And so there they were, in Room 322 at the Hotel d’Angleterre, tired and somewhat irritable, their bones aching from nearly a week of travel. They were both rather anxious to begin the search, but at the moment their exhaustion took precedence.
“Are you hungry?” Agnes asked, and Margaret shook her head.
“Not especially.”
“Then I can see no reason why we shouldn’t avail ourselves of sleep.”
“No,” Margaret agreed, “neither can I.”
After finishing their nightly exercises, they washed up and changed into their sleeping gowns.
“Would you mind, Meggie?” Agnes asked as she rolled onto her stomach.
“Of course not, Nestor.”
In the trunk devoted to foodstuffs and medicines, Margaret found a small bottle of the specially formulated ointment that, although smelling of opium and chili peppers, did a great deal toward alleviating the pain of her sister’s rheumatism. Rubbing the ointment into her palms, she unbuttoned her sister’s gown and began applying a coat of it to her naked back.
It was just the two of them, and so it had been for some time. Margaret’s beloved husband, Mr. James Gibson, had passed away after only three years of marriage, and Agnes’s dear Samuel had died less than five years later. This wasn’t the life they had imagined for themselves—no husbands, no children, no domestic interests—but it was a life well lived, in the pursuit of knowledge and the general well-being, and they both took some comfort in knowing that their husbands would have been proud of their accomplishments. They had their causes, supported their church, wrote letters to The Times, and, when they weren’t traveling around the Near East, searching for ancient manuscripts that might shed light on the origins of their faith, they spent most of their days in quiet contentment, reading or studying Arabic grammar in the parlor. Like any partnership, theirs was a negotiation, a carefully constructed edifice of favors and moods. They had disagreements, of course, but in large part they got on remarkably well. For each knew the other’s thinking as well as her own.
At that particular moment—Agnes lying on her stomach and Margaret rubbing the ointment into her sister’s back—they were thinking, as they often did, of their beloved father. He had been dead now for years, but they could both very clearly recall him, bent over his writing desk, rebuking them for an excessive display of pride, praising a well-wrought translation.
Where would they be without the guidance of his steady and sometimes chastising hand? It was he who had given them the gift of a proper education, he who had sparked the light of their faith, he who had instilled in them the importance of hard work and a curiosity about the world beyond Glasgow, Edinburgh, and London. For although he disapproved of female education in general, he had seen their promise early and resolved to school them himself, beginning when they were five with Latin and Greek, then moving on to Hebrew, Arabic, and Aramaic. Six days a week, from breakfast until dinner, Agnes and Margaret had worked side by side, diligently translating Cicero, Exodus, and Ibn Sina. Their dinner conversations were primarily of an instructional nature, but every night after the table was cleared and the dishes washed, their father would read aloud to them from the Odyssey or the Arabian Nights. And as they drifted off to sleep, the sound of his voice filled their dreams with wooden ships, great marble palaces, magic lamps, and dark caves overflowing with treasure.
* * *
—
That following evening—after a mostly pleasant day spent reading, strolling through the gardens, and making inquiries with their friends at the antique book market—Agnes and Margaret took a carriage to Dr. Schechter’s hotel.
“So good to see you,” he said, leaping up from his chair as they entered the lobby.
With his wild hair and his great silver beard, Dr. Schechter looked as if he would be more at home among the monks of Mount Sinai than the tourists milling about the lobby of a modern hotel.
“It is so very good to see you both,” he went on. “I must apologize for not writing earlier. But we have been having quite a bit of excitement here. I have been making great strides with Rabbi Ben Shimon, great strides.”
For the past six months, the already somewhat frantic Dr. Schechter had been a man possessed, muttering to himself on King’s Parade or in the stacks of the Cambridge University Library, unwashed and disheveled, looking for all the world like a madman. Being in Cairo apparently hadn’t done much to calm his nerves, though it did look as if he had bought himself a new suit.
“We have some exciting news,” he told the twins, “very exciting.”
“We?” Agnes glanced at the rather pretty young lady with whom Dr. Schechter had been sitting.
“Excuse me,” he said with a slight blush. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Emily de Witt, from Girton College. Did I not mention I had a student along to help with the transcriptions?”
“I can’t say I remember anything about a student,” Agnes said. “But then again, I can hardly remember the name of my own dog.”
Margaret smiled for her sister.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss de Witt.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she said, and gave a slight, but very winning, curtsey.
“We have some exciting news,” Dr. Schechter repeated as he led them into the dining room of the hotel. “I have been making great strides with Rabbi Ben Shimon.”
It was slightly vexing how Dr. Schechter spoke about the project. Over the past few months, he had assumed de facto ownership over the expedition, referring to the documents as “my find” and repeatedly thanking the sisters for their assistance. Of course, they had enjoyed more than their share of accolades a few years earlier, after their discovery of the codex at St. Catherine’s Monastery. Agnes had been invited to address the Royal Asiatic Society, and Margaret’s account of the discovery was praised in newspapers around the world. Many said it was one of the most significant such finds since the Codex Sinaiticus. But fame was only a by-product. If their experience—uncovering the codex, bringing it home, having their names briefly trumpeted about—had taught them anything, it was to remind them of what their father had often said. The text was what mattered, not the author. The true purpose of their work, of any scholarly endeavor, was not recognition. It was the steady accumulation of knowledge, the illumination of an ancient textual variant, the revelation curled upon itself in a dusty palimpsest.
“Great strides,” Dr. Schechter said again.
Unable to contain himself any longer, he dove into a dramatic account of his time in Cairo, detailing a series of meetings with the Chief Rabbi and other notable members of the Jewish community. There was a Mr. Bechor, a Mr. Mosseri, and three or four others who, along with Rabbi Ben Shimon, constituted an informal governing council. Knowing something of the Oriental character, Dr. Schechter had invested most of the past two weeks in fraternization, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and touring around the city. At times, he had to admit, it all seemed like nothing more than a grand diversion. Then, three days ago, his hard work had paid its dividend. Rabbi Ben Shimon had granted them full access to the geniza and intimated that he would support the idea of safekeeping the entirety of the collection at the Cambridge University Library.
“What does he want in exchange?” Agnes asked.
Having dealt with all manner of Egyptians, from Bedouin camel traders to Coptic patriarchs, she had a difficult time believing that Rabbi Ben Shimon would give up such a valuable cache of documents without compensation.
“Nothing,” Dr. Schechter said, “at least not as far as I can tell. Rabbi Ben Shimon understands the great scholarly value of the geniza documents and I have been able to convince him that they will be well looked after in Cambridge. He is a lovely man and very learned. When you meet him, I am sure you will agree.”
“I am sure we will,” Margaret said, though she shared her sister’s sus
picions. In their experience, the shrewdest of characters were often those who seemed, at first, to lack an ulterior motive.
“I’ve visited the synagogue twice,” Dr. Schechter said, redirecting the course of conversation. “And truly, the geniza is beyond anything I could have imagined.”
Pausing to cough while the waiter served their dinner—beef Wellington for the ladies and, for the gentleman, a kosher meal provided through the generosity of the governing council—Dr. Schechter went on to describe a vast battlefield of paper, books, and letters, dust everywhere and all of it mashed together without any order whatsoever. Most of the documents held little scholarly interest—business and marriage contracts, deeds, the proceedings of the religious court—but there were gems to be found amidst the rubble, gems of a most astonishing nature. In just two visits he had already uncovered a number of invaluable documents: a page from a fourteenth-century Passover Haggadah and the first half of a letter written by the great poet and scholar Samuel ha-Nagid.
“Samuel ha-Nagid,” Agnes marveled, but before she could formulate a question about the letter, Dr. Schechter was overcome by another fit of coughing.
“It’s the geniza,” he said. “I’ve never seen such dust.”
He continued coughing until Miss de Witt handed him a glass of water.
“We left your respirator at the front desk,” Margaret offered. “If we had known the need was so urgent, we would have brought it with us.”
Agnes glanced at Miss de Witt, who was watching Dr. Schechter with a concern that bordered on excessive familiarity.
“Mrs. Schechter sent along a few other things as well.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Schechter said and, recovering himself, steered the conversation back to the geniza. “All that filth, it makes one feel less like a scholar than a housemaid, dusting out the attic of History.”
“We are eager to help in whatever capacity you deem most useful,” Margaret said. “As you know, my sister and I are not above dusting, and our Arabic is quite passable.”
“It’s quite good, really,” Dr. Schechter said, missing her irony entirely. “But first, we must secure Rabbi Ben Shimon’s permission to remove the documents. He has agreed in principle, but such things take time.”
“If you think it would be at all possible,” Agnes put in, “we would be thrilled to visit the synagogue.”
They were both rather curious to see the geniza for themselves. They had come halfway around the world. And, after hearing Dr. Schechter describe its contents, they felt an even greater urgency to get on with their work, securing the geniza and protecting these invaluable documents from whoever was selling them off.
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Schechter said. He paused for a moment and tapped the side of his head, like a schoolboy trying to recall the exact wording of a difficult recitation. “The only trouble is, Mr. Bechor offered to take us all out on a tour of the city tomorrow. He is an important member of the governing council. Perhaps we can visit the synagogue the following afternoon?”
As much as they wanted to get on with their work—and as little as they wanted to be led around on a tour of a city they had visited nearly a dozen times—the twins knew better than to refuse an invitation from an important member of the governing council. So they agreed, reluctantly, to meet that next morning in the lobby of their hotel.
After dessert, the twins bade Dr. Schechter and Miss de Witt a good evening and took an open carriage back to their hotel. It was a dark night, clear and cold, and the stars shone like inflamed grains of sand.
“She is rather pretty,” Margaret said after a few minutes of silence.
“Certainly not who I imagined when Dr. Schechter said he was bringing along a research assistant.”
“Maybe she has some Hebrew.”
“I doubt she has much of anything, apart from her charms.”
Margaret let this bit of nastiness dissipate before she spoke again.
“And Rabbi Ben Shimon,” she asked, “what do you suppose he wants?”
“Money,” Agnes said, troubling a loose flap of the seat next to her. “It’s usually money, isn’t it?”
“Nine times out of ten.”
“Or maybe a political favor, protection from the vagaries of Abbas II.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t care about the documents at all,” Margaret speculated. “Perhaps he thinks they’re nothing but rubbish and we’re fools for chasing after them.”
“Or maybe he does care, very much, and truly believes they will be better cared for in Cambridge.”
“Which they will be.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? So long as he’s willing to grant us the necessary permissions.”
“And soon,” Margaret added.
“And soon.”
They were silent for the remainder of the ride, thinking about Rabbi Ben Shimon and Mr. Bechor, the possibility of the Ezra Scroll and Dr. Schechter’s unfortunate willingness to trust in the good intentions of others. Being granted access to the geniza was certainly something, but there was still a great deal of work to be done. The twins were both quite certain now that there was a leak in the geniza. Someone was selling off the documents piece by piece and whoever it was—a member of the governing council, the synagogue watchman, Rabbi Ben Shimon, or someone else entirely—the twins wouldn’t stop until the documents were removed to a safer location. Until then, until the proverbial bird was in their hands, the geniza would continue to be parceled out and sold in the stalls of the antique book market. One of the greatest discoveries of the century, thousands of potentially invaluable documents, would be dispersed among the curiosity cabinets of pleasure tourists who couldn’t tell the difference between Syriac and Aramaic.
4
THE DUTIES OF the night watchman were relatively simple. Six times in the course of the night, al-Zikri explained, Ali was to walk the perimeter of the synagogue. Three times, he was to inspect the courtyard, the ritual baths, and the prayer hall, including both the women’s section and the attic storeroom. In between rounds, he was to sit in front of the main entrance with a charcoal brazier. The governing council had also provided a wooden stool and a blanket, though al-Zikri cautioned against using the latter.
“With a blanket it is easy to sleep.”
Ali mumbled his understanding and al-Zikri put a hand on his shoulder.
“Come, I will show you inside.”
Circled with prayer mats all pointing toward a raised wooden pulpit, the interior of the synagogue was lit with the flicker of a dozen lanterns. Uncertain what to make of the unfamiliar space, not sure where to step or how much to lower his voice, Ali followed al-Zikri around the prayer hall, nodding along with his explanations of various architectural features. Moonlight filtered through the windows above the women’s section and illuminated the carved wooden mashrabiyas that al-Zikri said depicted the stories of Noah, of Joseph, and of Moses. It gave Ali some comfort to see those familiar prophets on the walls of the synagogue.
“We have the same stories,” he said.
“Same stories”—al-Zikri smiled—“same God, you could say, only a different name.”
Ali nodded, though he didn’t entirely understand. Did the Jews pray to the same God he did? If so, what was the difference between a Muslim and a Jew?
A few steps later, al-Zikri paused in front of a large wooden cabinet topped with an ornamental lamp. This was the ark, he explained, the resting place of the Sefer Torah. Ali examined the doors of the ark, the intricate geometric designs carved around them and, at the center, a few letters luminescent in mother-of-pearl.
“Sefer Torah,” Ali repeated.
“It is our holy book,” al-Zikri said, “like the Koran.”
“May I see it?”
“One Sefer Torah can take as long as a year to complete,” al-Zikri said, answering the question by avoidi
ng it. “At the end of its life, we bury the scroll in a special section of the graveyard.”
After viewing the ark, Ali and al-Zikri climbed down to the ritual baths, then back up to the women’s section, a narrow gallery that looked down on the dais in the middle of the prayer hall. At the far end of the women’s section there was a square opening just below the ceiling. Securing his lantern between his teeth, al-Zikri climbed up the ladder that led into the opening and motioned for Ali to follow.
“You only need inspect the geniza three times a night,” he said, as he climbed down into the chamber. “But it is very important that you remember to do so.”
Although it was empty, except for a few mounds of what appeared to be discarded documents, the room was suffused with a sense of significance. Ali thought to ask about the purpose of the space, the piles of paper, and that strange tingling awareness he felt in his fingertips, but before he could formulate a question, al-Zikri turned to leave.
“If you hear anything suspicious, anything at all, don’t hesitate to wake me.”
“I won’t,” Ali said.
With that, he began his first night as watchman of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue. Squatting under the arch of the main entrance, he stared out into the emptiness of the cold courtyard. His only companions were the frogs croaking in the distance, the steady gaze of the moon, and a furtive cat skulking along the north wall. Unaccustomed as he was to the movements of the night, he had no way to gauge the passage of time. He tossed pebbles toward the well marking the site where Pharaoh’s daughter was said to have plucked Moses from the water, hummed a tune to himself, and stared at the flicker of the lantern flame until his eyes blurred. After what seemed an appropriate amount of time, he stood and slipped into his sandals. Tracing the perimeter of the courtyard, he held his lantern up to see behind the trunks of date palms and in the dark corners around the well. He imagined where he himself would hide and illuminated all these places. Next, he inspected the interior of the synagogue, the murky subterranean baths, and the women’s section.
The Last Watchman of Old Cairo Page 5
