The Cairo Codex (41 page)

An air of rapt attention pervaded the room. Each person, even those familiar with the pages Ibrahim had just handed out, quietly devoured the sacred words before them.

Al Rasul appeared pleased, even as he struggled to keep his features noncommittal. The muscles on either side of Mostafa’s mouth quivered. Andrea and Isaac were quietly engrossed in a side conversation. Amir closely observed his grandfather.

      Justine looked down at the pages, still amazed by what she held. She read again the four entries translated from the opening pages of Mary’s diary:

Three nights have passed since Joseph and I became husband and wife. Each day he sits with me, talking, telling me his stories. He speaks of his wife Zeinab, who is with God, and his dreams for son James. He speaks with me as a wife, but with the voice of a loving father. Joseph is a kind man. I am learning to trust him.

It is now four nights since we made our vows. Joseph touches my hair and holds my hand. He tells me stories of the House of David. I fear he does not want me, but thinks of me as a child to be cared for. At first I feared his touch, now I fear he does not look at me with desire, that he does not want me as his wife.

Five days since we were married. Joseph comes to me dressed in beautiful new clothes with small golden buttons on the girdle. Will you travel? I ask. Perhaps he came to tell me goodbye, that he would leave me. Joseph laughs and cradles my face in his rough hands. He says, today I come to make you my wife. I am not afraid, for my heart is glad. He kisses me on my face, neck, and hand with tenderness. I feel a stirring inside . . . a desire for something with no name. He lies beside me and unties my tunic. He does not hurry. On this day, we know each other. I am a married woman. Thanks be to God.

After his colleagues had read the entries several times, Ibrahim said: “Although there are no dates in the diary, we believe the fourth entry that you have in front of you was written about three months later.”

I am with child. Joseph and I thank God that a child is given to us. I am well and able to take care of Joseph and James. I pray each day that my mother will be well again so I may stay with her. If she is not well, when I grow larger, I will find help from cousin Elizabeth. Joseph wants me to think of Elizabeth as my mother. I say to Joseph: If the child is a girl, I will call her Elizabeth.

“There’s no mention of an Annunciation? No diary pages between entries three and four?” demanded Al Rasul.

“There are a few pages of daily life, preparing a household, discussions of the life ahead together, but no mention of an Annunciation,” affirmed Ibrahim, patting the report softly, pain flashing through his watery eyes. “She didn’t write every day, but it seems unlikely she would leave out a visit by the Angel Gabriel.”

“The entries leave little reason to doubt a sexual relationship between Mary and Joseph,” observed Isaac. “After the initial consummation, they continued to grow closer. Keep in mind that being ‘older’ then was different. Joseph may have only been in his forties.”

“We seem to have little basis to doubt her word if we’re confident that the codex authorship and content are authentic. Is that how the rest of you see it?” asked Mostafa, attempting a blustery and commanding performance once again.

Everyone began speaking at once. Mostafa held up his hand and turned to Ibrahim. “Coming to know each other, knowledge of a man and a woman, this is code language for sexual congress,” admitted Ibrahim. “Based on the validity of these entries, we have no reason to assume a virgin birth.”

“It could still be a fraud, written by a cult of heretics like the Gnostics. Not many of the devout accept the Gospel of Thomas,” said Al Rasul mockingly. By the third century of the current era, the Church had soundly rejected Gnosticism, a doctrine asserting that divinity could be found within each person and claiming a Teacher of Righteousness who spoke like Jesus Christ.

“You’ll find a range of opinions in this room about the Gnostics, but I’m convinced we have the genuine diary of Mary of Nazareth before us,” said Andrea. “As you know, a number of ancient religions, including Greek polytheism and Christianity, have packaged virginity and divinity together. Breaking that bond doesn’t necessarily mean Jesus wasn’t divine. But, of course, we are all free to explore different theories of origin.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Andrea, but we Muslims have never found it necessary for Jesus to be understood as the son of God in order to worship him,” Mostafa reminded her.

“I understand that. My objective is to draw our attention to the idea that nothing about this information need undermine basic beliefs about Jesus Christ,” said Andrea, tilting her head so that a golden earring lay on her cheek.

“It’s presumptuous of you to protect our tender beliefs, Andrea,” Mostafa exclaimed with an air of condescension. “No one in this room is fragile. We’re scientists.”

“Your criticism is heard.” Andrea ignored the insulting tone. “I trust you will all forgive my ‘protectionism’?”

Amir glanced at Andrea and grinned before returning to his persistent doodling.

“Just forget about us,” said Mostafa, impatient. “This information is going to be earthshaking beyond this room, particularly in the Coptic, Catholic, and Anglican communities. I can’t even predict how the Muslim community will react. But I am fearful.”

“We have to discuss how this information is to be released—under what circumstances, and through what medium,” said Ibrahim. “Shouldn’t we alert the leaders of churches and mosques before it is released to the press? And do we have any right to release such provocative information without the original codex?”

“Good questions, Dr. Ibrahim.” Mostafa paused and stared above Ibrahim’s head into the ceiling-high bookcases. “If we’re not cautious, or at least responsible, we’ll ignite the dry tinder around us. Then we’ll have to deal with the consequences.” He drew out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow.

With the keen eye of an anthropologist, Justine observed the layers of volatile feelings in the room.
We’re all wallowing in our own fears. I wonder how long our restraint will hold?

“Religious temperaments are explosive, and I don’t want to feed these hostilities unnecessarily,” Mostafa concluded as though answering Justine’s unasked question. “Are we through here?”

“Wait. There’s something else, isn’t there?” asked Al Rasul, glancing around the room. “Yesterday, Justine, I think you used the phrase ‘an unmistakable tone of melancholy’ to refer to Mary’s mood. What would cause that sense of melancholy? She had a loving husband and sons and was enjoying Egypt.”

Not one of the translators spoke. Each of them looked down at the report as though they were scanning for information that already resided vividly in their own minds, information even more explosive than Mary’s loss of virginity, and which, by unspoken agreement, they all hesitated to report. But what was the point in exposing the truth if they didn’t expose all of it? Justine chose to respond: “There had been a loss—the loss of a daughter.” She calmly picked up her teacup and waited for the expected response. It was not long in coming.

“The loss of a daughter? How? When? What daughter?” demanded Mostafa.

“A daughter named Elizabeth. Let me read two entries from the diary.” Justine picked up a single page that she had set aside in anticipation of this moment.

“Elizabeth is so ill. Her small body has been hot for many days. I am scared. We wash her body in cool waters. Rachel says a palate of balsam leaves will cool her, and when we come to Mataria the holy waters will heal her. Joseph walks her all night. I tend to Jesus. God, please save our Elizabeth, we beg of you . . .

“Elizabeth died this morning . . . Why, why, God? Why must you take our Elizabeth so soon? She did not have time to please you. What did I do to lose your protection?”

“She died at Mataria? On the way from Palestine? How old was she?” demanded Mostafa, shivering in spite of himself. Even though Al Rasul had been called in for technical assistance, this information was new to him as well.

Ibrahim turned to Andrea, then Justine and Isaac. They had hoped to postpone this revelation until the information about Mary’s virginity had settled. “She died on the trip to Egypt and was buried at Mataria,” said Andrea gently.

“Then she must be a stepchild, like James,” said Mostafa. “An older daughter born to Joseph and Zeinab before Mary’s marriage to Joseph.”

“We think she was about three months old when she died,” said Justine.

“The same age as Jesus,” affirmed Andrea.

“The same age . . . the same age . . . Elizabeth was a twin?” cried Mostafa.

“Elizabeth was Jesus’ twin,” said Ibrahim, dropping both hands in his lap. The word “twin” ricocheted around the room as people clawed desperately for its meaning. After several minutes of stunned silence in which no one spoke, the meeting adjourned with little fanfare and few words.

Justine and Amir scurried down the museum stairs, splitting up to round the fountain on opposing sides before exiting through the well-guarded gate and onto the frontage road bordering Tahrir Square. They walked rapidly; neither spoke. Ibrahim remained behind with his notes, Andrea with her last chocolate cookie, each of the others searching for someone to blame. Isaac had quickly stuffed his notes into a worn satchel and taken a taxi to the airport.

Deep in thought, the two crossed the Square and turned into a side street leading to the Corniche overlooking the Nile. It was dusk, a pale pink glow blanketing the Great River. Feluccas were everywhere. When they encountered the railing overlooking the Nile, they stopped, turned simultaneously and stared into one another’s eyes.

“Do you still think I did it?” asked Amir with amusement.

“Do you want to confess? That would simplify everything.” Justine was moving south now, past the Four Seasons to cross into Aisha al-Taimuriyya.
I seem to be headed home
, she said to herself.

“I make a mean spaghetti,” Amir offered, uninvited. “If you have the ingredients.”

“Okay. I also have plenty of Cleopatra cabernet.”

He feigned an expression of repulsion. “It’ll have to do.”

Justine fished into her purse for the key to 10 Aisha al-Taimuriyya, unlocked the heavy wrought iron door, and started for the elevator. Amir passed her and began to climb the seven flights of stairs. Driven by the energy that accompanies tension, he took two steps at a time. Justine followed close behind.

“Make yourself at home,” she said as they walked into the apartment. Before changing clothes, she stacked the kitchen counter with fresh tomatoes and garlic, a can of tomato paste, pasta noodles, oregano, and Italian seasoning. Two bottles of cabernet. Parmesan. Matches for the gas burners. She placed fresh lettuce into a bowl of vinegar water to clean.

“No sausage?” Amir asked, searching through the refrigerator and freezer.

“Nope. I’m getting out of these warm clothes. I’ll be right back.”

In the bedroom, she removed her work clothes—deciding again to give up clingy silk blouses—and stepped into the shower, washing her hair. As the suds flowed down her back, she considered the possibility of Nasser showing up uninvited. After all, he still had a key.
It won’t happen. My texts were crystal clear. Busy for a couple of days, I told him. After work tomorrow is soon enough! By then, I’ll surely know what to do.
But for now, she and Amir had bigger fish to fry: figuring out the theft of the diary.