Once the food was properly praised and the meal begun, Agnes saw fit to raise the topic she had been holding to herself all morning.
“Dr. Schechter tells us he found some very interesting documents in the geniza of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue.”
“Mrs. Lewis is quite the scholar,” Dr. Schechter added by way of explanation. “Perhaps you have heard of the codex at St. Catherine? It was she who uncovered it.”
“Yes,” Mr. Bechor said and he pursed his lips as if trying to recall the name of a distant cousin who had once asked him for a loan. “I do remember that story. Wasn’t there something about the document being used as a butter dish?”
Agnes took a sip of water to cover her scowl. That infernal story—the idea that she had discovered the codex at breakfast one morning, when she noticed ink seeping into her butter—would follow her to her grave. It was truly preposterous. Why would the monks of St. Catherine use their manuscripts as crockery? They didn’t even use butter. They used olive oil. And yet, that was the story that stuck in people’s minds. People did not remember their hard work or ingenuity, the weeks in the desert, poring over ancient manuscripts. They did not remember the months of transcription or Margaret’s book or Agnes’s speech to the Royal Asiatic Society. They remembered the butter dish.
“She found it at the back of the monastery library,” Margaret answered for her sister, “which is why we were so intrigued by Dr. Schechter’s descriptions of the geniza.”
Mr. Bechor listened carefully to the end of Margaret’s sentence; then he smiled and squeezed a lime into his drink.
“Very true,” he said, and, as if continuing along the same strand of conversation, he turned to Miss de Witt. “I do hope you are enjoying your pigeon. It is a specialty of our cuisine.”
Miss de Witt touched her napkin to her lips.
“Yes,” she said. “I am enjoying it all very much.”
While the girl praised the dish, Agnes opened her mouth slightly, waiting for a chance to raise the subject again, to insist on a proper discussion of the documents that had brought them halfway around the world. But, feeling her sister’s hand on her knee, she reconsidered her approach. They had dealt with such men before, ministers and masters of industry who shied away from discussing matters of consequence with the fairer sex, and they knew that, for the most part, it was best to handle them indirectly. This was especially important with someone like Mr. Bechor, who knew little about the details of their work and yet, by virtue of his position, was indispensable to its success.
“It is a rather delicate preparation,” Agnes said finally. “Is that bergamot I taste?”
After a short discussion of Egyptian cuisine, the remainder of lunch was taken up with talk of the British schooling system, the University of Cambridge, and the possibility that an educated Levantine businessman—such as Mr. Bechor—might send his sons to study there. He and Dr. Schechter had discussed these questions before, it seemed, at length, so most of Mr. Bechor’s queries were directed toward the twins. As the conversation progressed, it became clear that he regarded them as gatekeepers of the university, whose advocacy would suffice to secure admission for his son.
They were attempting to disabuse him of this notion—telling him that, while they were friends with a number of professors at the university, they did not hold any official position there—when the headwaiter approached their table with a note. Apparently there was some urgent piece of business at Mr. Bechor’s sugar factory, in light of which the afternoon portion of the tour would have to be suspended. He promised, however, that they would complete their itinerary the following morning, if everyone so desired.
“It is a rather unfortunate situation,” Dr. Schechter said after Mr. Bechor left, “that of his son.”
Glancing at Miss de Witt, he went on to describe how Mr. Bechor’s eldest son, Marcel, had been found a few weeks earlier in unnatural congress with the younger son of Ibn Ezra’s watchman, Mr. Muhammad al-Raqb. It was a scandal of enormous proportions, and Mr. Bechor believed that the only solution was to send Marcel off to study in Europe. Dr. Schechter had offered to write a letter to the trustees of the university, and he suggested the twins might do the same, if they saw fit. It went without saying, of course, that such a letter would greatly further their efforts to secure the geniza documents.
“Of course,” Margaret said, “we are very happy to do whatever we can to help.”
It was a rather small favor to ask, compared to the great value of the documents, and Margaret was inclined to write the letter as soon as they returned to their hotel. For her part, Agnes thought they might use the letter as a bargaining chip. Moreover, there was something about Mr. Bechor that bothered her. Later that afternoon, as they finished the chess match back in their room, Agnes attempted to locate the source of her suspicions, wandering back over the course of the day, from lunch at the Gezira Club to the Muhammad Ali Mosque and the carriage ride across the city. After cleaning up the board—Margaret won handily—they both sank into their chairs and, with the same pensive scratching of the chin, considered the many connections among Mr. Bechor, Mr. Muhammad al-Raqb, their sons, Rabbi Ben Shimon, and, of course, the very pretty, very solicitous Miss de Witt. The more they considered, the more certain they were that one of these people, or perhaps two or three, were responsible for the geniza leak. And the more they thought about it, the more their suspicions began to circle around the watchman of the synagogue. Whether he was the mastermind of the theft or merely an accomplice, Mr. al-Raqb would need to be involved in some way or another.
* * *
—
The next morning at breakfast, Agnes was buttering her toast, paging through a two-week-old copy of The Times, and trying to puzzle a way out of her sister’s modified French Defense, when the concierge handed her a note from Dr. Schechter. It seemed that the business at the sugar factory was more complex than Mr. Bechor had originally anticipated, and he would be unable to accompany them on the remainder of their tour. On Friday, Dr. Schechter sent over another note, regretting that neither he nor Mr. Bechor would be available that afternoon, as they needed to prepare for the Jewish Sabbath. Saturday, of course, was the Jewish Sabbath itself, and Sunday was the sisters’ day of rest. All of which meant that they would not be able to visit the synagogue until Monday at the earliest, a highly irritating turn of events, but not one without a certain advantage.
After breakfast, the twins took a carriage directly to the antique book market and spent the remainder of the day trolling from stall to stall, asking sharp questions and buying up everything they could before the market closed for the evening. The next morning, they went out again and, by the end of the day, they had succeeded in visiting each of the market’s hundred and thirty-four stalls. All told, they purchased six crates full of documents, all of them coated with the same thin white dust Dr. Schechter had described. They had done everything they could to staunch the flood, but they were no closer to the source of the leak. When pressed about the provenance of the documents in question, the vendors had all replied with the same halfhearted shrug, acknowledging the validity of the question while foreclosing the possibility of an answer. And, what was more, the twins knew that their purchases would only further inflame the market. Unless they secured the geniza soon, its contents—including, perhaps, the Ezra Scroll—would be scattered to the winds of obscurity. Each passing day meant still more invaluable documents removed, sold, and forever lost.
They were particularly relieved, then, when they received word Sunday evening from Dr. Schechter, indicating that he had finally persuaded Mr. Bechor to accompany them inside the Ibn Ezra Synagogue.
“At last,” Agnes said, tapping the cover of her book. “At long last.”
The next morning, as they rode through the narrow dirt streets of Old Cairo, past crumbling mausoleums, stray cats, and tumbledown shacks, Margaret reached over to squeeze her sister’s
hand. It was clearly a very poor neighborhood, but there was such history here.
“The Hanging Church,” she said, pointing to their left, “and there’s the Church of St. George.”
The twins took no small pleasure in the dark gravity of Coptic architecture, and it was always comforting to remember that this Christian community predated the arrival of Muslims in Cairo by many hundreds of years. That morning, however, there was no time for churches. A few hundred feet past the Church of St. George, they disembarked at the front gates of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue, where Dr. Schechter and Miss de Witt were waiting with Mr. Bechor.
“Very few Jews still live in Old Cairo,” Mr. Bechor said as he noticed the twins looking at an old woman begging next to the front gates. “But the building retains a great historical and spiritual significance.”
Before entering the building itself, Mr. Bechor took them around the synagogue complex, pointing out the newly planted palm trees, the housing for the poor, and the well in the corner of the courtyard where Moses was said to have been taken from the Nile.
“And here,” Mr. Bechor said, fluttering his fingers to indicate a small stone structure at the opposite end of the courtyard, “is the residence of our watchman, Mr. al-Raqb.”
Just then, a tall and grizzled man wearing a thick gray galabiya stepped out of the house and crossed the courtyard toward them. He had a somewhat reticent aspect, like an elm tree without leaves. But beneath this wariness, one could see also the spark of his intelligence.
“Mr. al-Raqb will be happy to show you inside the synagogue,” Mr. Bechor said after exchanging a few quick words with the watchman. “I, unfortunately, must attend to some rather urgent business at the sugar factory.”
The sisters exchanged a glance as Mr. al-Raqb nodded in assent and motioned for the remaining party to follow him inside. This would be a good opportunity to test out some of their suspicions. And, moreover, it was a relief to enjoy the building without the constant chatter of Mr. Bechor.
The interior of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue was laid out like many oriental houses of worship. The men’s pews circled around an ornate pulpit at the center of the room, while the women’s section looked down from a ring of balconies above. Mr. al-Raqb mumbled a word or two into his great rust-colored scarf as he led them around the edge of the room toward the ark, a dark wooden cabinet trimmed in a sumptuous gold leaf that glowed with the flicker of gas lamps.
“This is where the community keeps its Torah scrolls,” Dr. Schechter explained; taking control of the tour, he directed their attention to a stack of boards leaning against the wall. “And these humble planks once formed the border of the previous ark, dating back at least to the thirteenth century.”
“This is all rather fascinating,” Agnes said when Dr. Schechter was finished explicating the text inscribed on the board closest to them, “but not the reason we came to Cairo.”
She then turned to Mr. al-Raqb.
“My dear sir,” she said, using her most formal Arabic, “could you please show us to the geniza? You know where that is, I assume?”
Mr. al-Raqb continued to inspect the back of his hand for a few moments before raising his gaze to Margaret.
“You are welcome,” he said and he nodded at a narrow flight of stairs leading up to the narrow gallery where the women of the community were relegated.
The entrance to the geniza, this attic storeroom they had come halfway around the world to see, was nothing more than a hole in the wall at the far end of the women’s section. An old wooden ladder leaned in over a few broken lamps and a hand-painted sign that read—in Hebrew, Arabic, and French—“Ibn Ezra Elementary School.” Without a word, Mr. al-Raqb held the ladder and extended his hand, palm up, as if inviting them into his home.
Dr. Schechter began to speak, but before he could get a word out, he was overcome by a fit of coughing.
“Shall I go first?” Miss de Witt asked cheerily.
The twins agreed that it would probably be best.
“Would you mind taking my picture?”
Miss de Witt handed Margaret her Kodak, then scrambled up the ladder. At the top, she posed for a snap, after which she disappeared down the other side of the wall.
“Come on in,” she called, pulling her chin up over the bottom edge of the hole. “The water’s fine!”
“Very well,” Margaret said, and she passed the camera to her sister.
After testing the strength of the ladder and making certain that both Dr. Schechter and Mr. al-Raqb had turned the other way, she proceeded to climb. Upon reaching the top, she maneuvered herself backward over the ledge and, with a few tentative scoots, found the ladder on the other side of the wall. It took a few blinks to pierce the woozy, dreamlike quality of the attic, but once she did, Margaret saw the magnitude of their discovery.
The room was piled floor to sill with texts, an ancient graveyard of manuscripts discarded willy-nilly and protected by a thick layer of fine white dust. Who knew what was hidden in there? In a thousand years of books, deeds, magic spells, and marriage contracts, they might uncover a letter from Saladin, a new chapter of the Muqaddimah, an unknown variation of the gospels, a new work by Maimonides or Plato or Judah Halevi. Even the more commonplace documents were not without their importance. One might not find much of interest in a particular letter or contract. But, compounded by a thousand years, the debris of daily life became the stuff of History.
There was something else, too. Beneath the paper and the dust, the wood beams and the cobwebs, Margaret felt a strange tingling awareness in the tips of her fingers. As she moved toward the back of the room, the dark corner where the oldest documents seemed to reside, the sensation only grew stronger.
“Nestor,” she called out, “you must see this for yourself.”
Margaret waited a few moments for a reply, but there was none.
“Let me see if I might be able to convince her,” Miss de Witt said. She climbed the ladder, then pulled herself back through the entrance.
Once Miss de Witt was gone, Margaret crouched down to examine some of the documents near the front of the attic. As she did, she noticed the imprint of a footstep in the dust and an empty space from which a pile of documents seemed to have been recently removed. So it was true. Someone was pillaging the geniza. They had assumed as much for some time, but this physical evidence sent a fresh rush of anger bubbling up her throat. Who knew what knowledge those stolen documents might contain, what scholarly puzzle they might help solve?
As Margaret repositioned herself to examine the shoeprint more closely, trying to recall the shape of Mr. al-Raqb’s footwear, she noticed a relatively small fragment near her left foot. It appeared to be quite old and was stained across the top with a brownish-red cloud of what appeared to be ancient blood. It looked to be a letter, or perhaps two. One side of it was covered in Arabic script and the other contained a few lines of Hebrew.
“Astounding, isn’t it?”
Margaret looked up and saw Dr. Schechter climbing down into the attic storeroom, his back to her as he maneuvered himself to the floor.
“Yes,” she replied, somewhat too quickly and, without thinking, she slipped the fragment into the folds of her dress. “One rather loses a sense of time in here.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Dr. Schechter said as he brushed the dust off the front of his pants and turned to face her, “my thoughts precisely.”
* * *
—
Originally, the twins had planned to stay on in Cairo for ten days. Their intention had been to finish up with the geniza business, then set off for the Sinai and St. Catherine’s. However, as the date of their intended departure approached, they agreed to postpone the Sinai portion of their trip for at least another two weeks. There was no question, really. They were on the verge of a major discovery, at least as important as Troy, the underground caverns of Jerus
alem, or Grenfell and Hunt’s rubbish dump at Oxyrhynchus. They could not leave Cairo until the geniza documents—and also, perhaps, the Ezra Scroll—were crated, sealed, and safely on their way to Cambridge.
After discussing the matter with Dr. Schechter, who had himself twice delayed his trip to Palestine, they concluded that their next step should be to seek removal of the documents to a more secure location. Dr. Schechter suggested that he put forth the request alone, in a formal meeting with Rabbi Ben Shimon, and the twins concurred. Although they had more experience in such matters, Agnes and Margaret knew their presence would hardly improve the chances of approval.
“It is a highly delicate matter,” Dr. Schechter wrote to them a few days later, “always teetering on the brink of success.”
He spent the better part of that week attempting to secure the Chief Rabbi’s approval. Meanwhile, the twins had more than enough to keep themselves busy. They paid a visit to the Coptic patriarch, and Margaret visited the mummies at the Egyptian Museum with Miss de Witt. For the most part, however, they spent their time in their room, going through the documents from the antique book market, or in the lobby of their hotel, Agnes brushing up on her Arabic while Margaret sifted through their prodigious collection of Egyptian travelogues, trying to discern the significance of the fragment she had removed from the geniza.
As far as she could tell, the fragment comprised two notes, both of which made reference to a young Muslim boy, Ali, who had been recommended for the position of watchman of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue. From the context, she suspected that the notes were part of a longer exchange, between the adviser of an eleventh-century caliph, al-Mustansir, and a prominent member of the Jewish community, a scholar named Shemarya the Pious.
“It’s remarkable,” Margaret said, looking up from the fragment. “The attic was filled with documents like this, piles of them, and every one a story.”
“But no Ezra Scroll?” Agnes asked.
The Last Watchman of Old Cairo Page 10
