The Cairo Codex (6 page)

“Curious? Why curious?” Amir’s voice was sharp.

“I was resisting saying ‘small world,’” admitted Justine.

“I can see why. Typical American phrase, ‘small world,’ meant to simplify the complexities of this world. Western anthropologists”—he nodded slightly toward Nadia to include her in his declaration—“tend to reduce what they see here to its bare bones, then suppose they understand Egyptians.”

Nadia smiled gently, clearly tolerant of Amir’s occasional sarcastic remarks.

Justine laughed lightly. “Well, ‘small world’ would have been rather Disneyesque,” she confessed. “Western anthropologists have been known to be overbearing. Among other things.”

Amir flushed slightly. “If I’m wrong, I apologize,” he said. “I’m afraid that my experience with Westerners has often been disappointing.” He held her gaze, returning her grin. “Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong.”

“Can we meet around ten in the morning to talk about the project?” Nadia asked, as she and Justine made their way back to the hotel. It was dark now, but the hotels provided ample lighting as they traversed the busy boulevard.

“Perfect.” Justine hesitated. “Interesting man, Amir.”

Nadia frowned. “He’s not usually so edgy. You see, his brother has disappeared. He really didn’t want to be here tonight.”

“I’m sorry to hear about his brother.”

“Zachariah was radicalized while he was volunteering in Imbaba, one of the poorest areas of Cairo. When he was in secondary school, he saw poverty, suffering, lack of services and medical attention, especially among the elderly. He listened to those who attributed the decline in people’s lives to Westernized capitalism and the current regime’s pandering to the West.” Nadia paused just outside the entrance to the Shepheard. “Last year he joined the Muslim Brotherhood but found it too moderate for his tastes. Three months ago he left for Afghanistan.”

“Al Qaeda?” Justine shivered as she thought of September 11th. Her cousin Patricia had been at her desk on the 98th floor of the World Trade Center’s north tower that day. Pat had been Justine’s age, and even though they hadn’t seen each other frequently, Justine missed her terribly. Involuntarily, her mind careened to scenes of Pat trying to escape her tragic fate that morning.

“Al Qaeda could be involved. We just don’t know,” said Nadia, touching Justine’s arm as though to bring her back—to bring them both back—from somewhere. “But I hope that tonight was pleasurable for you in the balance.” She smiled. “See you in the morning?”

“At ten. And Nadia, thank you.”

S
TEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER
, Justine grabbed a towel and caught the phone on the fourth ring.
Probably Nadia changing our appointment.

“Hello, Justine?”

“This is Justine.” She sat on the edge of the bed, facing west, peering over the bedroom’s balcony and through the top of the two-story window. The breadth of the Nile lay before her.

“This is Amir.” When she didn’t react, he continued, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. It was inexcusable, perhaps unforgivable.”

She thought about what Nadia had said, the stress of missing his brother. “Please don’t give it another thought,” she said, drying her hair vigorously with the towel. “Actually, your honesty was refreshing.”

“You said you wanted to see my grandfather. I thought I could walk you over to his office this afternoon.”

“That would be great. I have a meeting with Nadia later this morning, but I’m free this afternoon.” She was curious to observe this man in the context of his family.

“Shall I meet you in the lobby of your hotel around four?”

“Four would be fine.” They hung up at the same time and Justine sat for a moment, gazing out at the rose colored fog on the Nile.
It’s very early,
she realized.
Too early for anyone not suffering from jet lag. He must have been truly bothered by his behavior last evening.

She reached for her green Lycra running suit and shoes, worn into shape by almost daily use.
Several hours till I meet with Nadia. Time for a run, another shower, and a third reading of the proposal.

When she stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Shepheard, the streets were quiet except for a few donkey carts hauling garbage. It was 7:00 a.m. in Cairo, and ten hours earlier in California. At the corner, she ran in place for a few moments then moved cautiously across the Corniche, stepping onto the high curb and turning south. To her right floated the stationary, gleaming white Shepheard dinner boat, framed by soaring palms; the walkway to the boat, now chained closed, was lined with trimmed bushes and hyacinths.

Unused to sidewalks cracked and raised by roots of banyan trees bulging through the cement, Justine almost tripped twice within the first few minutes. Once, she barely caught herself by reaching for a limb over her head and swinging across the defacement. Soon, though, she found the sidewalk pattern: smooth, then cracked and rising, smooth, then . . .
Everything has a pattern
, she thought.
But they’re not always so discernable
.

As she found her stride, her breath fell into its familiar pattern and she tried to absorb the city around her. She moved past Garden City and the Four Seasons on her left. Floating restaurants, colorful islands of nighttime gaiety, lined the shore to her right. Out of the center of the Nile arose Roda Island and its grand Manial Palace, built for King Farouk’s uncle, Prince Mohammed Ali Tawfiq. He was a man who couldn’t make up his mind, so he’d built his palace in all the popular styles of the day: Ottoman, Moorish, Persian, and European rococo.

By the time she reached the Roman aqueduct, cutting east through the city, the town was waking up. Bean pots on rollers moved into the side streets; bakers raised their storefronts, displaying layers of Egyptian baladi bread, which resembled pita. Young men on bicycles took to the streets.

About a mile from the hotel, she stopped. In this part of the city, new and maintenance construction gave way to houses and stores scarred by vehicle exhaust and crumbling around the edges, pressed together like crowded children scrambling for a ball.

Turning away from the Nile, Justine stood for a moment to get her bearings, bending over, hands on her thighs, stretching her back. A hand, not her own, reached under her from behind, firmly stroking between her legs then withdrawing as quickly as it had arrived. A wave of terror shot through her stomach and chest. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what she’d felt. She swung around to see a stooped man in a gray kaftan and woolen scarf limping swiftly away.

She could have caught him easily, but what would she say? What would she do? Would the authorities pay her any mind? Not in Egypt. She turned and ran back to the hotel, stumbling occasionally, shaken by the violation.

Justine was still jittery when she entered the hotel’s coffee shop to meet Nadia at 10:00. The story of her morning run poured out. “I did a very stupid thing this morning. I went out running in a tight Lycra suit. An invitation.”

Nadia listened quietly, reaching across the wide table to take her hands. “Believe me, it’s so rare. In spite of your attire, I find myself disturbed . . . you should be able to expect safety.”

“Let’s forget about it. I should have known better.” The last time Justine was in Cairo, she’d been a scrawny kid, hardly a target for sexual advances, but that was no excuse for forgetting cultural codes. More than anything, she was embarrassed. After all, she was a professional anthropologist now. A Ph.D., for goodness’ sake. She stared out the window for several moments. The Nile was now a sheet of glass, the tan sky tipped with pale blue. “Amir called this morning. To apologize. He was very gracious and offered to take me to see his grandfather this afternoon.”

Nadia smiled. “I’m pleased to hear he called. Amir is a proud man, so it’s difficult for him to apologize. I hope you found it in your heart to accept his apology.” She signaled to the waiter for tea.

“Of course I accepted his apology.” Justine paused. “Do you think he’ll tell me about Zachariah?”

Nadia shook her head. “Probably not. At least not until he gets to know you better. I know Amir fairly well. His mother and I were close friends—we went to school together in Alexandria—so I’ve watched him grow up. Are you going with him this afternoon?”

“We’ll meet at four and walk to his grandfather’s office. I look forward to reconnecting with his grandfather. Besides, I’m willing to trust that there is more to admire in Amir than I’ve discovered so far.”

“I appreciate your willingness to keep an open mind.” Nadia smiled. “Amir means a lot to me, and I was afraid that last night would have closed the door for you.” She tilted her head. “Some people would have walked away.”

“I’ll admit, I sometimes make quick judgments unless there is a good reason to do otherwise. I take pride in reading people and drawing conclusions on little information. It’s one of my talents—and probably one of my weaknesses.”

Nadia laughed softly. Her mass of thick hair moved like gray Jell-O. “I tend to trust too quickly and am sometimes disappointed.”

The tea arrived then. Justine added a little honey to hers and stirred it slowly.

Nadia picked up the hot china cup and blew on the rich brown surface. After a few sips, she shifted the direction of the conversation. “Have you had an opportunity to read the proposal and think it through?” The proposal for the UNESCO Community Schools for Girls project described several rural schools built primarily outside of Cairo. In small villages, there were not enough girls to make up schools with separate grade levels, and parents often forbade their daughters from walking to larger, nearby villages. Attending school with boys was not considered an option in rural areas, but ungraded all-girls schools were proving workable.

“I’ve read it several times, most recently this morning. It’s impressive and ambitious. Ungraded instruction, parental governance, community commitment. Tell me something I didn’t read in the proposal.”

Nadia smiled, then said, “Gratitude. I hadn’t thought much about what gratitude looked like in children. Eagerness, aliveness glowing in their eyes. But there is something more. A yearning beginning to be fulfilled, a longing they had no reason to expect would ever be met. Some days I leave a school and find myself teary with unexpected happiness.”

Justine felt her eyes well up. “You surprise me, Nadia. I guess I expected something else. Longing would seem a rather adult emotion. I’m not sure I’ve seen it in children.”

“Perhaps there are other words to explain what I’m seeing. But you said I surprised you. What did you think I would say?”

She sipped her tea before speaking. “Some kind of education-talk, I suppose. Reading and math and tests and achievement. I’m becoming jaded by the direction U.S. schools are taking. It’s as though the human side of children is being exchanged for a technological view of life and learning. You know, children as objects, as robots.”

“I know what you mean. As women, we’ve all had that experience.”

“I’m afraid so. I’m enchanted to think about children, especially young girls, brimming with emotions and longing. I can hardly wait to get into the schools and see how all the pieces come together.” She paused, holding Nadia’s gaze. “What are you hoping to learn from me?”