The Cairo Codex (2 page)

Nearly four hundred kilometers to the east of Cairo, the morning sun danced a crystalline ballet across the Gulf of Aqaba. Deep below the shimmering waters, the Arabian plate snuggled up against the African plate as it had for millennia. This morning, the earthen plates quivered—only slightly. But enough. Suppressed energy, like flexing muscles, reached the tipping point. The quiver snaked west across the African plate, under the Sinai landmass, beneath the Gulf of Suez, and into the eastern Sahara, creating a long ribbon of rupture. The quake hit Old Cairo some ninety seconds later.

Justine was still gazing at the arched ceiling when her feet began to move back and forth, her body swaying abruptly.
The crypt must be settling into the water table below
. Then a jolt ran up her spine and she was slammed against one of the stone pillars. The lights went out, plunging the crypt into blackness.

The shaking continued for what seemed like an eternity, although it must have been only seconds. Terror washed over her. Suddenly she was nine years old again, riding in the backseat of the family car as it approached the San Francisco Bay Bridge. It was 1989 and the Loma Prieta earthquake was about to rip a section of bridge away right in front of them. “Get out of the car!” her father had screamed. Hand in hand, they’d run east, back toward the city of Oakland. Justine turned around just in time to see their Toyota, and her new ballet shoes, teeter on the ragged edge of the torn bridge and then drop into the bay below.

She realized she was squeezing her eyes shut. Forcing herself to open them, she tried to peer through the darkness toward the direction of the exit. Cracking and crashing sounds deafened her as the crypt came alive. Grabbing onto one of the pillars to steady herself, she coughed as a cloud of fine sandstone dust entered her lungs. Then, to her horror, the pillar began to tilt toward her. She dove to the floor, throwing her arms up to protect her head. Plaster from the ceiling and walls rained down, covering her with a veil of dust. To her right, another of the large columns collapsed with a terrible roar.

Since no light entered the crypt, she knew that the stairwell was blocked.
Has the whole of St. Sergius collapsed on top of me?
Panic possessed her as the first aftershock hit, more ferocious than the initial quake. Huge chunks of plaster tumbled within inches of her face, trapping her in the hollow beneath the collapsed column, which had wedged against the wall of the crypt and held. She didn’t move; she couldn’t move. But she had to get out of here.

She began pulling pieces of plaster away from her with both hands, the jagged edges cutting her fingers and palms. The air was heavy and thick, sandstone dust crowding out precious oxygen. A thought seized her as she found it harder and harder to draw a breath:
I’m going to die here and no one knows where I am
.

The sound of her heart pounded in her ears. She had to act, to do something. Cautiously, she maneuvered herself into a crouch. The rumbling of the floor beneath her stopped; there hadn’t been an aftershock for several seconds. She waited, relieved by the stillness. Careful not to press her back too forcefully against the column above her, she felt around her feet, finding a heel that had broken off her boot and her canvas bag. Then her fingers touched a surface of parched skin—the flaking edges of what felt like a small book. Something that had fallen out of her bag? She tried to remember if she’d been carrying a book, but quickly gave up and stuffed it into the bag with her other belongings.

She had just stuck her head out from beneath the column, searching for an exit, when the second aftershock hit with such fury that the encrusted ceiling collapsed around her, burying her alive.

Sunlight skims across the
WATER
beneath a pale lavender mist as I watch the Great River Nile come to life around me, warm sand rising between my toes. How long will these mornings be mine? For nearly eight summers I’ve been free to come to this river alone, to listen to my own thoughts. At home, Mother could never feel the warm waters touch her skin, never travel without a man at her side.

I step into the river, embraced by the water rising around my ankles. Two white cranes, startled by the approaching light, take flight. Hundreds of birds ascend in harmony while a single pelican swoops into the water, finds its target, and emerges with a mouthful of squirming catfish. In the glassy waters below, blue and white lotuses with toothed leaves offer temporary homes to restless grasshoppers and water beetles. I try to still my worried thoughts. My husband moves slowly now and speaks of home. What will I say, what will I do, when the time comes to return to Palestine? Will I be listened to?

The waters part, two large protruding eyes and a gray leather mound surfacing into sunlight. I laugh as an indifferent purple gallinule spreads its wings and squats between the hippo’s eyes. Colorful bursts of acacia, hyacinth, and oleander hug the towering palms around us. Inhaling the fragrant air, I feel a wave of exhilaration. What joy nature brings! Although melancholy is often my companion, I am grateful to God for these moments alone.

I kneel to catch some of the warm, clear water in my pot, and slip my sandy feet into leather sandals. Wet sand clings to the fringe on my tunic and I shake it to loosen the sand’s tight hold. The cloth will dry quickly in this heat.

When I lean over the water, my thick blanket of hair divides by a peak at the center of my forehead and frames my oval face, tanned by the Egyptian sun. I see two dimples that deepen when I smile down at myself. I’m beginning to look like my mother.

Still holding on to memories of my youth, I shoulder the pot of water and start up the rise. The first thirst to be satisfied belongs to the sycamore tree near our home. This young sapling came with us from Palestine those many summers ago, the tender root wrapped in damp linen and kept in a small leather pouch at my side. Sometimes we could spare only a few drops of water to keep it alive. No one but I thought it could survive. The sapling is a piece of my life before marriage . . . when I was just me, no longer a child, not yet a wife or mother.

Beyond the sycamore, I water our small garden, tucking my long skirt into my girdle to cradle the vegetables and the figs. As I make my way up the short rise toward home, the sand gives way to patches of pale green grass followed by soil hardened by nature’s neglect. Soon the tears of the goddess, the only source of moisture in the land of Egypt, will swell the waters of the Great River, bringing life to this parched land. Those welcome waters will push our families of Babylon to higher ground, but we’ll return, and then we can plant the rich soil left by the floodwaters with golden grains for breads. Thankfully, the hungry waters will not come until after Passover.

At the crest of the rise, I turn back toward the Great River. In the distance, three giant pyramids stand north of the exalted city of Memphis, once the home of the pharaohs and capital of the greatest empire the world has ever known. My husband often travels across the waters to Memphis to watch Egyptian craftsmen at work and to buy cedar imported from Lebanon for making fine furniture. I have often gone along, comforted by those rare moments when we can be alone, when we can talk about our sons, our life together in this ancient land. As I gaze across the river, I see the remains of a tall stone pharaoh and giant white lion’s head, gods protecting the magnificent golden city, and I spare a moment to pray that our God will protect us. The pot of water grows heavy, and I hurry up the rise to face the day of uncertainty and decision ahead.

Ducking through the portal into our family home, a spacious cave carved into stone, I am surprised to find my husband sitting in shadow on a small chair near the far end of the table. Morning light reflects off the western wall and settles on the glass lantern set into a small niche in the sandstone. A miniature prism of multicolored light captures his attention. Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice that I am here.

“Is anything wrong?” I ask, walking through the light into near darkness.

“I am just resting for a short while before I return to work,” he says. “My body has lasted me these many summers, but I’m afraid my knees will forsake me while I still need them.” Even in the subdued light, I can see his expression, an unfamiliar blend of youthful optimism and aged resignation.

“Are you sure that is all?” I ask, pulling forth a chair. Is this the moment when he will tell me we must return to our homeland? Is it possible that I could stay behind?

“I’ve many feelings about coming to Egypt, and they weigh on me. We had little choice but to leave when the place of Moses called to us.” He pauses—then, seeming to notice something in my expression, asks, “Where are your thoughts?”

I am embarrassed that my own worries distract me. “I’m sorry, my husband . . . Moses called us?”

“Moses called us.” He nods and continues, assured of my attention. “Herod was a madman, as are his sons. But I’m not sure we’ll ever belong here. My end may be growing near, and our family is far away.”

He has found steady work in Egypt—his fine furniture is sold at the weekly market and word of mouth brings farmers from miles around to purchase his yokes. Now that the Romans ask him to prepare the gates for the new fortifications, our family need not worry about our livelihood as before. At one time, such security was more than we could hope for, but my husband knows the Romans have no love of Jews, and he feels a sense of impending peril.

The morning light broadens its reach, reflecting on the sleeping pallets tucked into the shorter sides of the cave. I knew that marriage to a man of many years would be beset with difficulties, but I thought we could grow old together. Now he is growing old without me. I walk to him, taking his face in my hands. With my thumbs I gently smooth the leathery wrinkles around his soft brown eyes. As always, his eyes speak of both his love and acquaintance with sorrow. On either side of his thin mouth, small curved lines are drawn in memory of his frequent smiles. Gray hairs define his chin, eyebrows, and head. But the core of his character rests deep inside, where quiet courage meets humility.

As I hold his face, a tear warms my hand.

“You uncover my heart,” he says, placing his rough hand on my cheek and touching my tears. He does not move to brush away his own.

For whom do I weep? “You have given me a life I cherish,” I say, sitting close beside him.

“If we had not come to Egypt, we would not have lost her.” The pain in Joseph’s voice pulls at my heart.

“It was not your fault—not your fault,” I insist. “It was God’s will.” God’s will. How often have I said those familiar words, even when I am so unsure?

“Ho,” Noha cries out, catching a whiff of simmering garlic. “What are you cooking, my friend? It smells like the feet of my donkey.” She plunks a jug of wine down on the worktable near the entrance to the cave and settles onto one of the stools near the fire pit. Rachel, our family friend and midwife, who accompanied us to Egypt, does not turn around.