The Cairo Codex (18 page)

She swallowed and regained her focus. “Let me ask you, Andrea, and you, Ibrahim”—she turned from one to the other—“why do you think this find is significant? What do you know that I don’t know?”

“Andrea,” said Ibrahim, nodding in her direction, his head bobbing up and down.

Andrea stalled by taking a long sip of her tea. “Perhaps for three reasons,” she began. “First, it was found in the cave thought to have once been inhabited by the Holy Family. Of course, this story is most likely myth, and there is no telling how many people have lived in that cave over the generations. We need the carbon-14 dating to situate the possible author or authors. However, the language is very familiar to me, not only as Aramaic, but as similar in phrasing, pacing, to certain renowned documents—I’m still examining that premise. From the small phrases I’m able to translate now, I can say it is written in first person.”

First person?

Ibrahim swayed in his seat. Amir raised an eyebrow, glanced at Justine, and stepped alongside her, lightly brushing her shoulder.

Justine blinked; her face flushed again, this time with excitement. She jumped up and paced the room, taking immense strides. “When can we get a team together?”

L
ESS THAN A WEEK LATER
, J
USTINE STEPPED
out of a taxi and onto the high curb at number ten Aisha al-Taimuriyya, the address of her new sixthfloor apartment. A narrow but popular artery traversing Garden City, the street began near the Four Seasons Hotel on the Corniche, curved east past the Indonesian Embassy and police station, and emerged near the Blue Nile grocery on Qasr al-Ainy. The elderly Nubian boab, or doorman, his skin the glistening color of eggplant, hurried to take several of her bundles.

Shortly, Nadia, Amir, and Mohammed would be there to help her move in. She’d had two messages from Nasser. It looked as though he wouldn’t make it this morning.

Nestled entirely between the Corniche on the Nile and Qasr al-Ainy, Garden City, like Cairo itself, was the home of secret gardens. Hidden behind stone, brick, or wrought iron walls and gates, and shielded from the omnipresent swirling dust, lay recurring images of the Garden of Eden. Burgeoning flowers and palms, willows and sycamores, green lawns sprouting fountains, and perfumed air all held the secrets of this glorious city. Such beauty was more and more rare here; secrets, more precious still.

At one time, these gardens had not been so secret. Flowing from palatial villas down to the Nile, colorful carpets of grass and flowers had hosted grand parties and welcomed Cairo’s elite. Sumptuous villas had been home to Egypt’s wealthy businessmen, foreign diplomats, and rich scoundrels. Such grandeur grew from the dark side of colonization—wealth at the expense of the many—yet Justine remembered her excitement whenever her family had received invitations to these splendid events.

Carrying her buckskin suitcases and followed by the overloaded boab, she took the wrought iron elevator to the sixth floor and entered her new home. She motioned to the boab to set everything just inside the door beside her luggage. After thanking him for his assistance, she walked from room to room, elated to have a place she could finally call her own, even if it belonged to someone else. The furnished apartment was large and full of sunlight. Overgrown cabinets of Islamic design almost brushed the high ceilings. A large living-dining area, a small office, and two bedrooms led to a terrace running the length of the apartment. The European-style kitchen, while small, was fully equipped. Every window opened onto a view of buildings turned brown by smog and neglect, lines full of clothes, unkempt rooftops covered with TV satellite dishes and an occasional pigeon cage.
What happened to the glory of Garden City?
How was it that its residents had grown accustomed to such deterioration? She knew the answers to her own questions: servants could no longer be used like slave labor; thankfully, power had been more democratically dispersed in the fledging republic.

Within the hour, her friends arrived with arms full of falafel, foul, and pita, towels, glasses, sheets, and lilies. By early afternoon, having unpacked Justine’s few personal belongings and dozens of books, the moving party was sitting down to pita sandwiches and tea.

“One of your most important relationships here,” Nadia said between bites, “will be with the boab. You said his name was Kamala?”

Justine nodded.

“The boab can be your protector, your mother, your father, your eyes, and your ears. Little goes on in a Cairo apartment house without the notice of the boab.”

“Never get on the wrong side of that man,” Amir said as he flopped into an armchair nearby to check his texts. “Kamala may sleep on a cot in the back of the garage, but his dignity demands respect.”

“While I don’t need another parent, I can use extra eyes and ears,” grinned Justine. “Thanks for the advice.”

Mohammed stood by the table methodically cutting into a falafel and placing both halves into a hummus-lined pita. “How did you survive the earthquake, Justine? A traumatic beginning to your life here. I was concerned when I left you at the hotel that it might be too much excitement too soon.”

“Thanks to you, Mohammed, I survived it well—physically, at least. But I’ve found the deaths of the children in Birqash and the damage to the poorer areas of Cairo rather devastating,” she said, tucking both hands into her blue jeans and hunching her shoulders. “It made me feel rather helpless.” She looked at Nadia, whose eyes still welled up at the reminder of the children and their families.

“People who suffer in Egypt don’t have any kind of insurance,” said Amir. Justine noticed the muscles on either side of his mouth tighten and then relax again. “It’s not like the U.S., where even the Hurricane Katrina victims expected substantial help.” The room was growing warmer as sunlight insistently seeped through the French doors.

“Expected is the operative word there,” said Justine. “It wasn’t necessarily forthcoming.” She paused. “Amir, you’ll remember the story of the taxi driver and his daughter, the horribly scarred young woman I referred to our agency doctor . . .”

“What happened to her?” asked Mohammed.

“Dr. Bakry just said, ‘Send her to me,’ and when he saw the girl he referred her on to the head of plastic surgery at Cairo University, who will perform corrective plastic surgery on her. No cost. No fuss.” Justine was still astonished by the selfless action, executed so casually.

“I’m not surprised,” said Nadia. “Egyptians turn to one another. For medical care, small loans to help with family weddings, bean pots, sewing machines . . . it’s our way.”

Mohammed stood silent, pensive, his plate in one hand, juice in the other. “I recognize and appreciate how we help each other, yet, unfortunately, much of the help here now—in Shoubra and Bulaq particularly, as well as in old Islamic Cairo—is coming from the Muslim Brotherhood. They’re doling out money for food, clothing, and rebuilding.” A hint of sarcasm permeated his voice as he spoke of the proud and patriotic group that had originated in Egypt in the ’20s during the struggle against British occupation and King Farouk’s oppressive rule. Presidents Nasser and Sadat had both been part of this group, but had separated themselves from the Brotherhood’s influence as the social changes the two presidents advocated for confronted a sharpening fundamentalist agenda. An agenda that had been suppressed for the last thirty years.

“I’ve seen their charities at work,” Nadia added. “When your mother and I used to visit families who had taken out microloans, Mohammed, I saw young men from the Brotherhood going into damaged houses—that was after the ’92 earthquake—and handing out money.” She absentmindedly fingered her wedding band. Justine had observed Nadia in at least a dozen black blouses made of every kind of material. In the Muslim world, mourning a spouse was a lifelong occupation.

“The Brotherhood originated direct family help and taught it to fledgling groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. I’ve got to admit, it works well,” Mohammed said. “Bastards,” he added caustically.

“If someone showed up with money or to take me to the doctor or make sure my son had a school uniform,” said Justine, “I’d support him and his group as well. Wouldn’t you?”

“Aren’t you ever tempted to support the Brotherhood?” provoked Amir. “The MB Bureau guide claims to support moderation and democracy.”

Justine noticed dark circles under Amir’s eyes and saw in him a sense of pervasive melancholy. She watched him closely, acutely aware that he worried about his brother Zach’s radicalization in the Brotherhood. Perhaps even Al Qaeda.

“The price is too high. You know that!” exclaimed Mohammed. “To the Brotherhood, there is only one way to think. Their real intention is to change the constitution to Shariah law. What is their war cry? ‘Islam is the solution.’ You think we have it tough now—Shariah would take us back a thousand years!” Mohammed’s voice rose as he slammed down his plate.

Amir nodded. “I agree. But their support is broadening. Professionals, syndicates, fellaheen . . . many are choosing to believe them when they talk about democratic reforms and moderation. They could well come to power.”

“Not peacefully. Not with Mubarak in office. In spite of his crimes, he keeps a lid on extremism,” said Mohammed darkly.

Justine listened in fascination to the provocative discussion. She found herself thinking back to Ibrahim’s warnings about the possible dangers inherent in the codex discovery, and to stories she’d heard about people just disappearing. Anything could be used to provoke violence.
Even an innocent artifact?

Nadia glared at the two seething men and attempted to redirect the conversation. “Remember, we’re here to celebrate Justine’s new apartment . . .”

Mohammed shook his head, ignoring Nadia. “The foxes are in the henhouse now. As long as our economy is crippled, if a vacuum should occur—if Mubarak died—the foxes would have their run of the place.”

Nadia placed her hand on Mohammed’s forearm and spoke to Justine. “Women could lose all the progress we’ve made. Shariah is highly punitive; even stoning is permitted for small transgressions. Women could not travel without their husbands’ permission. In Iran, the marriage age for girls has been lowered to nine years old. We could be fully covered with black burqas. Imagine. There wouldn’t be a free press. Not that there is now . . .”

In spite of the heat, Justine felt chilled. “It seems to me that if the government would offer the people a few safety nets, the Brotherhood wouldn’t have such fertile ground for securing an advantage.”

“Where the government fails, the Brotherhood prospers,” said Nadia, stacking the dishes and handing them to Amir.

“Democracy is more than a safety net, although that would help. We need the rule of law, an open press, fair elections,” said Amir, follow by a low sigh.

“Yet didn’t the Brotherhood, masquerading as Independents, just pick up eighty-eight seats in the fall election?” asked Justine, portioning out coconut cake. “Haven’t they become unstoppable?”

“If the economy doesn’t pick up, they may become unstoppable,” said Mohammed. “U.S. policy in Iraq and with Israel and Iran just plays into their hands. The U.S. is even better at recruiting Islamists than the Brotherhood.” He stood and put on his jacket. “I’d better head out before my blood pressure goes through the roof.”

As though on cue, Nadia gathered up her belongings, kissed Justine on either cheek and headed for the door. “Goodbye, dear friends. I’ll see you tomorrow, Justine.”

Amir stayed behind, casually puttering with the dishes and chairs as though he was leaving, just not right away. Justine wondered if he would open up to her about his brother now. When Nadia and Mohammed closed the door behind them, he asked with uncharacteristic shyness: “Would you join me for a drink at the Four Seasons? It’s just a short walk.”

“Not like this,” she laughed, surprised, motioning to her soiled T-shirt. “Give me just a minute.” She went into the bedroom to find a clean white silk blouse and a pair of simple gold hoop earrings, slipped on a pair of black flats and brushed her hair.

Three blocks to the west along Aisha el Taimuriyya stood the Four Seasons Hotel. The exquisite lobby was awash with long-stemmed bird of paradise flowers, chrysanthemums, roses, and lilies all placed high in tall, clear vases and tilted at a precarious angle. The effect was stunning. Justine momentarily stood in awe of the opulence.

“I’m sorry to bring you here, but it’s the closest place to your apartment,” Amir said with some embarrassment as they sauntered toward the elevators.

“It’s breathtaking,” said Justine, still staring at the unique flower arrangements as she followed him into the alcove and a gleaming brass elevator. “Why are you sorry?”

“The Four Seasons is Cairo’s most exclusive hotel, representing the ultimate in consumption in a country that can’t afford to feed its poor. Millions will change hands in this room tonight,” he said, stepping from the elevator and pointing toward The Bar.

A corner table was vacant and provided a fine view of the entire room. They slid into the angled booth on opposite sides. Justine soon understood Amir’s observation. The Egyptian house wine was listed at sixteen dollars a glass and the room was crowded with international businessmen—Arabs, sub-Saharan Africans, Brits, Asians, and Americans—all in expensive suits and dangling cigarettes or small cigars. Multiple jeweled rings adorned wellmanicured hands. Three elegantly dressed women wearing veils and being ignored by their table partners huddled in their own intense conversation. Mammoth alabaster chandeliers and gold-framed mirrors reflected amber light from the Nile below onto the embossed wallpaper.