“I’ll pick you up at nine in the morning. Now get some rest.”
“I was impressed with how clear your grandfather’s mind is. After all he’s been through,” Justine said on the drive back to the Shepheard.
“He hasn’t had such a rare find in his hands for many years, perhaps since he worked with your father. I just hung around as a kid, but your dad treated me like a son.”
Justine felt a sharp pang in her chest. “The son he never had,” she murmured, but Amir heard her.
He chuckled. “Hardly. But I think I know how you feel. Zachariah was always grandfather’s favorite.” He glanced at her. “Tell me about what happened yesterday.”
Justine swallowed hard and gazed at Amir with affection. She told him of her trip with Nadia to Birqash, the children and their families, the school.
“And three children died in the collapse? Tragic.” He remained quiet for a while, his eyes glistening. “Zachariah was involved in a tragic incident once. He was volunteering at a school in Bulaq and the school bus stalled on a train track.”
“The train couldn’t stop?” Justine shivered as she visualized the impending accident.
Amir shook his head. “Zachariah was with the kids in the back. Six were killed, yet he survived . . . it was hard for him to forgive himself. It’s called survivor’s guilt, I think . . .” He stopped as though there was so much more to say. “I must call Nadia. See what I can do. And I’m due in Shoubra in an hour.”
“The teacher lives in Shoubra. It’s pretty damaged.” Justine watched his profile—his throbbing temples, his reddened eyes. “Just let me off near the train station up ahead. I can walk from there.”
“Thanks,” he said. He pulled up to the curb behind a line of buses and leaned over to open the door. Drawing back, he met her eyes and said, “I understand from Nadia that your apartment will be ready soon. If I can help, let me know.”
“I will,” she said.
It was Wednesday, the third day after the earthquake—a lifetime ago. Nadia would soon be by to pick up Justine for their visit to the school in the City of the Dead. Justine’s cuts were healing nicely, but her bruises continued to spread beyond her bandages into pools of yellow and lavender. She managed to mask the evidence of injury with a long denim skirt and a blouse with wrist cuffs—except for her face, to which she applied more makeup.
Her internal clock was still crazy: she was waking too early and sleeping at odd hours, her dreams filled with strange images. This morning she’d set off at sunrise for a run—her first since the quake—then showered and dressed for a modest breakfast in The Caravan. Now, searching the seams of the magnificent room for earthquake damage, she noticed a vertical crack in the lowhanging balcony, damage that, no doubt, rendered it unsafe. Settling into a window seat, she was astonished once again by the chameleon nature of the Nile, its changing moods and colors—the pinks of morning among her favorites. Fashionable young Muslim women with matching scarves, purses, and shoes passed by on the sidewalk below. “We masquerade devoutness to fool our gods,” Mohammed had said. I’m sure he meant God. Allah.
“Justine Jenner? Dr. Jenner?”
She glanced up from her morning tea and met the eyes of a man of about average height, not classically handsome, but somehow strangely sensuous. “I’m Justine Jenner. And you are?”
“Nasser Khalid,” he said. “I heard you were in town.” He placed his hands on the back of the chair across the table and leaned forward.
She raised an eyebrow and stared at him. “In a city of eighteen million, you heard I was in town?” The events of the past week had placed her on guard.
“Ah.” He smiled disarmingly. “You could use an explanation. Well, I teach part-time at AUC and your name was being bandied around in the faculty room. So I started asking questions.”
“Very resourceful,” she said. “But how did you know who I was?”
“The clerk at the desk told me you were having breakfast in here. And unless you had changed gender, taken to the veil, or aged thirty years, you were my only choice. Truthfully, I also saw you walk across campus with your dad once. I was a student of your father’s at Berkeley.”
Justine relaxed. “Cross-examination over. Please join me. I’m always delighted to meet a student of my father’s.” She closed the flap of the school project in front of her and moved it to one side.
“Durrell?” he asked as he sat down.
Justine was puzzled only momentarily before she realized he was making reference to Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, set in World War II Alexandria. Durrell was legendary in Egypt, making “Justine,” the title of the first book in the series, a popular name. Other than Nobel Prize–winner Naigub Maufouz, he was the most notable writer of the Egyptian scene.
“Two sources, really,” she replied. “My mother thought Durrell’s Quartet the best novels ever written, and my grandmother was smitten with D.H. Lawrence. Her name was Laurence. As is the custom in Egypt, her name was spelled with a U instead of a W.”
“You’re fortunate, it might have been ‘Balthazar,’” he said, referring to another title in the series. He gave her a crooked Harrison Ford grin.
“And you? Named after President Nasser, I assume.”
“Guilty as charged. My mother was hopelessly in love with him.” He paused and poured her another cup of tea from her own pot. “What brings you to Cairo?”
The grin stole her train of thought. What brings me to Cairo? she asked herself, embarrassedly aware that Nasser was watching her labor over an ordinary question. “I’m working with the UNESCO Community Schools for Girls project,” she finally said. “And you?”
“A unique agenda. Schools for girls. As for me, I’m Egyptian, and this is my home. After I finished at Berkeley, I searched for work with several archaeology teams here, but when that didn’t happen, I accepted a part-time teaching position at AUC. A couple of archaeology classes and one on ancient history. 101 stuff.” He shrugged.
“Do you enjoy teaching?” Suddenly self-conscious about the injury on her forehead, Justine touched her fingers to the discolored area and shook her head slightly so that a lock of hair flowed forward.
“I enjoy teaching, but would rather be digging.” He flashed that grin again.
“How long were you at Berkeley?”
“I finished in ’04. My first two years were on a scholarship at the University of Dayton in Ohio. Then I moved back to Cairo in the fall of ’04 and started at AUC the next spring.”
“What was it like being a student of my father’s?”
“Difficult sometimes,” he said, rubbing the ridge of his nose. “Your father is exceptionally knowledgeable and demanding, but also personable and supportive . . . But enough about me.” He nodded toward her forehead. “How did you survive the quake? I can’t help but notice that nasty bruise.”
“I was trapped in a crypt in Old Cairo. It collapsed around me. Scared me out of my wits,” she admitted. “Fortunate to have escaped at all, and with only a few cuts.” She briefly explained about the church, the darkness, and her escape with the help of the young docent.
“What an ordeal! Are you all right now?”
“Physically, yes, but on Monday we found that three children had been killed in one of our schools in Birqash. It has been quite a week so far.” She found herself staring at the table as a wave of sadness washed over her. She shook her head, forcing a smile. “Shall we order more tea?”
Nasser’s expression conveyed both empathy and charm. How does he manage that? “No tea for me now, thanks,” he said. “A horrible few days, but you seem to have survived well. Has it dampened your resolve?” His dark blue eyes matched his turtleneck sweater.
“If anything, it has strengthened my resolve. Witnessing the community of mourners and meeting the teacher face to face—seeing Nadia’s pains and hopes—I am drawn in deeply. Nadia is the woman I work with. These experiences make me feel honored to be a part of it all. But even so, I’m still try
ing to make sense of these three short days.”
“I almost envy you. Intensity speeds up life and makes it more meaningful,” Nasser said.
Justine found the observation disconcerting, yet intriguing. “Right now I don’t have enough distance to be analytical, but I’ll give it some thought.”
“Are you going to be in town long?”
“For several months. Perhaps more than a year.”
“Will you be living at the Shepheard?” Those dark eyes held hers.
She shook her head. “I’m moving into an apartment in Garden City later this week or early next. Not far from here, almost around the corner from the Four Seasons.”
“I would like to see you again. Would you be so kind as to give me your cell number?” He patted his pocket as if in search of a business card.
“I would like that,” she said, smiling and writing her number on a small notepad with “Shepheard Hotel” printed across the top.
CHAPTER 7
THE CITY OF THE DEAD: A PLACE where nearly a million of the living joined the thousands buried in Cairo’s notorious cemetery, an area nearly as large as Venice. Small tombs that looked like dollhouses had become home to families who subsisted without basic plumbing and water services. For years the government had sought to dispel this encroachment upon holy ground, but it had finally given up. Now small shops and an occasional water faucet made life there somewhat more bearable.
Justine felt as though she were still observing the scene with the uncomprehending eyes of the teen she’d been when her father had brought her there. Flies crowded around the eyes and mouth of the small girl of about five who stood in front of her. Her curly hair, the same color as her skin, looked as though it had never been combed. She wore a faded pink cotton dress with a sash that had come loose on one side; the long sash, decorated with a bow in the middle, touched the dirt near her bare feet. The young girl stared intently at a dead donkey lying in the middle of the street. Across the back legs of the donkey lay a dog; both were surrounded by flies.
Justine couldn’t take her eyes off the girl. She wanted to hold her, to comb her hair, to chase away the flies, to sew her sash. Such a beautiful child. What does it mean to care? Her Western notions connected caring with cleanliness and order and combed hair . . . and battling flies.
As though on cue, a somewhat older girl emerged from the doorway beside the child. The older girl was wearing a clean blue and white school uniform and carrying a backpack. The contrast between the two girls was disconcerting.
“The school is at the end of the street,” Nadia said, her voice sounding far away. “Justine?” she said. “We’ll walk from here.”
Nadia started down the street, watching carefully where she stepped. Justine caught up with her and Nadia instinctively reached for her hand. They greeted children on both sides of the street, some of them well dressed and carrying backpacks. Still holding on to Justine, Nadia turned toward the school and up the six steps leading into a white-plastered building that mercifully had withstood the quake.
Children were laughing and playing. The two women entered an intimate classroom untouched by the streets below. Nadia had explained that, while it was unusual to have a community school in the middle of the city, the only other school in the City of the Dead was co-ed and situated about a half-kilometer away, in the remodeled part of the complex. Parents were reluctant to let their daughters walk the distance and attend school with boys. As in the smaller rural villages, families here were exceedingly traditional in their notions about males and females, intent on keeping them apart.
Nadia introduced Justine to the teacher, a lovely young woman named Samira, perhaps eighteen years of age. While universities in Egypt certified teachers, high school completion was considered adequate preparation in cases where positions were difficult to fill. Samira wore a long dress of soft green with a matching hijab. She smiled, reached for Justine’s hand, and turned to introduce her to the students in her limited English.
“Good morning, Dr. Jenner,” said the children in unison.
Justine found a chair in the back of the simple room, furnished with the same type of wooden benches and stools that had been present in the collapsed school in Birqash. Pale orange walls surrounded a green-trimmed blackboard hanging behind the teacher’s desk. On either side, children’s art displays were taped to the wall: watercolors of community gardens, stick figures of families, a dog with sorrowful eyes, a funeral crypt labeled “my home.” Learning centers were organized into each corner near built-in cabinets of blocks, mimeographed work sheets, and crayons. Two long shelves partially filled with ragged paperback books stretched out below large, paneless windows.
Thirteen girls with expressions of joyful expectation wore the matching uniforms Justine had noticed earlier. As they opened their small backpacks to take out today’s homework, it gave her a warm, pleasurable shudder to realize that she would be working with this endearing group of young girls. What influence will I have? Will these girls trust to me? Will they think we have anything in common? Anything to share?
Samira drew symbols for several different kinds of activities on the board: learning circles, silent reading, a small group art project, and a math game with blocks. Small books lined the wall shelf. Justine tried to put the codex from her mind, but she was undeniably curious about it, eager to find out whether Ibrahim had learned anything yet.
The children quietly moved into the four learning circles, taking out activity trays with reading games, and Samira pointed out one of the circles for Justine to join. The group of girls appeared shy and reluctant to initiate, leaving decisions to each other that were slowly and painfully made. When they learn to trust me, they’ll be more relaxed and responsive to each other—I hope.
“What do you think she’s looking at?” asked Madiha, the tallest of the three girls. Assuming that Justine could not understand Arabic, Madiha focused the conversation on Justine without turning in her direction.
“I don’t know,” said Nita, stealing a sideways glance at Justine.
“She doesn’t look scary to me,” said Assma. “I think she’s pretty. Look at her shoes.”
“They can fool you. They make all nice—” began Madiha, only to be interrupted.
“Are you finished with the lesson?” Justine asked in Arabic, knowing that the longer she let this conversation proceed without revealing herself, the more they would feel manipulated, deceived.
Startled, the girls looked at each other. Assma and Nita blushed and looked down. Madiha spoke first. “We didn’t think you could understand us.”
“I didn’t mean to mislead you. I’m sorry. I learned to speak Arabic as a child. You see, my mother is Egyptian,” Justine explained.
“I think you’re pretty,” repeated Assma as though she hadn’t been heard before.
Justine smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“Can I touch your hair?” asked Nita, tentatively reaching out.
“Of course. Can I touch yours?” She reached for the child’s silken black hair.
“My brother said we should be afraid of Americans. You seem like an American to me,” declared Madiha defiantly. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to see how you girls are learning so we can be better teachers. So we can make better materials for you,” said Justine. “You are partly right, Madiha. My father is American, but he has worked in Egypt often. I grew up in California and Egypt.”
“Miss Samira is already a good teacher,” insisted Madiha.
“I’m sure she is. I’m observing you girls more than I’m observing your teacher. But I promise to tell you what I learn.” Justine smiled gently.
Still unpersuaded, Madiha broke eye contact and turned toward her classmates.
That one will take time. “Shall we start again?” Justine asked.
“Well, what did you think?” Nadia asked as they ordered lunch at Abu Bakr restaurant on Qasr al-Ainy.
Justine ordered her favorites: tabbo
uleh, babaghanoush, and pita with a Diet Coke. “I was impressed that such a joyful island exists in the middle of this unusual community,” she began. “Samira has a helpful and warm manner with the children, and they seem to trust her. I found the girls to be quiet and shy at first, hesitant; but I realize they can’t be expected to trust me as yet. They began to talk about me in Arabic, not realizing that I understood. That was my fault. I should have spoken Arabic from the very beginning. Madiha said her brother told her to be afraid of Americans.”
“Afraid? Did she tell you why?”
“No, but I told them that my mother was Egyptian and that I had learned to speak Arabic as a child. Assma and Nita were fine with that explanation, but Madiha was still distant, mildly hostile.”
“The City of the Dead has several radical quarters where Westerners are despised, the Muslim Brotherhood revered. I’m afraid Madiha must have been warned at home. I’m sorry you had to experience such hostility today.” Nadia lowered her head in apology. “What a week you’ve had!”
Justine waved her hand dismissively. “I’m just grateful that the girls were honest with me. What do you hear from Birqash?”
Nadia’s eyes teared up. “I haven’t heard from Om Mahmoud, but I did get a call from the mayor saying that the fathers in the community, many of them at least, will start repairing the school next week.”
“That’s very encouraging, don’t you think? I was afraid that they would be so overwhelmed by the deaths that they’d give up. That the villagers would see the earthquake as a sign that girls shouldn’t be educated.”
“Some do hold that opinion. According to the mayor, the conflict has been fierce. A few fathers pointed out that the boys’ school, less than a quarter-kilometer away, was undamaged. It wouldn’t be difficult to draw the conclusion that Allah doesn’t approve of educating girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if some families take their daughters out of school.”
The Cairo Codex Page 10
