Ibrahim sat slumped in his chair, broken by the death of his favorite grandson. With head still down, he called after them. “No . . . No, don’t go yet. I’ve more to tell you.”
“Iwa,” Andrea said, relieved and surprised. She held Justine’s moist eyes as they sat back down.
“When you brought me the codex, Justine, I knew it was important,” he began. “My excitement grew when we were able to get Andrea, and then Isaac, to assist with the translation. I soon regretted bringing you in, my dear,” he said to Andrea. “With your expertise and courage—and Isaac’s—I knew I would have little chance of keeping the findings secret, for by then I had managed to read several words on the opening pages. I was stunned by what I learned, but it was too late to simply make the codex disappear. So I took the first few pages until I could figure out what to do. You understand that religion is a tinderbox in our part of the world. Old myths are the glue that keeps life in delicate balance.” He sat up more erect and blinked several times, his heavy brows nearly touching.
“That’s when Zachariah came to me. Told me of his mission. It was worthy: To keep the two religions from destroying each other. Aim their rage toward the West, not each other. He told me this was his charge from the Brotherhood.” He drew in a deep breath. “I couldn’t believe it at first, but he insisted, told me things had changed. But he was being used, Justine, manipulated, tested. There wasn’t any real intention to bring the religions together. The burning churches and his death confirm that.”
The mission Zachariah had described to her in Muqattum was false, a cover. She shook her head, still experiencing a little vertigo when she did so. I knew he had seen the pages, or heard about them . . . and I blamed Amir. Ibrahim let me blame Amir.
As though reading her thoughts, Ibrahim said, “Amir is a good boy, and he is strong. He can take care of himself. I let him think that Zachariah was out of the country; I told you they were close.”
“But why? What difference did it make?”
“Zachariah meant the world to me. Since he was a child. So vulnerable. I couldn’t have him blamed for whatever he was about to do. Then Mostafa came to me. When he realized what we had, what the codex represented, he consulted the Imam. I conferred with Father Zein. We all agreed.”
Justine could feel her hands grow clammy, chilled, in spite of the heat. She glanced at Andrea who was stiff, clearly anticipating the worst. “Agreed?”
“Everyone’s needs seemed to converge. Zachariah’s mission to reduce religious conflict. The Imam’s denial of a female twin. The Coptic Church’s concern for Mary’s virginity. Even the Pope agreed. These aims are noble, can’t you see? So Mostafa planned for the original codex to disappear. That’s why he transferred it to his private safe . . .”
“Mostafa stole the codex from the museum safe?” Justine interrupted in astonishment.
“Something like that,” said Ibrahim in flat tones. Emotion, feelings, no longer seemed parts of his being. He appeared numb.
“Then why was Mostafa so startled by the theft?” asked Andrea. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Because the codex was stolen from him, taken from his private safe. It will surface somewhere in the antiquities market, probably in Milan, but we’ve lost control. That is, unless he actually has it and plans to sell it himself.”
“You mean no one knows where the original codex is?” demanded Justine.
“No, my dear. So Mostafa has to discredit the team, especially you two, so that when the codex shows up, the scholarly world will give it scant attention. Did you hear his interview last night? He is just getting started. The find will be dismissed as unprovenanced, the translation faulty, performed by an unqualified French woman and a Jew. And . . .”
“Unqualified? Unqualified!” exclaimed Andrea, any tenderness she had earlier exercised toward her old lover disappearing. Her reputation, her very identity, was now at issue. “How could that case be made?”
Ibrahim turned to Andrea, tight muscles causing him exaggerated pain. “By suggesting that your work on the Nag Hammadi codex was influenced by your Gnostic beliefs, my dear, that the Gospel of Thomas was a sham, misinterpreted by a French humanist.” Ibrahim’s voice remained severed from emotion, as though Andrea had never been an important part of his life.
Andrea turned pale. As one of the foremost linguists in the world, it had never occurred to her that her own credentials would or could be challenged. Being forced to leave Egypt for political reasons was one thing, but having her qualifications dismissed was quite another.
“And Justine has no qualifications to justify her involvement,” Ibrahim continued stoically. “The codex can be considered a plant by a godless American, made to further her own interests.”
Justine flinched. “These charges can be fought. The dating processes have verified its authenticity,” she insisted, keeping her hand on Andrea’s, partly to offer support and partly to restrain her. “Or have the data reports disappeared as well?”
“You are still in possession of copies of the data reports, but they represent only dates, not authorship. And to whom would you make your appeal, my dear?” asked Ibrahim, tears forming in his eyes. As he gazed at Justine, emotion began to surge above his numbness. “Let it go, Justine. Please,” he begged.
Let it go. Like my father might have? Is that the choice I must make? Justine swallowed hard at the truth of this statement: To whom would we appeal? “But why make us leave Egypt?”
“Because the copy is here and you are sure to pursue its further revelation. Are you not? Someone has to take the fall. You’re young, Justine, you’ll recover.” He paused and stared out the window for several moments. “I’m so sorry. Lucrezia’s daughter . . . Morgan’s daughter . . .” His voice softened, trailing off.
Justine stared at Ibrahim, hoping that his vulnerability might provide an opening. “The copy is with you, then? Here in your office safe? What will happen to it, Ibrahim?”
“It may be destroyed,” Ibrahim said laconically, not confirming its whereabouts.
“But surely you can’t help Zachariah now. Why destroy the copy?” asked Andrea.
“My grandson is dead. True. But other churches will be burnt. If Christianity suffers any more blows, it may not survive in Egypt, the land of its birth. I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He dropped his eyes and massaged his right knee.
Disoriented by Ibrahim’s rejection, Justine glanced up to find Amir leaning in the doorframe as though it would support his weakened limbs. Their eyes met and held; he made no move to wipe away his tears. “Grandfather, Grandfather,” he uttered with the forlorn voice of a child.
CHAPTER 29
THE DUSTY DRIVE THROUGH DOWNTOWN Cairo and into the suburb of Shoubra was more crowded than usual. It was 10 a.m. Justine still felt stunned by the conversation with Ibrahim the day before, the unraveling of the story of the codex, Zachariah’s death, and her expulsion from Egypt. She hadn’t been able to reach Amir since she’d seen him in Ibrahim’s office.
Now, horns were blaring and a bus driver was hammering his fist on the roof of her car; she was not moving as expediently through the red light as he would like. She passively observed that her roof had been dented once again. A metaphor for my life: repeatedly dented. To what extent have I let this happen?
She stepped out of her Suzuki across from the walled garden of Mataria, grabbing up once-fresh roses from the worn passenger seat. Guards motioned her through an alley of towering, decrepit apartment buildings and into a side entrance. Inside the enclosure, natural spring water bubbled through an ancient stone fountain and down into the collection pool below. An elderly woman dressed in a green kaftan and white hijab held out her gnarled hand, catching and sipping the holy waters.
Justine rested her exhausted body on a stone ledge facing the vista and the ancient sycamore alongside it, its tired, twisted branches held stable by hefty wooden props. Bare limbs with giant clusters of leaves were smothered at the top by the unrelenting smog. J
asmine and honeysuckle sprang boldly in irregular patches from the sacred ground. Mataria, the Holy Family’s resting place just north of downtown Cairo, was well preserved, at least by Egyptian standards.
The site drew a small but steady stream of eager worshipers who knelt at the fountain to solicit favors from the Virgin Mary and Jesus, known as either the Christ or Prophet.
It was said that the Virgin Mary planted the legendary sycamore that had died here only a hundred years ago. But others claimed it was already there when she and the family arrived. Justine judged it highly unlikely that this tree had survived nineteen hundred years. She also knew that Elizabeth’s bones would have been disturbed when the old tree fell. Perhaps there had been several trees planted and replanted on this spot, disturbing the bones of the sacred child. Crooked roots, like giant fingers, spreading out to protect the sacred resting place. She rose, stepped forward, and kneeled at the base of the imposter to place her drooping roses on Elizabeth’s unmarked grave. She bowed her head and surprised herself by whispering,
“Small and precious Elizabeth,
Left alone in this ancient land made holy by your presence,
Daughter of God, how might you have changed the world? We will never know . . .
Rejoined with your loving family, you can
Rest in peace, little one.”
MATARIA, 6 BCE
I cup my unsteady hand and dip it into the healing waters flowing from the grotto spring into the pool below and release the cool liquid onto Elizabeth’s burning forehead, dampening her curly black hair. I tremble in panic, for she is so ill, so quiet and still in my arms. Rachel has promised that the waters and sacred leaves of the balsam will heal her.
For three nights and days Elizabeth has been ill, and now she has stopped crying. She refuses my milk, moving in and out of fitful sleep. I walk with her, rocking her gently from side to side, singing the ancient song I learned as a child. Noha watches over the sleeping Jesus in a tent nearby.
This giant sycamore tree provides shade we did not know for many days as we walked southwest across the eastern desert to here, to Mataria, stopping at Tanta and Zagazig. Warm by day, freezing at night. Here we find flourishing trees, stones moist with moss, lilies and bougainvillea, and meandering meadows alive with green grasses and purple lilacs. Surely this is Eve’s garden, although the joy I might have known drowns in my fears for Elizabeth.
I kneel under the canopy of the tree to pray. Joseph and the others join me. “Please God, let us keep our Elizabeth,” I plead. “She will serve You with love and charity.”
Tears form in Joseph’s eyes, as he softly repeats my desperate appeal to our God. I stare at him. Does Joseph know something I am not ready to accept? He is close to God and often knows His will before others.
In the early hours of the morning, Elizabeth dies in my arms. Joseph tries to take her from me, but I won’t let go until I wrap her frail body in a blanket of white lace and lay her in the small coffin of balsam wood made by Isaiah and James. The sycamore makes way among its sprawling roots for the small grave. We mark her grave with a mound of stones and a tablet engraved with the name Elizabeth of Nazareth, daughter of Joseph and Mary of Nazareth, Galilee.
Clasping my hands to my chest to control my sobs, I kneel and gaze upward once more. Why? I implore Him. What do You want of me?
Justine’s eyes were still closed when a small hand touched her shoulder. She gazed into the face of a little girl in a once-pink dress. Her shining black eyes reflected wisdom beyond her few years. How old is she? Four? Five?
The girl touched Justine’s cheek, her small thumb gently wiping away a tear.
“What’s your name?” Justine asked.
The girl smiled. “Aisha,” she said.
“Aisha,” repeated Justine. “What a beautiful name. Do you live nearby?”
The girl pointed to the apartment building across the alley. “Would you like to see Mary’s home?” she asked, taking Justine by the hand.
Aisha led her north from the fountain toward a small structure, a miniature museum, and a terrace covered with sycamore branches.
“See. See,” said Aisha, pointing toward a mural painted on the internal wall. It depicted Mataria as it was envisioned two thousand years ago: lush greenery, a flowing stream, a fertile valley with the divided mountain of Muqattum in the distant background.
“How perfect,” Justine said. “How perfect.” This was Mary’s resting place, but also where she lost her daughter.
Aisha smiled up at her with a sense of ownership, as though she, too, had lived in that ancient valley. “Shukran,” she said when Justine handed her a cookie from her canvas bag and lifted her into a chair near the terrace wall. Her short legs dangled free as she gave her undivided attention to the cookie.
“Afwan,” returned Justine, taking the chair beside Aisha. What was it that called to Aisha from this holy garden? Does she have a mother who guided her? “What is your mother’s name?”
“Miriam,” the child said proudly. “She is pretty like you.” Aisha slipped off the chair and laid her hand on Justine’s knee. “I must go now,” she announced, drawing Justine’s face toward her so she could plant a kiss on both cheeks.
Justine watched Aisha run toward the side gate of Mataria. The guards paid her no mind.
“I thought I would find you here,” said a familiar voice from the lower step of the terrace. Justine tore her gaze from the gate. Amir stood holding tight to a cluster of white lilies.
“Did you see her? The little girl?” Justine asked. She looked into the eyes of the handsome man standing before her. How is it that he always knows where I am?
“Who?” Amir asked gently. “I walked straight through the garden and all I saw was you. I didn’t see any girl.”
“Her name was Aisha,” said Justine. Am I seeing visions? Was she here at all?
“Like the Prophet Mohammed’s wife?”
“Exactly,” Justine said with waning confidence. She shook her head once and turned her full attention to Amir. She loved the way his black hair curled over his forehead, how earnest his eyes were. After witnessing his pain at his grandfather’s betrayal, she felt an even greater tenderness toward him. His vulnerability was both jarring and reassuring. “You didn’t return my calls.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with my family. Funeral arrangements. How are you?”
“I’ll be okay. How are you, my friend?” she asked, still distracted by the child’s presence. “I’m so sorry about your brother, and your grandfather. If there is anything that I can do . . .”
“Thank you. The service for Zachariah is this afternoon. And my grandfather is his own jury.”
She was still for several moments, observing the pain moving through his eyes, deciding whether to ask the next question. “Will you take any action regarding the theft of the codex? Now that you know the story.”
His eyes became steely. “I don’t think so. To make the full confession public would endanger my grandfather. And assure my dismissal from the Museum. Mostafa is very well connected, and there is little actual evidence, so I don’t think Grandfather should carry the responsibility for exposing the thieves, testifying in court.” He sat down in the chair beside her and placed a package on the ground at his feet.
“I see,” she said, with a tone of mild accusation. “It sounds as though you have doubts, reservations, about bringing the truth to light.”
He flinched. “It’s not that simple, Justine. I have to consider the consequences of making the whole sordid affair public. My brother’s role, my grandfather’s. Mostafa’s and Father Zein’s. For now, I’ve decided to press for the investigation of Zachariah’s murder.”
“I understand, Amir. I really do.” What is it that Mom said? “Truth has always been so important to you, Justine.” But this . . . Perhaps I’ve finally encountered a dilemma too complicated for truth.
Amir was still. “When do you leave?” he finally asked.
�
�In three days. I’ll send my final report back electronically.” Her voice was weary. Both of them felt the word “final” to be jarring.
“I’m so sorry. And I’m surprised the UNESCO intervention didn’t work, although the forces in charge here are coming from high up in the government.” He paused. “You’re tired.” He reached over and laid his hand on her forearm, leaving it there.
“I’ve lost faith in myself, Amir. My mother is Egyptian and my father worked here during much of his life, and now their daughter is kicked out at the age of twenty-six.”
“You know it’s not your fault. You were pursuing truth in a codex you accidentally found.”
“But the fact remains that after only a few months in Egypt, I’m being told to leave. And the church our families attended has been burned. Your brother is dead . . .”
Amir sighed. “My deepest regret is that Zachariah and I didn’t work through our problems before he died. Now he’ll never know that I loved him.” His voice grew hoarse as he fought back tears.
Justine reached out and touched his cheek. “You’ve had so many losses, Amir. Even your faith has been challenged. Do you sometimes feel that Christianity was a fraud all along, teetering on the thin mythology of a virgin and a son of God? Maybe your grandfather was right; some truths are better left undiscovered, unsaid.”
“Surely you don’t believe that. The pain seems overwhelming right now for both of us, but we need to give ourselves time. The message of Christianity is not propped up like that old tree there. It’s a living message of love and forgiveness. I still believe.”
She stared at him for several moments. “In these past months, my life has been propped up by miscalculations. What good is an anthropologist without self-trust? My own crisis of faith in myself—let alone whatever god is out there—has really shaken me. I trusted my senses, my intuition, my powers of observation. And I was wrong. I was wrong about your grandfather. About Nasser. Perhaps about everything.” She spoke rapidly, almost hysterically, starting to cry. Amir pulled his chair closer and she let her head sink against his shoulder. She shivered.
The Cairo Codex Page 33
