The Cairo Codex (19 page)

“What kinds of transactions are going on here?” Justine asked. “What are they buying and selling?”
I should never have worn jeans to a place this elegant. Although they’re not as poor a choice as my Lycra running suit would have been.

“Oil, sugar, cotton, wheat, rice . . . you name it. We actually import 75 percent of our wheat and mix it with our own poor-quality grain. This year is the 40th anniversary of the ’77 bread riots and not much has changed, although in many cases we now export products formerly made available to our own people through subsidies. Like sugar. Cotton. The IMF put a stop to that,” Amir said flatly, motioning to the waiter.

“Why?”

“Capitalism demands that we make available more products for international trade. Making such products accessible to our citizens at low prices interferes with that requirement. IMF’s requirement.”

“The price of gasoline is quite low here. Isn’t it subsidized?” She tilted her head and pushed her hair behind an ear. Her golden hoop earring caught the amber light.

“It’s the one subsidy that keeps this city on wheels. If we had to pay European prices for oil, Egypt would come to a standstill. Even with the necessity of gas, the IMF is hardly tolerant. But enough about our economy.” He turned to the approaching waiter and ordered two glasses of cabernet. Justine was intrigued by his contempt for this grand lifestyle, one in which he himself had been raised. She knew that his salary at the museum must be exceedingly low, as was true with all government agencies, and he would need a family source of income or to take on multiple jobs. From what she knew, both El Shabry brothers were absorbed by a desire for social justice.

Amir softened his voice, seeking a more ordinary conversation. “I noticed today that the Blue Nile sells this cabernet, but I have to warn you, it won’t be the same. What they sell to the big hotels and what they sell at retail is quite different. Nothing is quite as it seems.” His words could apply to any number of situations in Egypt, but his usually serious features relaxed. “Don’t be too swayed by our cheerful demeanor.”

“I wouldn’t have accused you of having a cheerful demeanor.” She grinned.

He released a totally disarming smile and nodded without taking his eyes from hers.

“How were we as children?” she asked. “What do you remember?” Whenever Amir shifted into his charming self, her equilibrium became deliciously disturbed and she found herself breathless. “Since your grandfather reminded me that we played together, I’ve been trying to recall those days. They’re somewhat blurry, although I remember parties in a beautiful garden.”

“There was a garden. It belonged to my mother’s parents,” Amir said, coaxing out his own memories. “Grandfather Saad was a diplomat, and the family owned one of these villas in Garden City where the garden flowed down to the Nile, through the area now owned by Shell Oil. We’d gather there on holidays, and the guest list often included your parents, who I assume had been introduced to my parents by grandfather. They added flair to any gathering, especially your mother. I remember her stunning dresses.”

“Her dresses?” Justine teased. The wine and several miniature appetizers appeared before them on the carved ebony table, which was adorned with a single lily.

“Your mother always wore long, flowing, white gowns and dramatic silver jewelry. And your dresses were made of some shiny material, perhaps taffeta or satin, and were quite colorful. The skirts bounced and crackled a bit when you walked.” Amir laughed. “This proud little girl named Justine marched around the garden as though she owned it. You were quite stubborn, as I recall, insisting we play hide and seek. You stayed hidden for the longest time.”

Justine was both flattered and embarrassed by his keen memory of her. “I’m still stubborn,” she admitted, “but I don’t wear taffeta anymore. Whatever happened to that house?”

“The house is still there, but when part of the land was confiscated by the government for new development along the Corniche, my grandparents moved to Zamalek. That was several years ago. We can walk by the house on our way back to your apartment.”

“I’d like that. They must miss the house, those times. Life seemed more hopeful then. Or perhaps it was just that I understood less about the world.”

“Perhaps some of each. The population in Cairo has changed rapidly; it’s now nearly eighteen million. Too many people devouring the air, the space, the resources. Before the revolution, people were extremely poor. They are still poor, but for different reasons. Do you realize that there are about the same number of people in Cairo as in all of Australia?”

“That’s astounding. Difficult to grasp. Yet I see little effort to address the issues, except for an explosion of incomplete apartment buildings on the outskirts of town.”

Amir shook his head and stared out at the Nile for several moments. The lights reflecting in his eyes revealed a deep sadness. He turned back toward her, changing the subject. “How is your mother, Justine? I haven’t heard about her in years.”

“Mother is doing quite well. She loves Fiesole and the Italian culture—and her art and poetry have flourished, become rather exceptional. The most fascinating artists and writers attend salons at her home. A stimulating life. I hope I can say that at her age.”

“Enticing indeed. I’ve always wanted to ask where the name ‘Lucrezia’ came from.” Amir’s left hand slowly turned the vase holding the lily, first facing it toward Justine, then himself.

“Mom often claims she was named for Lucrezia Borgia, the flamboyant daughter of one of the popes, but actually it was for another famous Latin, the poet and philosopher Lucretius. My Italian grandmother’s family members were followers of Epicureanism. I’ve flirted with the philosophy myself.”

“Epicureanism.” He raised a teasing brow. “Isn’t that the pursuit of pleasure?”

“A popular misunderstanding,” Justine corrected, but grinned. “Pleasure was defined differently by the original Epicureans. For instance, Lucretius’s most famous poem teaches that pleasure is about equilibrium while pain means that the universe is out of balance. I find the notion intriguing.”

Amir held her eyes over his wine glass. “That’s a novel concept to me. Personal pain being connected with the balance of the universe.”

“The Epicureans say there are two fears that must be dealt with: the fear that the gods will capriciously interfere with your life, and the fear of death. These are very old fears; I don’t know if things have changed much. At that time in history, the Romans, like the Greeks and the Etruscans before them, believed in many gods—gods who were capricious, self-centered, and often immoral. The Jewish concept of one god with a moral purpose was not part of their thinking as yet.

“Epicureanism tried to provide that moral compass,” Justine continued. “Pleasure was understood as truth, justice, freedom, and it assumed that we all had the free will to choose wisely. The highest pleasure was acquiring the knowledge to set us free from pain.”

“I’d like to think that religions have evolved since the time Lucretius described the fear of death,” Amir said, his hand brushing against hers as he reached for a tiny crackers. “Isn’t the offer of heaven or paradise rather appealing?” His eyes widened as though he were offering a reserved ticket to the hereafter.

“Perhaps . . .” She searched for the right words. “But what about hell? A little off-putting, don’t you think?” She tilted her head. “I’d prefer to imagine that I had the freedom to monitor my own life. I suspect that my attraction to anthropology, which involves a high reliance on intuition and the senses, may be a result of my affinity for Lucretius’s philosophy.” She surprised herself by considering a connection she hadn’t observed before. She paused for several moments, staring at the lights reflecting in the Nile. “Amir, I’m obsessed with this codex. I dream about it, I’m distracted during the day. Could it have anything to do with the Holy Family? Might Joseph have written it? The midwife?”

Amir was pensive, but not dismissive. “Possibly Joseph. Not the midwife. Women weren’t literate then. Maybe James.”

“James?”

“Joseph’s first son. There is a great deal more to James than we know. After all, he became the leader of the movement after Jesus died.”

“Then what about Jesus himself? Could he have written it?”

Amir chuckled. “Hardly. He couldn’t have been more than two and a half or three when the family was in Egypt.”

“It’s fascinating to speculate.” She smiled. “I’ll try to be a little more patient.” Then she paused once again, realizing that such patience was not possible. “Amir, I’ve noticed a sadness, a concern in your eyes. You often seem distracted. Are you worried about your brother? Nadia said you knew she had told me about his disappearance.”

Amir stiffened. “I wish she hadn’t said anything. But your observations are perceptive. I’m fearful that his behavior will lead to disaster for him and our family.”

“Do you feel comfortable telling me more?”

Amir gazed at her until she was almost convinced that he wasn’t ready to confide in her. “Not only did Zachariah leave for a training camp in Afghanistan, but I think he may have converted to Islam,” he said. He was tense, all signs of playfulness gone. “Our family have been Copts for more generations than we can remember, probably since St. Mark came to Alexandria in the first century.”

“Such a conversion would be a dramatic move,” agreed Justine. A dark curtain had fallen over his demeanor; his shoulders slumped forward. “Had anyone in your family anticipated such a move?”

“We never thought he would go that far. He started asking hard questions when he was fifteen or sixteen and spent most weekends working with the poor—getting them groceries, talking with the children, taking care of the sick. It was hard for him to understand such suffering. It’s hard for any of us to understand.”

“This is when you started to suspect?”

“We admired his compassion, but when he forced us into heated arguments about Western capitalism and Christianity, we feared the changes coming. I worry that some morning I’ll open a newspaper and find his face there.”

“I’m so sorry. Hopefully, you’ll be able to find him soon, let him know how much you care,” Justine said softly.

“We were never close, but now I don’t know him at all—what he is capable of,” Amir said in a sad whisper.

“We were never close?” But Ibrahim said they were very close. Which is it? Why the different points of view? And if one of them is lying . . . why?

J
USTINE FELL INTO THE COMFORT OF HER
own bed and was asleep long before she finished thinking about the evening and Amir. Zachariah and Ibrahim.

Her first wakeup call came from the covey of pigeons caged on the roof of an adjoining building, her second from her ringing cell phone.
Cooing certainly beats an alarm
, she thought as she reached for her phone.

“Are you all moved in?” asked Nasser. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to your housewarming yesterday. I got tied up with some of my students. How about dinner tonight to celebrate—and to apologize?”

“Not a problem. I’d love dinner. I’m going to a school today, but I’ll be back in the late afternoon.” Justine imagined his dark blue eyes and sensuous grin and wondered where he was, what he was doing right now.

“Eight o’clock? I’ll come by your apartment. Ten Aisha El Taimuriyya?”

“Apartment sixty-two.” Just the sound of his voice made her heart quicken, her toes grow warm.
How easy am I?
she mused.
Can I be swept up by a captivating grin?
“Perfect,” she said. They had met once in The Caravan and talked on the phone a couple of times about her new apartment, but she really knew very little about this man, except that he had once been a student of her father’s.

She took her time deliberating about what to wear that night when she got home from her day with Nadia. She finally settled on a dark blue cocktail dress––to match his eyes––and simple gold earrings. She left her hair full and flared out at the sides, noticing with amusement the amount of attention she was giving to her appearance. She straightened the lilies on the dining room table, shut the French doors, and sat down to catch up on BBC news.

The knock on the door occurred a couple of minutes before eight. “How did you time that so well?” she asked as she invited Nasser in. “Parking is impossible here.”

He paused and blushed a bit. “To tell the truth, I got here a little early in order to find a place to park. I read the paper in the car.”

“How early?” she teased as she reached for her shawl.

“About half an hour.” He grinned sheepishly. “I know Americans like to be on time.”

“I’m flattered,” she said. “My confession is that I changed my dress three times.” She scrunched her shoulders as though to say, “There it is.”

They both laughed in that light, lilting way that sounds like music. “Nothing like starting off a relationship with honesty,” Nasser declared, taking Justine’s shawl from her hand and wrapping it around her before leading her out the door.

The Arabesque, a quiet little restaurant off Tahrir Square, reminded Justine of the Tabullah, with the added intimacy of a sheikh’s tent—round brass tables, Arabesque trim around the ceiling, and amber lamps. Justine and Nasser sat on huge, fringed, golden pillows.