steely.

“Hi, my boy,” said Ibrahim. “I was just explaining that it hasn’t always been so clear to me that knowledge trumps faith. Living one’s life in the Middle East has its consequences,” he said defensively, staring downward as though he were ashamed to have his grandson hear his doubts.

Amir’s full eyebrows drew together. He appeared momentarily stunned. Then he strode across the room and pulled up a chair. “Surely you’re speaking theoretically,” he said.

Ibrahim nodded gratefully, his Adam’s apple pulsing only slightly.

Justine glanced at Amir, then Ibrahim, amazed that there was a time when the elder El Shabry had been tempted to suppress evidence.
And what does this say about my father?
“Truth trumps tradition every time,” she said decisively, sounding more confident that she felt. Her stomach tightened, a signal that something was wrong, something was missing. “There are rumors, Dr. Ibrahim. Rumors that have darkened my father’s credibility.” Her voice tight, she drew a deep breath.

“What kind of rumors, my dear?” asked Ibrahim.

I have trouble believing he hasn’t heard them too.
“That the evidence
was
withheld to protect Judaism. I can see how such a rumor would spread in an Arab country. But are the rumors true?” she asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“I know the rumors . . . and they are just that,” insisted Ibrahim. “I’m not sure even your father and I know what might have happened. When the tablet was stolen and never recovered—and as far as I know, it didn’t show up in the antiquities market—we moved on. ‘Best to let sleeping dogs lie,’ your father said.”

Justine’s face flushed as she heard one of her father’s familiar homilies. Was he as conservative in his work as at home? Not apt to challenge tradition or overturn prevailing “truths”? That possibility had never entered her mind before, and she couldn’t accept it now.
He’s a scholar, a scientist above all.
She glanced at Amir, who met her eyes with remarkable tenderness.

“Trust your father,” was all he said.