The Cairo Codex (48 page)

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. Jasmine 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.”

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.

Amir held her until the sobs subsided, then wiped her wet cheeks with the palm of his hand. “Consider this,” he said tenderly. “Your quickness to trust both my grandfather and Nasser came from your father.”

“My father? Ah, yes, my father,” she whispered, taking a tissue from her canvas bag and blowing her nose. Embarrassed, she sat up straight and smoothed her hair.

“Your father knew and trusted both men—at least you thought he did, so you suspended your own judgments. You accepted both men at face value. I suspect that if your father hadn’t known them, or at least you believed he hadn’t, you would have assessed both men with circumspection.”

“Even your grandfather?”

“Even my grandfather.”

Justine’s thoughts wove themselves through a tangled emotional terrain. Her features reconfigured themselves into a faint smile. “Thank you,” she said, relief rippling through her. Although disappointed that she hadn’t made up her own mind, it was better than thinking of herself as a failed anthropologist.
Whatever my professional future holds, my decisions will be different from my father’s. I could never withhold information—truth—in the name of religion or politics. Or anything else. The contents of the codex must come to light.

“What now?” he asked, handing her another tissue.

“Reconnect with my family. Look for a job. Search for the codex.”

Without explanation, he handed her the package that sat on the ground beside him. “From Grandfather,” he said simply, taking a deep breath, holding her gaze. They both knew what the package contained. “After a while, you’ll be allowed to come back to Egypt. I don’t want to lose you, Justine.” His face was that of an adolescent asking for his first dance, anxious about whether the girl would smile and take his hand—or not.

“Thank you, Amir, thank you.” Several moments passed as she hugged the package to her chest and studied his serious face.
It would be so tempting to surrender myself to this attractive man.
“I’ve so much to figure out, and I’m just beginning to experience what freedom is going to require of me.” Justine realized how vague she sounded. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” he said slowly. His black velvet eyes were damp, holding her gaze. “Where will you go?”

“To Italy. For a while, anyway.” She smiled at him as they rose, and let him hold her in his arms for what seemed a very long time before, together, they walked through the garden, past the fountain, toward the entrance. Justine turned one last time, her eyes tenderly embracing the crumbling sycamore.
Goodbye, Elizabeth.

She had come to Egypt alone and now she was leaving alone, without the exultation she had felt only a few months before. She blinked back tears as she clasped the package from Ibrahim. Wrapped in plain brown paper and tied simply with string, it represented her best hope for a future. She patted the small bundle and smiled.