“I had no idea.” Justine’s voice softened, and she joined her. “Did he die?”
“Christopher died on our fifth birthday,” Andrea said, her moist eyes catching the shimmer of the fountain. “Oddly, I remember it vividly. Or perhaps my memories are formed by stories I’ve heard.”
Justine moved closer, placing her hand on Andrea’s forearm.
“Even though we were in different placentas, we shared the same sounds, the same sights, the same nutrients in the womb. When our mother was upset or tired, we felt the same stress. We tussled back and forth in there.”
“How do you know all that?” Justine was incredulous.
“I don’t remember, I guess, but I feel it—I’ve always felt it. I miss him as though part of me has been amputated. Bereaved twins are half-souls you know. Twins develop in relation to each other. When a twin is lost, a part of ourselves is lost. You have to recalibrate your heart.”
“You’re talking about Jesus and Elizabeth also?”
“Two thousand years ago, a multiple birth was a miracle in itself. So many things could go wrong. They were a great gift from God. And people were wiser about binding them together. They would have slept in the same bed, been held to Mary’s breasts at the same time.”
“What does this tell us about Jesus? About who he became?”
“Jesus would have defined himself in relation to Elizabeth, taking on many of the female qualities she represented—just as he would have done if she’d lived. He may have absorbed sensitivity, empathy, connectedness, an aversion to injustice . . . the qualities women hold dear.”
“And if he defined himself in relation to Elizabeth . . .”
Andrea finished her thought: “. . . then Mary would have helped him develop the essential qualities of both genders, to become remarkably balanced and perceptive.”
“Yes, yes, Mom, thanks . . . I’m doing well. All mended . . . or almost.” Justine had dialed Italy as soon as she got back to her apartment, wanting to hear her mother’s voice. Tell her about the meeting. Given the rising level of threat, she really needed to know why Ibrahim had told her to call her mother.
“And your heart? It’s mending too?”
Justine hadn’t told her mother about the decision to break up with Nasser. How does she know these things?
“Well, let’s say my mind is working better than my heart, but you know me: I keep it beating regularly by jogging on Roda Island.”
“Ah, Roda. My closest friend lives behind the Manial Palace. Beautiful gardens . . .”
Lucrezia sounded ready to be interrupted, so Justine changed the topic. “I have an issue concerning the codex . . . and Ibrahim . . . and you, Mom.”
“Ibrahim? And me?” Stillness now on the other end of the phone. Justine could hear the squabbling shrieks of jays in her mother’s garden. She must be standing on the terrace.
“Andrea and I had a difficult meeting today with Ibrahim. There was some conflict over his reluctance to let parts of the codex come to light—sections that would challenge strongly held religious beliefs, both Christian and Muslim. Earlier, he said: ‘Talk to your mother.’”
“Talk to your mother? Ibrahim asked you to talk with me about the codex?” There was a tone of incredulousness in her mother’s voice, and Justine could almost feel her thinking. “Ah . . . Ibrahim is being cautious again and he thinks that I might support him. Is that it?”
“I would say that’s pretty close.” Justine grinned into the phone. “He, along with Omar Mostafa, the Imam, and a Coptic priest named Father Zein. They want to keep it secret that Jesus had a twin sister. And, of course, they would like to suppress that Mary wasn’t a virgin. And the Holy Family’s reason for coming to Egypt. Pretty much the whole thing, really.”
Lucrezia laughed. “The Church—Rome and Alexandria and Constantinople—has thousands of years of practice in deception and burying new revelations. They’ll not give up easily. Consider what happened to the finds of the past sixty years and the recent Gospel of Judas. Have they really changed anything?”
Justine was quiet, considering. “I see what you mean. Information that could, would, alter the meaning of Christianity is cleverly deflected. But tell me, why did Ibrahim ask me to talk with you? What is your connection to him? Other than as a family friend, I mean.”
“Okay . . . well . . . this is going to be a long story. Do you have time?”
Justine’s stomach tightened. “Go ahead. I have time.”
“From my home here in Fiesole I overlook the Duomo—it’s my constant reminder of the collusion of the Church with what seems to be a universal male need for a virgin mother. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You first should know that Ibrahim watched me grow up, and when he deemed me old enough, he seduced me.”
“An affair, Mom? With Ibrahim? Mother! How could that happen? Did Father know?” Her shocked voice gained momentum as she spoke.
“Slow down, Justine. One question at a time! No, your father never knew. And I’d like to keep it that way. Please. After all, Ibrahim was his mentor and colleague.”
“Okay . . . but Ibrahim is so much older. How . . . why?”
“Twenty-seven years older. But remember, my anthropologist daughter, that in many parts of the world a difference in age is not considered relevant.”
“Now I remember the mischievous sparkle in his eyes when he talks about you,” Justine said wryly. “But I never suspected. That scoundrel! My god . . . what happened?”
“Ibrahim was a friend of the family. We attended the same church and we all belonged to the Ghezira Club. I had a teenage crush on him, I suppose. In those days, he was dashing and thoroughly mysterious. When he began to make advances, I was flattered. Enthralled, actually. It was a seduction, yes, Justine, but I went along with it. My parents never knew.” Justine was trying to take all this in when her mother continued with, “Thank god I never got pregnant.” Lucrezia said this calmly, as though she were reporting a routine event.
“How old were you?” asked Justine, bracing herself to be shocked again.
“Seventeen . . . or maybe a little younger.”
“In America we would put him in jail!” Justine said with an air of self-righteousness. She felt angry, righteously angry, with Ibrahim.
“The rest of the world is not as puritanical as America,” reminded her mother.
“I know . . . I know that . . . But why is Ibrahim so sure you would support him?”
“Ibrahim thinks he knows me. He thinks I’m still that devout young girl, loyal to Coptic Christianity. Unwavering in my beliefs. But he hasn’t known me for a long time. I’m quite a different person now. You might even say I’m a devout agnostic.”
Justine nearly dropped the mascara she was holding, but she couldn’t help laughing. “A devout agnostic? I knew you were an agnostic. But devout? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“No . . . I’m just passionate about knowledge. And since God is unprovable, at least in my mind, he or she is unknowable. I’m more drawn to explanations of the universe that are Epicurean or Kabbalistic in nature. In those traditions, the world is explained as atoms and personal experience. An energy source in the universe. But then you and I have explored these ideas before. Let me just assure you, daughter, that it is not in my nature to withhold knowledge in the interest of faith.”
“I’d never thought otherwise, Mom. And just so you know, I think Ibrahim is edging into senility and that his distant memory is probably more vivid than his memory of yesterday. I’m sure he remembers the young, compliant Lucrezia.”
Lucrezia only sighed, and Justine said, “Thanks Mom. I think that tells me what I needed to know.”
“But wait a minute, Justine. You know that your dad and I talk . . . right? We are both worried there are dangers there you’re not telling us about. You said the meeting with the Minister of Education went well. So why don’t you just get out of there . . . come home?”
Justine wasn’t prepared for this. “Mom . . . thank you.
I always feel your support. Yours and Dad’s. But I don’t think I’m ready yet. I’ve still got work to do in the schools . . . with the girls. And Mom, about the codex . . . somehow I feel I was just meant to find it.” If they knew the full story, they’d send the National Guard after me.
“Justine! That’s sounds a bit too mystical. I . . .”
“Love you, Mom. Gotta go. Bye.”
CHAPTER 25
“IS THERE ANYTHING TO THE RUMOR, Dr. Mostafa, that the diary of the Virgin Mother has been found?” asked the interviewer on Al Ahram television. Having explored new finds in the western desert and a tomb that could possibly belong to Hatshepsut, the half-hour program was nearing its end.
“Little at this point. But of course, speculations run wild,” replied Mostafa, with exaggerated nonchalance. “What I can tell you is that an ancient book has been found, somehow appearing in the bag of a young American woman who is not an archaeologist.” He struck a dismissive air. “As you know, artifacts found out of context—taken from their place of origin—are highly suspicious. We validated the time period during which the document was written, but the contents raise many questions.” Mostafa filled the chair and the studio with his sense of regal presence, exuding authority and charm like some people exude fear.
“Questions? Such as . . .” asked the eager interviewer.
“Many writings have been discovered in the past several decades that appear to have been written by members of a radical and discredited cult known as Gnostics. A godless bunch. Findings such as the Gospel of Thomas and the Gospel of Judas are good examples. Their claims are in direct contradiction to centuries of religious teachings and more solid evidence. These documents have been largely discredited by the world’s religious scholars. What we have here may be another such example.”
“Your comments whet my appetite, Dr. Mostafa. Can you reveal any of the contents? I’m sure that our audience would be most interested. One of the wildest speculations around is that the book may have been written by the Mother of God herself. What can you tell our listeners about that?”
“A foolish conjecture, I assure you. I can promise your audience that they can continue to count on my office for breaking news as soon as the information becomes authenticated.”
“At this point, then, you would warn listeners not to be taken in by the rumors?”
“Exactly,” said Mostafa, flashing his infamous smile.
“My visa’s been revoked,” Andrea said with characteristic calm as she curled up on Justine’s couch. “I’ll even have to get coverage for the balance of my classes.”
Justine kicked off her shoes and released her body into the embroidered armchair across from the couch. “Revoked? What happened?” She was chilled by the news, though not entirely surprised.
“It’s begun, Justine. No telling what will happen next,” Andrea said, her black eyelashes fluttering like small velvet fans holding back the tears. “Mostafa . . . the Imam . . . the Copts . . . the plan is being set in place to discredit us. Me, at least,. You may not have seen Mostafa’s interview last night.”
“I didn’t. I was on the phone much of the evening. And working on a school report.”
Andrea summarized the Great Man’s claims in the Al Ahram interview.
Justine was stunned; she was speechless for several moments. “My god! I had no idea he would lie so directly! Can’t the University do anything? At least get your visa extended for the rest of the semester? This is so abrupt.”
“The AUC President asked Minister Ghalib to intervene. We’ll see. But you need to prepare yourself for what’s ahead,” said Andrea, twisting the golden ankh on the long chain around her neck.
Justine could feel her chest tightening. “Mom pointed out what we already knew: the churches—and mosques—are very practiced at deflecting truth.” She grabbed two bottles of Evian from the fridge, handed one to Andrea, and began to pace back and forth across the room. When she turned around, An-drea was crying. Why am I surprised? Did I think Andrea was too mature, too strong . . . beyond crying? Is anyone beyond crying? She sat down beside her friend, taking her hand as tears welled up in her own eyes.
“Don’t be shocked by anything that happens now,” said Andrea, so softly it was difficult for Justine to hear her. “The gears have been put into place to erase the evidence of apostasy, faithlessness.”
“Evidence? You mean the codex?” Justine was startled once again.
“A small item appeared in the paper this morning. It’s titled, ‘What is this we hear about a diary?’ Or some approximation in Arabic.”
“Such a small town! It continues to amaze me how rumors can go viral—it’s as though the city were an engorged Internet!”
“You’re so right. Rumors move faster than a dust storm in this damned desert,” affirmed Andrea. “Speaking of secrets, did your mother understand why Ibrahim asked you to talk to her?”
Justine walked into the kitchen and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of Antinori cabernet she’d been saving for a special occasion. This occasion warrants indulgence, she reasoned. Returning to Andrea, she replied: “Ibrahim first knew my mother when she was a devout young woman. Apparently, he thought she’d want to preserve the beliefs of the church. At one time he knew her very well . . . but he doesn’t know her now.”
“What do you mean ‘very well’? Were they involved?” Andrea asked with an air of amusement.
“A young woman, twenty-seven years his junior, seduced by the charming professor, a friend of the family,” Justine said. “My father never knew. At least that’s what she claims.”
“I never suspected, but I should have. Ibrahim was quite a womanizer in his day.” Andrea tilted her head and winked.
Justine stared at Andrea. “You, too?” She allowed herself to be astonished once again. “Will surprises never cease?” She grinned. “And I thought Ibrahim’s flirtatious manner with you was just an unrequited fantasy; really, it was fond memories.”
Andrea waved her hand as though such old news was not worth pursuing. “I’m surprised that Ibrahim would still think of Lucrezia as the innocent he knew years ago. He’s losing touch.”
“A victim of those finely edited memories, I suppose. And age.” Justine grew pensive, calm. “I’m sure to be asked to leave Egypt. But I have no intention of going quietly. We must write about what we’ve found. Can you agree to that?” She tightened her grip on her friend’s hand. Andrea flashed an enigmatic smile. “Where is the copy right now?”
“It’s still with Ibrahim, as far as I know,” said Andrea, staring into the ruby liquid. She glanced up. “You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“I’m fearful—fearful of abandoning my work with the girls, fearful of leaving friends, fearful of the effects of all of this on my career, even fearful of what is still unknown. Embarrassed, too, since I was warned about extracurricular involvements. It makes sense that they would need to discredit us. Me as the unqualified discoverer of an unprovenanced find, and you as the major translator. Isaac, being Jewish, can be easily discredited. That just leaves Ibrahim. Do you think the codex copy is safe with him?”
“I’m not sure . . . I’m not at all sure. He violated our trust once before. But there are others on the team; can they get to all of them? How about Al Rasul? Amir?”
“Many of these men have known each other for a long time, so nothing would surprise me. As for the copy of the codex, we need to find out if it’s safe, how to get access to it. The sooner the better. When do you have to leave Egypt?”
“I have a week to find a replacement for my classes and conclude other obligations to the university. At least, that’s where it stands right now.”
Justine’s cell rang. “Yes, okay, I understand,” she said, ending the call. “Nadia’s picking me up,” she told Andrea. “We have an appointment with the Minister. She sounded ominous.”
CHAPTER 26
JUSTINE’S MORNING RUN ON RODA ISLAND was fierce, fast, a failed effort to
clear her head of the disturbing meeting with the Minister of Education. Dr. Ghalib had been the carrier of bad news: her expulsion from Egypt. Embarrassed, humiliated, Justine had fought back tears of anger and sadness as she apologized for depriving the schools of her services, for using poor judgment, for permitting her passions to pull her into uncharted territory.
She stepped out of the shower as her phone rang. It would be Nadia again, arranging for a meeting this morning at the Marriott. She grabbed the phone as though it were an offending appendage. “Okay, Nadia. More bad news? Am I going to prison?” she nearly yelled into the phone. Calming herself, she asked, “What time are we picking Andrea up?”
“I don’t think prison is likely,” said Amir.
“Oh! Amir. Hi,” she said, discombobulated. She could almost feel his amusement over the phone. “Please forgive me. I’m feeling a little touchy this morning.” She sat on the bed and dried her wet hair.
“No kidding. I think you’ve answered my question. I called to find out how the meeting with the Minister went.”
She told him. Then paused. “Any other theories on the theft?” Throwing the towel on the floor, she hugged the phone between her chin and shoulder and walked to her dresser, picking out lingerie and a deep green silk blouse—a mistake in this heat, she reminded herself, but everything else was dirty or needed ironing.
“A few thoughts—not much more. As we agreed, everyone has a motive, and it probably involves a number of co-conspirators. And there are actors on- and off-stage.”
“What do you mean?”
“The invisible crowd. Thousands of options. But I’m persuaded that Mostafa and his cabal are involved somehow, although he appears to also be the victim. A clever ruse, I suspect. Then there’s the Alex crowd. Perhaps even Grandfather.”
“How does the Brotherhood figure in?” She buttoned her blouse and grabbed gold hoop earrings from a side table. They were warm in her hand.
“Anything is possible with the Brotherhood, although most of these folks would find working with them offensive. On the other hand, there are many professionals in the organization and it’s often difficult to know who’s a member.”
The Cairo Codex Page 31
