Amir explained that he worked at the Egyptian Museum as curator of the Ptolemy exhibition, and occasionally lectured at the American University of Cairo. “Nadia and I see each other often in the faculty room at AUC. And, like Mohammed, we’re family friends.”
“You’re an archaeologist, then?” Justine lifted her hair with both hands to collect the soft breeze.
“By training, but I don’t get into the field as much as I’d like.” He stood, feet apart, at the table, pouring himself a glass of juice. “I was involved in a few digs in Alex when the new library was being built.”
“I understand you’re trying to redesign the Ptolemaic section,” said Magda. “It’s one of the worst parts of the museum. Few artifacts and no written descriptions. The last time I took my daughters there, we skipped that part.”
“You’re going to see quite a difference soon.” He smiled warmly, clearly taking no offense. “When you and your girls come back, let me know and you’ll be my guests. I’m negotiating with the new library in Alexandria and the British Museum to return several artifacts as well.”
“I hear that getting the West to return artifacts can be frustrating,” said Justine. The breeze billowed her light sweater and she felt a welcoming coolness.
Amir brushed a curly lock of hair from his eyes. “I’m banking on a new international agreement developed by the Arab League. We’ll see. I’m not going to let myself get too optimistic. I’m not much of an optimist anyway.” His friends laughed.
Certainly not an optimist, Justine thought wryly. She detected a definite streak of arrogance.
“And why are you here, Justine?” His tone was challenging, edgy.
“I’m here for a few reasons, really.” She met Amir’s gaze. There is something in his eyes, something he’s not saying. Suddenly, she had the odd sensation that they’d met before. She shook it off and turned toward the others. “My mother is Egyptian and my father American, a complicated mixture—at least it was when I was young. As you heard from Nadia, I’ll be working with her on the Community Schools for Girls project, visiting classrooms and teacher training sessions. As an anthropologist, I’ll be observing how children interact when they are learning—how they interact with teachers.” The felucca began a rhythmic rocking, responding to the wake of a good-sized motor craft.
“I’m also interested in visiting St. Sergius again. I understand the ground waters from the last earthquake have been cleaned up. My mother used to tell me amazing stories about Isis and the Virgin Mary when I was a girl. That the Holy Family lived in Egypt much longer than Christians think.”
“We Muslims think so. They were here about seven years,” Mohammed said without reservation. “As an Abrahamic religion, Islam honors both the old and new Christian testaments. Yet we have our own ideas about the Holy Family and Egypt since they traveled here for so long.”
Justine nodded. “I’ll bet my mother learned some of her stories from Muslim friends.”
“Childhood stories are among our most powerful influences,” said Amir, his voice distracted. “Is there another reason you came?”
The question startled her, though she wasn’t sure why. “Well, yes. To meet some old friends of the family, particularly my father’s former teacher, Dr. Ibrahim El Shabry. Dad tells me that he may be long retired, but he’s still engrossed in his research.”
Amir looked surprised, but something about his expression struck Justine as disingenuous. “Ibrahim is my grandfather,” he said. “My mother’s father. He’s retired, but keeps his office at the Rare Books Library near AUC.”
Justine’s eyes widened. “El Shabry. Of course. I should have made the connection. Amazing. Nadia, did you know that?” She turned.
“No, I didn’t,” said Nadia, arching an eyebrow, equally surprised.
“Curious,” said Justine, hanging on to one of the roof slats covering the table as she moved closer to Amir.
“Curious? Why curious?” Amir’s voice was sharp.
“I was resisting saying ‘small world,’” admitted Justine.
“I can see why. Typical American phrase, ‘small world,’ meant to simplify the complexities of this world. Western anthropologists”—he nodded slightly toward Nadia to include her in his declaration—“tend to reduce what they see here to its bare bones, then suppose they understand Egyptians.”
Nadia smiled gently, clearly tolerant of Amir’s occasional sarcastic remarks.
Justine laughed lightly. “Well, ‘small world’ would have been rather Disneyesque,” she confessed. “Western anthropologists have been known to be overbearing. Among other things.”
Amir flushed slightly. “If I’m wrong, I apologize,” he said. “I’m afraid that my experience with Westerners has often been disappointing.” He held her gaze, returning her grin. “Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong.”
“Can we meet around ten in the morning to talk about the project?” Nadia asked, as she and Justine made their way back to the hotel. It was dark now, but the hotels provided ample lighting as they traversed the busy boulevard.
“Perfect.” Justine hesitated. “Interesting man, Amir.”
Nadia frowned. “He’s not usually so edgy. You see, his brother has disappeared. He really didn’t want to be here tonight.”
“I’m sorry to hear about his brother.”
“Zachariah was radicalized while he was volunteering in Imbaba, one of the poorest areas of Cairo. When he was in secondary school, he saw poverty, suffering, lack of services and medical attention, especially among the elderly. He listened to those who attributed the decline in people’s lives to Westernized capitalism and the current regime’s pandering to the West.” Nadia paused just outside the entrance to the Shepheard. “Last year he joined the Muslim Brotherhood but found it too moderate for his tastes. Three months ago he left for Afghanistan.”
“Al Qaeda?” Justine shivered as she thought of September 11th. Her cousin Patricia had been at her desk on the 98th floor of the World Trade Center’s north tower that day. Pat had been Justine’s age, and even though they hadn’t seen each other frequently, Justine missed her terribly. Involuntarily, her mind careened to scenes of Pat trying to escape her tragic fate that morning.
“Al Qaeda could be involved. We just don’t know,” said Nadia, touching Justine’s arm as though to bring her back—to bring them both back—from somewhere. “But I hope that tonight was pleasurable for you in the balance.” She smiled. “See you in the morning?”
“At ten. And Nadia, thank you.”
CHAPTER 3
STEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER, Justine grabbed a towel and caught the phone on the fourth ring. Probably Nadia changing our appointment.
“Hello, Justine?”
“This is Justine.” She sat on the edge of the bed, facing west, peering over the bedroom’s balcony and through the top of the two-story window. The breadth of the Nile lay before her.
“This is Amir.” When she didn’t react, he continued, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It was inexcusable, perhaps unforgivable.”
She thought about what Nadia had said, the stress of missing his brother. “Please don’t give it another thought,” she said, drying her hair vigorously with the towel. “Actually, your honesty was refreshing.”
“You said you wanted to see my grandfather. I thought I could walk you over to his office this afternoon.”
“That would be great. I have a meeting with Nadia later this morning, but I’m free this afternoon.” She was curious to observe this man in the context of his family.
“Shall I meet you in the lobby of your hotel around four?”
“Four would be fine.” They hung up at the same time and Justine sat for a moment, gazing out at the rose colored fog on the Nile. It’s very early, she realized. Too early for anyone not suffering from jet lag. He must have been truly bothered by his behavior last evening.
She reached for her green Lycra running suit and shoes, worn into shape by almost daily use.
Several hours till I meet with Nadia. Time for a run, another shower, and a third reading of the proposal.
When she stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Shepheard, the streets were quiet except for a few donkey carts hauling garbage. It was 7:00 a.m. in Cairo, and ten hours earlier in California. At the corner, she ran in place for a few moments then moved cautiously across the Corniche, stepping onto the high curb and turning south. To her right floated the stationary, gleaming white Shepheard dinner boat, framed by soaring palms; the walkway to the boat, now chained closed, was lined with trimmed bushes and hyacinths.
Unused to sidewalks cracked and raised by roots of banyan trees bulging through the cement, Justine almost tripped twice within the first few minutes. Once, she barely caught herself by reaching for a limb over her head and swinging across the defacement. Soon, though, she found the sidewalk pattern: smooth, then cracked and rising, smooth, then . . . Everything has a pattern, she thought. But they’re not always so discernable.
As she found her stride, her breath fell into its familiar pattern and she tried to absorb the city around her. She moved past Garden City and the Four Seasons on her left. Floating restaurants, colorful islands of nighttime gaiety, lined the shore to her right. Out of the center of the Nile arose Roda Island and its grand Manial Palace, built for King Farouk’s uncle, Prince Mohammed Ali Tawfiq. He was a man who couldn’t make up his mind, so he’d built his palace in all the popular styles of the day: Ottoman, Moorish, Persian, and European rococo.
By the time she reached the Roman aqueduct, cutting east through the city, the town was waking up. Bean pots on rollers moved into the side streets; bakers raised their storefronts, displaying layers of Egyptian baladi bread, which resembled pita. Young men on bicycles took to the streets.
About a mile from the hotel, she stopped. In this part of the city, new and maintenance construction gave way to houses and stores scarred by vehicle exhaust and crumbling around the edges, pressed together like crowded children scrambling for a ball.
Turning away from the Nile, Justine stood for a moment to get her bearings, bending over, hands on her thighs, stretching her back. A hand, not her own, reached under her from behind, firmly stroking between her legs then withdrawing as quickly as it had arrived. A wave of terror shot through her stomach and chest. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what she’d felt. She swung around to see a stooped man in a gray kaftan and woolen scarf limping swiftly away.
She could have caught him easily, but what would she say? What would she do? Would the authorities pay her any mind? Not in Egypt. She turned and ran back to the hotel, stumbling occasionally, shaken by the violation.
Justine was still jittery when she entered the hotel’s coffee shop to meet Nadia at 10:00. The story of her morning run poured out. “I did a very stupid thing this morning. I went out running in a tight Lycra suit. An invitation.”
Nadia listened quietly, reaching across the wide table to take her hands. “Believe me, it’s so rare. In spite of your attire, I find myself disturbed . . . you should be able to expect safety.”
“Let’s forget about it. I should have known better.” The last time Justine was in Cairo, she’d been a scrawny kid, hardly a target for sexual advances, but that was no excuse for forgetting cultural codes. More than anything, she was embarrassed. After all, she was a professional anthropologist now. A Ph.D., for goodness’ sake. She stared out the window for several moments. The Nile was now a sheet of glass, the tan sky tipped with pale blue. “Amir called this morning. To apologize. He was very gracious and offered to take me to see his grandfather this afternoon.”
Nadia smiled. “I’m pleased to hear he called. Amir is a proud man, so it’s difficult for him to apologize. I hope you found it in your heart to accept his apology.” She signaled to the waiter for tea.
“Of course I accepted his apology.” Justine paused. “Do you think he’ll tell me about Zachariah?”
Nadia shook her head. “Probably not. At least not until he gets to know you better. I know Amir fairly well. His mother and I were close friends—we went to school together in Alexandria—so I’ve watched him grow up. Are you going with him this afternoon?”
“We’ll meet at four and walk to his grandfather’s office. I look forward to reconnecting with his grandfather. Besides, I’m willing to trust that there is more to admire in Amir than I’ve discovered so far.”
“I appreciate your willingness to keep an open mind.” Nadia smiled. “Amir means a lot to me, and I was afraid that last night would have closed the door for you.” She tilted her head. “Some people would have walked away.”
“I’ll admit, I sometimes make quick judgments unless there is a good reason to do otherwise. I take pride in reading people and drawing conclusions on little information. It’s one of my talents—and probably one of my weaknesses.”
Nadia laughed softly. Her mass of thick hair moved like gray Jell-O. “I tend to trust too quickly and am sometimes disappointed.”
The tea arrived then. Justine added a little honey to hers and stirred it slowly.
Nadia picked up the hot china cup and blew on the rich brown surface. After a few sips, she shifted the direction of the conversation. “Have you had an opportunity to read the proposal and think it through?” The proposal for the UNESCO Community Schools for Girls project described several rural schools built primarily outside of Cairo. In small villages, there were not enough girls to make up schools with separate grade levels, and parents often forbade their daughters from walking to larger, nearby villages. Attending school with boys was not considered an option in rural areas, but ungraded all-girls schools were proving workable.
“I’ve read it several times, most recently this morning. It’s impressive and ambitious. Ungraded instruction, parental governance, community commitment. Tell me something I didn’t read in the proposal.”
Nadia smiled, then said, “Gratitude. I hadn’t thought much about what gratitude looked like in children. Eagerness, aliveness glowing in their eyes. But there is something more. A yearning beginning to be fulfilled, a longing they had no reason to expect would ever be met. Some days I leave a school and find myself teary with unexpected happiness.”
Justine felt her eyes well up. “You surprise me, Nadia. I guess I expected something else. Longing would seem a rather adult emotion. I’m not sure I’ve seen it in children.”
“Perhaps there are other words to explain what I’m seeing. But you said I surprised you. What did you think I would say?”
She sipped her tea before speaking. “Some kind of education-talk, I suppose. Reading and math and tests and achievement. I’m becoming jaded by the direction U.S. schools are taking. It’s as though the human side of children is being exchanged for a technological view of life and learning. You know, children as objects, as robots.”
“I know what you mean. As women, we’ve all had that experience.”
“I’m afraid so. I’m enchanted to think about children, especially young girls, brimming with emotions and longing. I can hardly wait to get into the schools and see how all the pieces come together.” She paused, holding Nadia’s gaze. “What are you hoping to learn from me?”
Nadia nodded as though she’d been pondering this next question. “Well . . . we’re hoping that an anthropologist with your background can show us some things our eyes can’t see.”
Some things our eyes can’t see, Justine mused, glancing at young women in hijabs passing on the sidewalk below. I wonder what yearnings these young women have? “A lovely invitation,” she said.
“We want to understand how the girls relate to each other and how they’re learning. Most importantly, we want these girls to have the confidence and the ability to make choices that will bring them more freedom later on. Such freedom is rare in our world.” The conversation paused for a moment while the waiter replenished the hot water for their tea.
“Such freedom is rare in any world,” Justine said once he’d departed. “And as
you’ve indicated, a critical element of freedom is choice. We may want to ask ourselves: How do these girls choose? Are they generating their own measuring sticks for choice? Mimicking peers? Trying to please adults? Remaining silent as a form of non-choice?”
Nadia’s lips expanded into a grin. “Exactly. We’ve thought that what passes for choice is often just imitating others, but we’ve not been able to observe keenly enough to know how to intervene. You can understand all that? Just by watching?”
“Well . . . there’s a little more to it than that,” Justine admitted, energized by Nadia’s enthusiasm. “I think we can observe those things. As soon as the girls trust me I can code behaviors within learning circles, questions, silences. Then we’ll know how to intervene.”
The waiter returned with two menus, as though waiting for them to realize they were hungry. Nadia suggested some traditional Egyptian fare for sharing: kofta, tabbouleh, and babaghanoush with baladi bread.
“I’d like for you to visit some schools first. We have two new ones in the area. One in the City of the Dead, a unique community in the middle of urban sprawl, and the other in Birqash, a small village about thirty-five kilometers northwest of town that hosts the camel market. What if we start with the school in Birqash on Monday morning? Then you can help me get ready for a dinner party that evening. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
By 3:45, Justine was reclining in one of the brocaded chairs in the lobby, her ankle-length skirt almost touching her sturdy walking shoes. She stared at the ceiling, allowing herself to be mesmerized once again by the huge amber glass chandelier overhead.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Amir, standing behind her, his eyes following hers. “I wish I’d seen the original. My grandmother said it was a vision to behold.”
The Cairo Codex Page 4
