The Cairo Codex (36 page)

“The passage from India is rough. Ravi, why don’t you tell our hosts of our problems?” suggests his father.

Ravi’s eyes sparkle as he takes in each person around the table, drawing the collective attention to him as though by some hidden force. “The longest part of the trip, from India to the Arabian land, is trying and scary,” Ravi begins in whispered tones. “A storm nearly swallowed us like a giant whale, and the sky stole the stars. Our navigator, who was very clever, became terribly sick. A high fever didn’t leave him for many days. Without our navigator and the stars to guide us, we were lost.”

“What happened?” presses James, drawn into the story in spite of himself.

“He died,” says Ravi sadly, turning to James. “We buried him at sea.”

“Do you always bury your dead at sea?” asks James. Our older son is suspicious of these foreign ways.

“That is our custom, James,” says Ravi simply.

“We have no way to properly keep our dead with us at sea,” explains Pravar. “It makes their passing even more difficult for their families at home.”

James nods and falls silent.

“Easterners,” grumbles Noha with nearly inaudible contempt.

Joseph raises his voice, hoping the visitors haven’t heard Noha. “Did you find land soon thereafter, Ravi?”

“The day after that,” Ravi says with a swell in his now unsteady voice, “a gigantic wave took our cabin boy out to sea.” No one speaks; they wait for him to regain his composure. “We tried to find him, but could not. On the fourth day, another ship appeared nearby. We thought it might be a pirate ship, one of the Sea Peoples.” He pauses to draw out the tension. Jesus holds his breath; James leans forward encouragingly.

“We were almost out of water and others were falling ill, so we signaled the other ship. I thought we would be sliced to pieces by pirate scimitars! But finally, the other ship gave us a welcoming sign and we went alongside. They were returning to India, and still had water to share. That night, the stars returned and we made our way to Arabia. From Arabia, we journeyed up the Red Sea.”

Two deaths, and one only a child. How tragic. Death does not always respect age, but why is it necessary to take our children? What does our God have in mind? When I was a child, my mother told me to listen. I have listened, but I hear only part of the answer. The fault is mine, no doubt. I feel a pain move through my chest; I take a deep breath and a sip of water.

“Why did your family choose such dangerous work that takes you far from home?” Jesus asks.

I notice that Joseph seems uneasy with this question. He may feel that Jesus is challenging the good judgment of our visitors.

Unruffled, Ravi replies, “Our fathers and grandfathers before us were traders. It is what we do.”

Jesus seems satisfied with this answer. Noha less so. Holding her dripping bread in mid-air, she opens her mouth to speak. I catch her eye, halting the words before they can rush out.

Pravar continues, “On the shore of the eastern desert of Egypt, we moored our ship and bought four camels from Nubia for the two-day trip to Babylon, where we sold them—to the same men we bought them from, I think.” He grins. “From here, we will journey on the Great River and Sea.” He says to Joseph, “We noticed a canal being built across the eastern desert. Its completion will make our trip easier.”

“The canal is being built by the Romans, Pravar. James works there a few days a week. While we are pleased that the canal will be helpful to you, we are becoming weary of the Roman presence. Each day more men are forced into labor or conscripted into their growing armies,” he says.

James nods slightly to Pravar, whose eyes narrow at the news of Roman aggression.

Pravar explains that he has encountered these forces before—that he was beaten and robbed by two drunken Roman soldiers in Crete. “I am always on guard.”

Not eager to pursue a conversation about forced work, a condition that embarrasses him, James changes the subject, “How did you learn to speak Aramaic, my friends?”

“Language is a skill of our trade. An exchange of ideas is essential if we are to work in other lands. Each land has a different tongue. We set about to learn the languages as we would learn a trade,” replies Pravar.

“Father, may I take Ravi above?” Jesus asks. He has finished his stew and now squirms in his chair.

“As you wish, my son. Our new friends graciously brought us some tea that we will now enjoy.”

James asks to be excused as well, leaving the table quietly and walking toward the east.

I watch my son lead Ravi outside and up the stone stairs to the top of the cave. A ribbon of warm crimson lies on the western horizon. The soft blue blanketing the crimson turns dark, revealing a few stars. The Great River’s black mantel is interrupted by light reflected from a full moon of muted orange rising out of the east. Later, my son tells me of their conversation.

“You have brought the full moon with you from the East,” observes Jesus as both young men sit down on top of the cave. Ravi crosses his legs, folding each foot underneath him. Jesus shifts his position to mirror that of his new friend.

“It is said,” Ravi responds, “that the full moon comes to remind us of the great circle of life. When our hearts are full, everything and everyone joins hands and encircles the earth. You are fortunate to have your family and home with you each day. I miss my mother and sisters.”

“How many sisters do you have?” asks Jesus.

“Three,” Ravi replies, “Apala, Charu, and Kala. Sometimes I tease them and they become angry with me, but I miss them when I am gone. I hope they miss me.”

“Mother says that sisters are a treasure, God’s special gift to the world. Women understand much and can give and forgive.”

Ravi laughs softly. “I will let my sisters know that they are appreciated,” he says with a mischievous smile, as though he is not sure he wants to reveal his soft heart to women of any age.

“What knowledge do you bring from the East, Ravi? What do you know that I may know?” Jesus leans forward.

“A difficult question, my friend. For what I know is who I am.” After a pause, Ravi says: “My father has said that if you can train your mind to flow like the river, you will forever be calm. In my home we follow the teachings of the Buddha, and we meditate.”

“Who is the Buddha? Is he a god?”

“No, not a god, but a great man, a wise one, who lived long ago in my homeland.”

“I see. Do you worship and make sacrifices to this wise one?”

“No,” Ravi smiles. “He is to be followed, not worshiped. He is our teacher.”

“And it is he, the Buddha, who has taught you to meditate?” presses Jesus. “What is it to ‘meditate’?”

“There are many ways to meditate. It is how we reflect and contemplate about the world and ourselves.”

“Will you show me your way? I would learn what it is to meditate.” He edges closer, facing Ravi with open palms.

Without a word, Ravi sits up straight and closes his eyes. Jesus follows.

“Now,” Ravi says, “listen to your breath as it moves in and out. If your mind runs away, gently bring it back to your breathing.”

“My mind has a mind of its own,” Jesus laughs, “it bounces around like a nervous grasshopper. I will try to catch it.”

The boys meditate in silence for several minutes. The sounds of the Great River speak loudly through the stillness. The golden glow turns to dark pink and purple. Two kingfishers dive through the moonlit path into the water beyond.

Ravi interrupts the stillness. “Now, beginning at the top of your head and moving throughout your body, pay attention to how you feel. Do not name the feelings, just pay attention.”

Without opening his eyes, Jesus follows Ravi’s words. He feels his breath move through his body like a small bird fluttering about.

After several long moments, Ravi says: “Do you see how the sensations rise and fall like the river? Always changing. This is a law of nature, of life. It is the lesson of impermanence. Everything is temporary. One who understands—who is awake—lights up the world like the moon when it is freed from a cloud.”

“Ravi, my friend,” asks Jesus, “what does it mean to be awake? Are we not awake when we open our eyes?”

Ravi smiles. “My father says the awakened one does no wrong, only good. He does not want, nor feel fear. He lives in love and in peace. He purifies his mind through meditation. The awakened call patience the highest sacrifice.”

Jesus does not reply. He only smiles in return. They continue to sit in silence, watching and listening to the sounds within and without. A feeling of peaceful joy comes upon Jesus’ young mind and attaches itself to his soul. The night replaces the deep flaxen hue of the horizon. The stars grow brighter. In the cavern below them, their fathers talk into the night.

Later, as Jesus prepares for sleep, he sits on his bed pallet with his legs folded beneath him. “I found a connection between my mind and my body and the river, Mother,” he tells me. “I have found new and mysterious ways. Yet their teacher is not here with them. He has been gone a long time, and he is not a god.”

“We have many teachers such as this, Jesus. Remember the lessons we have learned from Abraham, David, and Moses. God has given us teachers in countless ways. Life has many mysteries. Learn from them.”

“And my new friend, mother,” asks Jesus with the desperation of someone who realizes a sudden loss. “Do you think he’ll ever return?”

“I am sure that he will return, Jesus. Have faith.”

“W
ESTERNERS, ESPECIALLY
A
MERICANS
, have a disgraceful lack of historical consciousness. Not having a history of their own, they think our antiquities are for decoration. For show. National identity measured by abundance.” Omar Mostafa, Director of the Supreme Ministry of Egyptian Antiquities, held forth to the members of the investigation team as he described his recent travels and impressions. The informal gathering clustered in a corner of the mammoth conference room in the Egyptian Museum. Mostafa’s spirited pontifications were well known; many sought out his company, and almost as many wished they hadn’t.

“St. Louis and Chicago were most trying. Each museum and its generous sponsors take great pride in what is not theirs. St. Louis missed the deadline I gave them for returning the mask to Egypt. It will amuse me to give them trouble. A press conference or press release, perhaps.”

Amal Al Rasul had driven in alone from Alexandria this morning, and stood with the others, his expression carefully blank. Everyone in his field had had to work with the pompous director at one time or another.

“What mask is that, Dr. Mostafa?” asked Amir, seeming impressed by his flamboyant supervisor in spite of himself. It wasn’t often that younger employees were in the presence of the Great Mostafa. “I’m determined to reclaim many of the Ptolemaic artifacts scattered around the world.” Ibrahim stood near his grandson paying little attention, seemingly lost in thought, pondering the meeting ahead.

“A funerary mask from around 1550 BCE, my boy,” replied Omar, “A relatively small item, but the only one of its kind in the known world. I suspect there are many walls in American game rooms lavishly decorated with such masks, surrounded by polar bears and our African gorillas. Come see me, Amir, and I’ll give you a few pointers on how to get our treasures back.”

“I’ll definitely drop by,” said Amir with an appreciative tone. “Thanks.” Ibrahim now glanced up at his grandson, brows rising, as if to say,
Ah, the excitement of the young
.

“How do you manage to lose these artifacts in the first place?” asked Al Rasul. “If Petra and Abu Simbel weren’t carved into mountains, they would have disappeared a long time ago.”

“Glad you asked,” said Omar, bowing slightly and overlooking the subtle criticism. With a willing audience, his chest extended like that of a preening bird, his eyes glowing. “The colonists exchanged antiquities like dice or outright stole them from each other. In the past half-century, the antiquities markets have become the official, albeit illegal, source of precious goods. Museums procure great treasures this way. I find it even more scandalous when curators turn a blind eye to the covetous actions of private collectors who also happen to be large donors. At their worst, museums are erected and run by the collectors themselves. Such is the case of Peggy Guggenheim and the Gettys.”

“I understand the U.S. Cultural Property Advisory Committee is seeking to stop much of this illegal trafficking—” began Isaac Yardeni.

Mostafa glared at him, his implication clear: a Jewish defense of the U.S. was not particularly welcome in the Arab world.