The Cairo Codex (35 page)

“I would like that. How soon will you know?” she asked, attempting to sound enthusiastic. She needed time to process what she now knew: the rumors held a lot of truth.

“Within the month. As soon as our team firms up the work schedule. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s so much to tell. A few days ago I presented my first UNESCO report to the Minister of Education. The young women in the schools are doing amazing work, and I think my report was well accepted.”

“Congratulations, honey! Your first work product on your first professional job since graduation. Presented to the Minister, no less. I’m so proud of you.”

Justine felt that her father’s admiration was real. “Thanks, Dad. And something else is happening that Mom may have told you about.”

“The codex? Your mother told me something about it. But she was rather vague.” Although separated, Morgan and Lucrezia spoke when they could. Mostly about Justine. She called it long-distance chaperoning.

“Yes. The codex. I think you already know that it fell in front of me during the earthquake. During these past several weeks, a team of specialists has been working with Ibrahim and Andrea LeMartin to date and analyze the findings. Later this morning, we’re meeting to review the test results. Everyone will be there.” She decided not to tell him that Ibrahim had tried to suppress some of the pages. She wasn’t sure why.

“A competent man, Ibrahim. I’ve heard about Andrea from your mother, but never met her. I assume Omar Mostafa is involved,” he said evenly, though she could sense reservations.

“Uh huh. As you know, in Egypt, nothing happens without Mostafa’s involvement.”

“An understatement, honey,” he said wryly. “And you’re aware that he will take credit for any find of importance? How important is this?”

“Oh my god, it could just be the most important find in a century. Perhaps even among religious discoveries of all time. We now think it’s the diary of Mary, mother of Jesus. But we won’t have confirming physical data until later today.” Several moments passed. “Dad? Are you still there?” Justine tapped the phone.

“I’m here, Justine. Are you safe?”

“There’ve been a few incidents, but don’t worry; they’re resolved now. Ibrahim’s grandson, Amir, a friend of mine, Nasser, and the local police have been especially protective.”
Perhaps too protective
. “We have reason to believe that the men who were trying to prevent the codex from coming to light have fled the country. Or at least gone underground.”

“That’s good to hear! As we know from the Nag Hammadi finds and the lost Gospel of Judas, once such information goes public, you will be safe. I know Amir—Ibrahim’s grandson, I believe—but who is this Nasser?”

“You know him, Dad. Nasser Khalid. He was a student of yours at Berkeley. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.”

“When was he at Berkeley?”

“He was there from 2001 to 2003. Majored in archaeology. Handsome, medium height, crooked grin. You must remember him.”

“No . . . no, I’m certain I don’t. Justine, you may have forgotten, but I wasn’t at Berkeley during most of that time—the Borneo dig was going on. I don’t know a Nasser Khalid.”

“Are you sure, Dad? He’s got a smile that’s hard to forget. He’s Egyptian, but with sandy hair.”

His voice turned sharp. “Justine, you know I remember the names of all of my students.”

She froze, the phone turning cold in her hand. Her lungs failed to exhale. She felt lightheaded.

“Justine . . . Justine, are you all right? This relationship is serious, isn’t it? Justine, answer me.”

“I guess it is serious, Dad. Look, I have to think. I need a little time. Let’s talk again tomorrow. Okay?” Without waiting for a response, she hung up.

Justine sat paralyzed, one foot hanging off the bed. Her mind was incoherent. Slowly she reached for her baggy running pants and big T-shirt, mechanically getting dressed. No socks. No mirrors. No thinking. No feeling. Oblivious to her frantically vibrating phone, she opened her door and ran down the six flights of stairs and onto the street below.

Blind to her surroundings, she ran. A mile north on the Corniche, the tension in her body released and she began to cry uncontrollably. As the sobs came, Justine lowered herself onto a nearby bench sheltered by the bulging roots of a giant banyan tree. Her mind loosened and fragments oozed out in staccato hysteria . . .
My father is wrong . . . his memory is going . . . he was right, Nasser lied to me . . . I’m wrong about the dates and his claims—but still, he didn’t know Nasser’s name. I’m not in love with Nasser, so it doesn’t really matter . . .

As the sobs subsided, a new kind of tension, one with which she was more familiar, grasped her body: the tension of growing anger. Was Nasser’s mendacity more than a misleading introduction?
Did he have anything to do with running our car off the desert road? With the kidnapping?
With anger came energy. She placed both feet firmly on the cement walkway with a hand on each thigh, stretched her back, and shook her head to clear it.

Turning left across the July 23rd Bridge, she ran onto the island of Zamalek, circled the Gheriza Club, turned again onto Azziz Osman Street, and headed to the old Mayflower Hotel, now an apartment building near Sunshine market. She ran up the four flights of stairs and pounded on the door.

“Justine! You look like hell!” said Andrea, opening the door.

“What in the hell happened to my intuition?” demanded Justine. “How could he expect to get away with it? Surely he knew I would talk with Dad sooner or later. What happened to the self I trusted so well? How could I have been so wrong?” Justine was incredulous. She paced back and forth in Andrea’s kitchen.

Andrea hadn’t said a word since her opening greeting. She busied herself making strong coffee. At 7:30 in the morning, with tousled hair and a cleanly scrubbed face, she looked younger than her age.

“You’re talking about Nasser, I assume. There is only one way to find the answers to those questions,” interrupted Andrea, placing her hands on Justine’s trembling shoulders. “You have to ask him.”

“I never want to see him again as long as I live!”

“A reasonable response,” said Andrea. “That is exactly what you should do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Justine snapped.

“Excuse me,” Andrea said as she walked toward the ringing phone in her bedroom.

“Who was on the phone?” Justine asked when she returned to the kitchen with a hairbrush in hand.

“Your mother. I told her you were on your way home.”

“Thank you. I assume that Dad called her.” Andrea nodded. With a deep sigh, Justine relaxed her shoulders and folded them in toward her sunken chest. “I’ll call her from my apartment.”

Thirty minutes later, Justine was on the phone to Italy. “Hi, Mom. Sorry to have missed your call. I didn’t realize you’d kept track of Andrea all these years.” She paused. “Dad called you?”

“He did. And I’ve kept in touch with Andrea ever since our scintillating salons in Florence.” Justine could hear her mother take a deep breath. “Honey, are you in love with Nasser?”

“I think I am—I was—in love with him. I don’t think I knew that before I talked with Dad. It felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Nasser lied to me, Mom, although I’m sure he’ll explain it away. ‘Just a small lie in service of a smooth introduction.’ Something like that. My heart wants to believe him, but something just doesn’t feel right.”

“You don’t trust him,” her mother said frankly.

“How can I?”

“Truth has always been enormously important to you, even as a child. Remember when you told Susan there was no Santa Claus? She didn’t talk with you for a year.”

“Oh, Mom! That was so silly.” Justine paused, surprised by the statement. “Isn’t truth important to you?”

“There are many kinds of truths. Sometimes I have edited out faults in those I love. I’m not sure how I actually do that, but I do know that if we expect others to change very much, we are chasing rainbows and unicorns. Only adolescents think they can change another person, that any of us have that much power.”

“Were you an adolescent when you married Dad?” She snuggled the phone between her chin and shoulder while she laid out her clothes for the upcoming meeting, casually selecting chunky silver earrings that looked very much like something her mother would wear.

“Of course I was!” Lucrezia laughed aloud. It was a delightful laugh . . . full and rolling, infectious.
The laugh of someone who accepts herself
.
Right now I envy her so
. “But
you’re
not an adolescent.”

“Then how could I have been so deceived? I thought he was genuine, or at least truthful.” She felt her eyes well with tears.
Does he mean this much to me?

“You’re too hard on yourself. You’re a remarkably open women who can give your heart fully. At the same time, you’re an anthropologist who picks up sophisticated signals. This internal tension will probably always frame who you are.”

“Why aren’t you haunted by the same dilemmas? You live such a buoyant, exotic life and seem to expect that things will turn out all right.”

“I’ve made many mistakes in my life—plenty—as has your father. I’m not afraid to make them, is all. Terribly liberating. I try to find virtue in charity rather than moral certitude. And that means charity toward myself as well. But you know . . .”

“Moral certitude? Is that how you see me?” Justine felt an unpleasant warmth rise up her chest.

“I’m talking about myself, Justine, and when I was young. I was so sure then. So sure of what was right and wrong. The search for charity has been a desperate one, and it’s taken me decades,” said Lucrezia.

“I know I sometimes hold back for fear of making mistakes,” Justine admitted quietly. “I want—I need—to learn from your sense of abandon.”

“Abandon may not be quite the right word, Justine. I still do exercise self-restraint, mostly, but I live with many tensions, too.” There was a silence, both women thinking, pondering their responses. “What are you going to do about Nasser?”

“I don’t know, Mom, I just really don’t know.”

Once she’d hung up, Justine realized she’d forgotten to ask why Ibrahim had insisted, “Talk to your mother.”

“Easterners for dinner!” cries Noha as we prepare the meal with the cherished saffron. “Why invite Easterners for dinner? They will steal our goats and dirty our home. You can’t trust them farther than you can throw a donkey!”

I place my arm around her shoulders and feel her body relax. She smiles faintly as though to say, “I know, Mary, I’m trying to harness my tongue.”

“Mary, I am pleased,” asserts Joseph, who is washing his hands nearby. “The invitation was a generous offer. We will welcome them to our home. Who are these new friends from the East?” Always eager to hear the stories of travelers and life in other lands, Joseph yearns to know where the world is changing, where the world is at peace, where a man could raise his family in safety.

“The father and his son have traveled from India, Joseph,” I tell him. “The father is named Pravar and the son is Ravi. Jesus is quite fond of the boy already.”

“It is good for Jesus to have a friend his own age,” says Joseph. “But it is unfortunate that traders who come for market day do not stay long.”

“But they often return,” I remind him.

Joseph smiles and nods, drying his hands on the tails of his rough cotton shirt.

A handsome man of perhaps forty summers, Pravar dresses much like his son and emanates a quiet confidence and curiosity. As Joseph introduces our guests to the family, they bow in the elaborate way Jesus noticed in the market. Ravi hands me gifts of saffron and tea, for which I am grateful.

James impatiently carries two small benches from outside to accommodate our visitors. Tired by the long day of working at the canal, he has little energy for a formal dinner with strangers.

As the family members and visitors seat themselves, Joseph politely turns to Pravar to explain: “We begin the meal with a prayer from our holy books, Master Pravar. If you will bear with us.”

“We are honored to be a part of the ceremony of your family, my lord,” responds Pravar with great sincerity. Pravar and Ravi bow their heads as well.

Their God is generous with His followers. Would our God allow such reverence for another? Isaiah says ours is a jealous God. Yet Joseph tells us that our God wants us to pursue knowledge. Who is this God we worship so?

While we begin to share the meal of bread, cheese, olives, and stew, Joseph says: “Tell us about your journey, my friends. We are interested to know about your world.” All eyes turn expectantly toward our guests.

“The journey is a long one,” begins Pravar. “We left our home in the province of Cheros in the Kingdom of Tamil in India four months ago and came by ship most of the way, through the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea and up to the Red Sea. We will not return for six more months.”

“That is a long time, and I’ve heard the crossing is difficult,” says Samir, tearing off a piece of bread and soaking it in the stew.