The Cairo Codex (15 page)

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.

T
HE
C
ITY OF THE
D
EAD: 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: tabbouleh, 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.”

“Surely that would be its own tragedy. Those young women will long for something they only knew for a moment. They’ll feel empty and not know why happiness doesn’t come their way. I wonder if some of them may start to regret even beginning an education, or dreaming of how their lives might have been different from their mothers’. It’s that same old question, isn’t it? And one I’ve never settled for myself. Is it better to have loved and lost or never to have loved at all?”

“In this case, I almost think it would have been better not to have known what was possible. As you say, girls who have known learning and had it withdrawn will never feel satisfied with their lives.” Nadia stared across the restaurant, her attention drawn by two young sisters chattering noisily at another table. “Have you ever loved and lost, Justine?”

Justine nodded. “In that instant, I learned more about what I really wanted in life. Losing that love was not a tragedy, though. It was in grad school. Lasted over a year, but it wouldn’t have worked out. And you? Loved and lost?”

“I lost my husband. He died six years ago of complications from diabetes. But we loved one another for twenty-six years. It was a good marriage. I miss him every day.”

“I’m so sorry.” Justine reached across the table and took Nadia’s hands in hers.
I used the phrase carelessly and opened up her pain.

“I don’t speak of it often, but it’s an important thing to understand about me. Part of who I am. I would have told you eventually,” said Nadia, squeezing Justine’s hands. “We also had a child, a son. One child. It was a difficult birth. He only lived for three days. That I regret as much as losing Ahmed.”

Justine’s eyes welled up. “I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child,” she said.
Nasser called my life “intense.” I don’t even know what intensity is. For Nadia, the mothers in Birqash, and the children in the school today, life is more difficult than I could have imagined. Would I be able to handle such a loss?

With a crockery bowl of bread dough huddled under her arm, Rachel walks in from the east, near the ancient cemetery, where she and her new husband Samir make their home. “Good day, my friend,” I say, always joyful to see Rachel. Perhaps ten summers older than me, she has a welcome smile and jovial face, round and pleasing. Her black eyes smile with her. She prides herself on her needlework, and her tunics are the envy of women in the village. Since she is a midwife of considerable skill, we felt safer when she agreed to accompany us from Palestine.