“The young priest from Santa Barbara was at Muqattum. Strange bedfellows,” she reminded him. “Amir,” she paused, giving full consideration to what she was about to say. “Do you think Nasser is involved? The Nazarene Essenes have a great deal at stake here. They’re searching for a female god.”
“Nothing I’d like better, but I don’t think so. If you’ll forgive my saying so, they’re disorganized and have few contacts with the Supreme Director’s office or the Museum. But anything is possible.”
And Nasser was genuinely surprised when I told him about the theft. “Amir. I’ve broken off my relationship with Nasser.” She let her words hang in the air. He said nothing. Embarrassed, she continued: “There’s a missing piece of this puzzle. What are we not seeing?”
“Aisha would never have allowed it!” Nadia exclaimed. “Fourteen hundred years, and sometimes I think women are no better off.” Her face was flushed, eyes wide, hair more wild than usual. Embarrassment and anger consumed her as she faced Justine and Andrea over lunch in the Palace Garden in Zamalek. Once the palace that Sheikh Pasha built in honor of Eugenia Napoleon during the construction of the Suez Canal, it was now owned and operated by the Marriott Corporation. The women sat around a classic rattan table in the mostly deserted garden restaurant.
“Aisha?” Andrea asked, interrupting Nadia’s rant.
“Aisha. Iwa,” Nadia said. “The beloved wife of the Prophet. It was Aisha who wrote down most of the teachings of Mohammed, from Mecca at least. When tribal clerics insisted on the submission of women, she alone resisted. We like to call her the first Muslim feminist.”
“Do you consider her spirit still alive?” asked Justine.
“You bet it is,” insisted Nadia. “Muslim feminism is spreading throughout the Islamic world. She’d have been angry as hell at the expulsion of two accomplished women from Egypt. On the other hand, it’s unfortunate that you involved yourself with this controversial business about Mary and her daughter. The community schools will now be deprived of your insights . . .”
Justine felt defensive. The meeting with the Minister had been painful enough. “The codex fell in my lap—or at my feet. It’s not as though I went in search of trouble. But, I’ll admit, after the incident on the desert road, you did warn me. I was just too deeply involved by then.”
“I’m not accusing you. Have I given you any reason to think I wasn’t supportive? Yet . . .”
“Go on,” Justine interrupted, feeling the sting of regret redden her cheeks. She knew exactly what she was guilty of. Even if Nadia hadn’t warned her, becoming involved in the political and religious conflicts of a host culture was considered unethical for an anthropologist, regardless of how intriguing the situation.
“If you hadn’t let yourself be drawn in, you wouldn’t be leaving now. This unfortunate business is threatening the whole notion of community schools for girls as well. Many in power would relish an opportunity to close us down.” Nadia fanned herself rapidly with her spiral notebook.
Tears formed in Justine’s eyes. “You’re right,” she said. She rose and walked to the wall overlooking the pool, remembering her parents, together then, dancing to the music of a small orchestra perched under towering date palms. Her mother had worn a gauzy gown of flowing white, her father had looked eternally handsome in his best black Egyptian suit. The memory returned with the scent of jasmine floating in the air that night. How simple life seemed then. I thought it would always be that way. But now my parents are divorced and I’ve failed in my first professional assignment.
“Enough,” Andrea said from the table. “That’s just enough. We know the protocol in our fields, yet there isn’t one of us who could have resisted getting drawn in by the diary of the Virgin Mary. Not you, Nadia. Not me. Not Justine. Curiosity drives what we do. Besides, accusations can’t help us now.”
“When you leave here, Dr. LeMartin, you’ll be back in your comfortable world where women are equals. We have to be ever-vigilant about women’s rights here, rights to work, to discovery. While we do have new laws protecting women’s rights, they are fragile. No-fault divorce. Improved child custody rights. Yet extremists are calling them “Suzanne’s Laws” since Suzanne Mubarak—a professional and activist—challenges their archaic notions of how a decent woman should behave. If Mubarak ever falls, women may also.” Nadia addressed Andrea with heavy sarcasm. “It’s easy to expel non-Egyptians, but there may be repercussions for the rest of us as well. The Muslim Brotherhood is alert for opportunities to sidetrack our advancement, and whenever they have a chance to suppress an issue regarding women, it strengthens their hand.”
“I see. I’m sure you’re right,” Andrea said demurely. “We’re all edgy today. Leaving Egypt is a personal tragedy for me as well, and I want to leave without losing the friends I’ve made.”
A softer expression washed across Nadia’s face. She reached out and held both of Andrea’s hands. “I’m sorry, Andrea.” Twisting toward Justine, she said, “Justine. I’m so sorry I couldn’t prevent your expulsion. I feel that I’ve failed you.”
“You haven’t failed anyone,” said Justine, returning to the table, recalling Nadia’s comments about her hungry guilt, her need to feed it. “I got myself into this mess. I knew early on that the situation could get rough. I should have just kept my eyes on the schools. Now it looks as though Omar Mostafa and his consorts—whoever they are—will have the last word.”
“There’s one more chance,” offered Andrea, biting into a delicately frosted cookie. “We’ll see Ibrahim tomorrow. I’m not confident that he can help, but we have to give it a try. And we have to obtain the copy of the codex.”
“Why wouldn’t he help?” asked Nadia. “If he could.”
“He will if he can,” said Andrea. A piece of frosting fell into her coffee. She looked shocked.
“We’re just not sure how deep the cover-up goes,” offered Justine. “But one thing is sure: It involves both Copts and Muslims, perhaps everyone from Pope Shenoba to the Imam. And the Ministry of Interior.” The opposition was overwhelming.
Nadia spoke, softly this time, realizing that any interventions at their disposal lacked power, authority. After all, NGOs like UNESCO had only informal power to bring to bear against patriarchal bureaucracies, mosques, and churches. “I’m afraid we have little direct recourse. The future of Egypt’s girls rests in education and in women working with other women. Confronting power directly has little chance of success.”
Justine fidgeted with her plate, slowly turning it round and round.
Nadia stared into the distance as though reminiscing. “I’m still encouraged by the courage of Egyptian women—and by the new policies allowing women to be more self-sufficient. I still meet with a group of women from Shoubra in the basement of the Anglican Church. They want to know how to talk about their wants and desires directly. How to involve men in raising their own children, how to say ‘no’ to giving birth to more children, the importance of education for their daughters, even letting those daughters choose their own husbands,” she said. “And the birth rate has fallen in the past few years. Nearly in half. But if the Brotherhood has its way, we’ll lose the momentum we have.” She grew quiet, sipping her second Diet Coke, an addiction she’d picked up from Justine.
Justine harbored her own thoughts as Nadia spoke. What does freedom mean to Arab women? What did it mean to Mary? For her, Egypt was freedom—yet two thousand years later, Egypt denies me freedom.
“When do you leave, Andrea?” Nadia asked.
“A week from today,” said Andrea, tears trickling down her cheeks and staining her lavender linen blouse with drops of black mascara.
Justine glanced at her, then Nadia. Her chest contracted with the pain of loss, the consternation of regret. I’m leaving the girls, those who have learned to trust me, rely on me. Who believed that somehow I could help them create a promising future. Ibrahim is our final chance, but I don’t see what he can do. Yet, as Dylan Thomas would say, I don�
��t intend to go gentle into the good night.
CHAPTER 27
TWO YOUNG MEN DRESSED IN WESTERN attire entered the square near St. Mark’s Church in Heliopolis. The first man, stocky and muscular, driver of the dilapidated vehicle they traveled in, stepped from the car and reached into his trunk for a long, sturdy two-by-four. Holding the board in both hands, he walked toward the massive church door and wedged the long plank into the iron rings dangling from ancient knockers. The second man, thin and wiry by contrast, walked around the five-hundred-year-old structure, spreading gasoline from red cans with aluminum nozzles. Neither man spoke or paid attention to the children playing nearby. They had their orders: burn one Coptic Church in northern Cairo, one in the south. Almost simultaneously.
Removing a small black cigarette lighter from his jean pocket, the second man set fire to the puddles of gasoline surrounding the church. Flames exploded into the night sky.
A third young man, younger than the others, expected but late, parked thirty meters south of the car with the open trunk. Screams could be heard from the church. Horrified, he rushed to the barred door, wrestled the plank loose, flung open the door, took the arms of two terrified, elderly men, and helped them down the steps. By now, flames licked the darkened sky, reaching high above the profiles of adjoining apartments. To the south, a blazing echo radiated from the direction of Old Cairo. Two Coptic churches, torched in the night, burned uncontrollably. Fire engine and police sirens pierced the distant air. Terrified children, reporting to equally terrified parents, had sounded the distress alarm.
The younger man ran toward the other two. “Kafiya, kafiya, stop!” he yelled, knocking a gasoline can from the hands of one of the men, causing the stream of fuel to run rapidly toward the waiting car with the open trunk. The car exploded into flames.
The stocky man cried out to the late arrival: “Are you crazy? In the name of Allah, stop! We have our orders.” Infuriated by his burning car, the desire for revenge welled up in his chest. He drew a knife from his peeling leather belt; the steel glowed with reflected flames.
“You are here to put fear in the hearts of Copts. Undermine their security under the regime. Not take lives,” screamed the younger man.
With a screech of rage, the stocky man lunged toward the younger man, grabbing him by the back of his neck with his left hand and thrusting the knife toward his throat. The younger man grabbed hold of his attacker’s arm and threw them both forward, rolling them onto the burning ground. The blaze caught hold of flapping fabric and rapidly engulfed the two men as they struggled.
Distracted by the searing pain of the flames and unable to hold his attacker at bay, the younger man felt the knife slide across his throat. The blade tumbled into the burning gasoline. Soon, the inferno swallowed the two men and the church.
The thinner man, confused and horrified by the ghastly bodies of his two associates, fled into the darkened alleyway.
To the south, St. Sergius, already severely damaged by the quake, burned to the ground. The holy crypt now opened directly into the night air. The results were exactly as the Muslim Brotherhood wished: caught in the crosshairs of sectarian strife, Egypt reverberated with scattered acts of violence. Chaos. President Mubarak had always protected Christians, but his reign was weakening. What would happen if the Brotherhood had their way?
OLD CAIRO 2 CE
On the last evening of Passover, Joseph draws the reed curtain across the mouth of the cave. When the abrupt knock comes, no one knows whose fist has sounded the alarm.
“The Romans!” yells Jesus. “They’re here. They’ve come for us!”
“Shhh,” I caution, grabbing my son’s arm to keep him from flying out of his chair.
“Not yet,” says Samir, “we were told we had a few more days.”
“You expect the Romans to keep their word?” snarls Noha.
Both Isaiah and Joseph rise and move toward the door. The others remain at the table. Joseph glances around the room for a weapon of some sort, though he knows it will do no good.
Isaiah slowly draws back the curtain of fine reeds. The light from the full moon rushes in, carving out the dark silhouettes of two visitors.
I stare at James, who looks as though he is being called to atone for pulling Herod’s graven eagle down from the temple gate. For it was James who, more than eight summers ago, stood on the shoulders of the older boys, boys who were caught and brutally slaughtered by Herod’s soldiers while James went free. I know that guilt has followed him like a stalking lion ever since, eating away at his mind during the night and in the quiet moments when he works on the canal.
“Pravar!” I exclaim, rising from my chair, surprised and relieved to see friends instead of soldiers.
“Ravi,” echoes Jesus, escaping from my grasp and running to his young friend.
“Why have you returned?” asks Joseph. “Surely you could have been to Alexandria by now. Was your boat not allowed to pass into the delta?”
“As we loaded supplies in Heliopolis, we overheard Roman soldiers talking,” replies Pravar, out of breath from rowing up the Great River. “They will raid your homes tonight. Joseph, Mary, they will not wait for the prefect to arrive. Take only what you can carry and come with us. But hurry.”
“The animals!” cries Rachel.
“Zechariah’s bible stand?” asks Joseph, his voice falling off in resignation.
“Only what we can carry,” I repeat, rolling up the bedding and grandmother’s linen tablecloth, wrapping it carefully around eight wooden spoons. I reach into a niche near the dishes to find the earthen jar that contains our few dinars, and I allow my hand to linger inside the niche, grasping my precious calfskin book. Forcing my fingers to separate, I withdraw my hand, holding only the jar. “Only what we can carry,” I repeat.
Before we flee the cave, our home for these many years, I draw my hand over the mouth of the cave. Eight summers, and now we must leave behind so much of ourselves. Will I ever know freedom again?
Hooves on the dry earth sound a crackling alarm as Roman riders drive their horses across the rise from the east. Moonlight witnesses the release of our donkeys and sheep from our corrals. Raised Roman swords glow like torches in the night.
I am the last family member to step onto the waiting ark. “My comb, Joseph . . . I’ve forgotten my comb!” I cry, pulling away from my husband’s grip just as Pravar places his heavy boot on the shore and pushes the boat into the rapidly moving current.
CHAPTER 28
“CAN YOU HELP US, IBRAHIM?” Justine and Andrea sat anxiously across from the aging professor in his cramped library office. Their stories of impending expulsion had evoked no response from him. Did he already know? The two women glanced at each other, wondering if he were listening at all.
Ibrahim El Shabry sat lost in another world. “I think it was a Tuesday afternoon . . . iwa, a Tuesday,” he began, his voice disembodied, his eyes concentrating on the warping floorboards. “I’d just finished cataloging the new Rameses exhibit. My grandson, Zachariah—he was about eight—had gone with his father to work in the British Embassy. But then he came storming into my office in the Museum. I was in the Museum then. He must have run all the way. His face was red; he was out of breath. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. The boy stood there and trembled as he described what he had seen at the embassy. To a less sensitive boy, it might not have meant much . . . but to Zachariah . . .”
“What’s happened?” asked Andrea, realizing that he did not hear her.
Ibrahim continued talking, as though to himself. “His father, my son-in-law, had been called to account by the British for some slip in protocol. One of the bureaucrats, strutting like a colonial master, dressed down Gamel in the most wretched terms . . . called him a damned savage . . . Gamel was darker-skinned, you see, like Sadat . . . a noose around the neck of the British, an embarrassment to the office. From what my grandson heard, his father had forgotten to invite the Jordanian consul to a meeting on Israel. He didn’t understa
nd the importance of this slip in protocol, but his father’s devastating humiliation was obvious. His father didn’t say anything. He just stood there and took the verbal whipping while his son watched. After that day, the boy was more distant, more sullen. Humiliated for his father. Such a sensitive boy . . .”
“Ibrahim . . . Ibrahim . . .” tried Justine, placing her hand on his trembling arm. “Something has happened. What is it?”
“Zachariah was never quite the same, you know,” he said, glancing briefly at Justine, eyes glassy, flat. “He could not tolerate injustice. He was fiery, passionate. When he got into high school, he volunteered at St. Mark’s, helping the elderly, those unable to walk on their own. Taking them home, he would stop to buy groceries from his allowance. I understand he converted to Islam—a generous religion, but I’m afraid his motives were not religious.” Ibrahim’s face contorted in agony. “And now he is dead. Dead. Left to burn with the church he tried to save, the church where he grew up . . .”
Andrea held him while he sobbed. Neither woman had heard about Zachariah’s death. They had both thought he had left the country.
Grief washed over Justine’s face. But what was he doing at the Christian church? He was in a Christian church the day of the kidnapping, and he explained his mission then. But burning churches? “I’m so sorry, Ibrahim,” she said. “I know it must be so terribly painful for you, the family.” She thought of Amir, his loyalty to his brother, and then his accusations. Will he feel responsible? She clasped her hands, digging her fingernails into her palms and burying them in her full khaki skirt.
“Is there anything we can do, Ibrahim, anything at all?” Only silence greeted Andrea’s offer of help. “We will go then,” she said quietly, nodding to Justine, who rose, hugged Ibrahim, and kissed him on the forehead before stepping toward the door. The question about access to the copy of the diary would have to wait.
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