The Cairo Codex (16 page)

“How go you? Has your day started well?” Rachel asks.

“It has been a good day, thanks be to God.” I gently stack charcoal from a small box in the middle of the oven and light the fire.

Rachel reaches into her pocket for a handful of cornmeal and scatters it generously on the worktable, then turns to the task of rolling the dough into small mounds. “I delivered a baby last night. A precious little girl. God gave her a difficult birth.” Her hands move with added intensity.

I carefully push the charcoal into a circle and place a flat piece of pottery in the center. “What happened? How are the child and mother?” The fire pit has a steady blaze, licking the earthen pot of water. Waiting for Rachel’s story, I dip my hand into the small jar of salt and take a pinch of black cumin and a few pieces of garlic, adding the spices to the simmering water before I wipe my hands on my tunic and sit down to listen.

“The family is Egyptian,” Rachel begins as she sits down on a small stool facing me. “They live on the other side of the village. The woman’s husband objected violently to a midwife from Palestine, so he refused to call for my help. Finally, a neighbor came for me, and her husband forced the screaming man outside. The woman—her name was Jasmine—was in terrible, terrible pain. The baby was coming out feet first, so I didn’t think Jasmine or the baby would live. But as you know, I have learned some ways to bring children into this world when others give up hope.”

“It is God’s gift.”

Rachel nods solemnly. “I held my knife to the fire to purify it, then cut her body enough so that I could reach in and pull the little girl out. The child had started to turn blue, but soon she began to cry. I think she will survive.” Rachel pauses and gives an exhausted sigh, wiping away a tear with her scarf. “This was one of the most difficult births I’ve witnessed.”

“And . . . the mother? Did she survive?”

“I always carry a little silk thread in my pocket, so I was able to sew up the opening I had made large. I soaked sycamore leaves in balsam and placed them on the wound. She was very brave, and when I laid the little girl on her breast, she smiled at both of us. I think she will live, thanks be to God.”

“You are a wonder, Rachel.” I throw my arms around her.

“Will we ever be accepted here?” Rachel whispers into the nape of my neck. As I hold her close, I remember my own loss. Tears fall for Jasmine, for Rachel, and for myself. I am still holding her when Noha can be heard coming up the rise near the corral. Rachel and I let go of each other, dry our eyes, and pretend to return to work.

P
ROFESSOR
I
BRAHIM APPEARED QUITE DAPPER
as he carefully lowered himself onto the fringed Bedouin pillow next to Justine. The Tabullah Restaurant might have been a stage set for
One Thousand and One Nights
, the carved Arabesque brass tables, lounging seats with red recessed lamps, ancient Oriental artifacts, cozy corners, and ornate pipes giving off an air of timeless mystery. Customers from the nearby British and Canadian embassies joined with exotic locals here to make this one of the more popular Lebanese restaurants in Cairo.

Ibrahim had called shortly after Justine and Nadia had finished their visit to the City of the Dead. He was excited to report that Andrea LeMartin was interested in exploring working together on the translation of the codex, and that this evening he would introduce her to the French linguist.

“Will you order the wine, Andrea?” Ibrahim asked the woman seated on the other side of him. Justine couldn’t help notice the way Amir smiled at his grandfather’s flirtatious manner. Tonight, Ibrahim seemed decades younger than when she’d last seen him.

“Ah,
mon ami
, you reveal my snobbishness. Shame on you,” Andrea said, then turned to the attentive waiter. “I will ask for your best Egyptian wine,” she ordered in French. “We shall have two bottles of Grand Marquis cabernet.”

Unpretentious yet elegant, Andrea LeMartin was a striking woman in her late forties, although it was difficult to surmise the exact age of this French beauty. A simple deep green silk dress enfolded her voluptuous body, complementing her violet eyes and almost burgundy hair. Her sense of presence made her appear taller than she was. Tiny gold hoop earrings and a single gold wrist chain were her only adornments. Justine glanced at her own nails and shoes, smiling at the realization that Andrea made her feel self-conscious.
She looks more Egyptian than I do.

“And for salads,” Amir said, “some labna, kofta, babaghanoush, and the house tabbouleh?” Relaxed in his role as co-host of this dinner, he smiled expansively. He turned a warm gaze first on Andrea, then Justine, as though to draw them into his radius.

Justine felt herself being absorbed by his obsidian eyes as his gaze lingered on her. Extricating herself with a deep breath, she turned to Andrea. “Tell us about your interest in Aramaic script.”

“My favorite topic.” Andrea’s wide-set eyes sparkled as she began to talk about the ancient language. “You may realize that Aramaic is the best and longest attested Semitic language, in use for over three thousand years in Palestine, Syria, and Mesopotamia. At one time, like my beloved French, Aramaic was the primary language of life and diplomacy. That period—more than a thousand years in length—was the formative period of Christianity and the foundation of Islam. Greek and Hebrew—and later Latin—derived many of their original meanings from Aramaic. I find it historically humbling.” She paused to curl a miniature triangle of pita and dip it in the labna topped with olive oil.

“I find it particularly fascinating how much the language evolved over those many years,” she continued. “There were great changes in grammar, the lexical collection and usage, allowing us to identify periods based on time and place. Language development is a living process, you realize, with great power to help us understand what we find.”

She glanced at Justine as though to ask, “Is that what you wanted to know?” Justine smiled back at her.
If the codex is written primarily in Aramaic, surely Andrea is the one to unlock its secrets—whatever they are.

“Give us an example of such a period, if you please,” urged Ibrahim, obviously enthralled, though Justine was certain it was information that he already knew well.

“Well, let’s take the Dead Sea Scrolls,
chéri
. Documents with which we are all familiar. They represent an extensive set of Aramaic scripts dated within the first hundred years of the current era, probably written by the Essenes and thankfully stored in the dry caves of Qumran around the Dead Sea. The pattern and form of these words, so carefully drawn, represent a standard through which others of the period can be interpreted.”

“Tell me, Andrea, the finds at Nag Hammadi, written in Coptic—could those have originally been translated from Aramaic?” asked Justine. Discovered in clay jars near the village of Nag Hammadi in Upper Egypt in 1945, the codices contained more than fifty Gnostic texts.

“Indeed. Most of them,” replied Andrea, slowly sipping her cabernet. She turned to Ibrahim. “Is that not so, Professor? Ibrahim may be too modest to tell you that he was also involved in the translation of the Nag Hammadi Codex.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

Ibrahim blushed almost imperceptibly. “The codices included many things, new texts such as the Gospels of Thomas, Philip, and Truth, and Eastern manuscripts, such as sections of lost texts from Zoroastrianism. Most of the papyri appear to have been translated from ancient and middle Aramaic. I was pleased to find that the blending of beliefs, or religious traditions, was much more fluid then.”

“As it should be today,” Justine said, recalling the professor’s pursuit of the Tao. Ibrahim looked at her with appreciation and nodded.

“Translation was an important art during those days when Alexandria and Hellenization were at their zenith,” offered Amir. “The entire known world responded to the culture and style of Greece, a love affair that didn’t end with the Romans. Two thousand years ago, the Hebrew Scriptures—the origin of all of the religions of the book—were translated into Greek in the Alexandria library. And, of course, the gospels of the New Testament were written in Greek as well.”

“A fact that has led some of us to believe that Christianity developed among the Diaspora, rather than in Palestine itself,” observed Ibrahim. “No earlier copies of those original gospels exist in Aramaic.”

“That’s a debatable observation, my dear professor,” observed Andrea. “Just because Aramaic gospels have not been found doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She placed her hand on his, the gold chain on her wrist resting across his forearm.

Clearly this debate is not a new one
, Justine mused, surveying her dinner partners.
It’s like I’m observing an Oscar Wilde play. Into what role am I cast? Do I cast myself?

“Granted, most mysteries in human history are still to be unraveled,” admitted the professor, bowing his head slightly, “but the learned Greek used in writing the gospel texts lead many of us to assume that such work may have been done in the strongholds of Greek culture throughout the region, regions where Jews had immigrated during the Diaspora. Most probably in Alexandria. Isn’t that right, Amir?”

Amir nodded gallantly, an amused grin on his face.

“You Egyptians,” goaded Andrea. “You want to claim credit for everything of value—the beginning of civilization, Moses and the Exodus, Jesus and his family, the transfer of Hebrew texts to the world, the beginning of Christianity.”

“Couldn’t you manage to find the birthplace of Mohammed somewhere along the Nile?” asked Justine.

“Don’t think we haven’t tried,” laughed Amir. “In fact, I’m thinking of a new dig . . . starting near Aswan.”

“May I join you?” offered Justine, winking at him and laughing lightly. “I’ve always thought we might find Mohammed here. Why not? He conquered Egypt eventually.”

“You may join me on the hunt,” Amir said enthusiastically. “Bring shovels, gloves, and a few dozen eager students.” Laughter moved around the table, followed by their arriving food. Chicken, aubergine fattah, kofta, and rice joined their generous, unfinished salads. Several minutes passed as they ate in silence.

“You
are
Lucrezia Jenner’s daughter, aren’t you? You have her sense of humor and grace,” Andrea said appreciatively.

“I am. And thank you,” Justine said, genuinely surprised. “You know my mother?”

“I have known and respected your mother for many years. She’s a scholar, a poet, and a bit of a raconteur. We used to hold a few salons together in Florence and Paris, depending on where we were at the time.” It was obvious that Andrea recalled those days with fondness. “How is she?”

“Quite well, and enjoying life. I’ve talked with her a couple of times this week. As you might imagine, she’s been concerned about the effects of the earthquake.”

“Of course she would be. Please give her my regards.”

“I will . . . Andrea, has Ibrahim talked with you about the codex I found in St. Sergius?”

“He has,” Andrea whispered, glancing around them to assure herself that no one was listening.

Ibrahim reached for the uncontested check. Justine lowered her voice and asked: “Do you think it might be of any significance? Might you be interested in working with us?”

Andrea waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t think it’s anything of importance.”

The evening concluded as pleasantly as it began, although Justine was deeply disappointed. She’d hoped . . .
What?
she asked herself.
That Andrea would be as excited about the codex as I am? Surely she is wrong about its importance.
For several moments she was lost in thought. When she looked up, Amir stood by her shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked.

She smiled up at him, stood, and allowed him to escort her out of the restaurant.

Justine entered Groppi’s through its front door, which was framed by blue mosaic and situated on a corner of Midan Talaat Harb Square in downtown Cairo. The looming statue of Mr. Harb, founder of the National Bank, in his tarboosh stood watch over the entrance. At one time, Groppi’s had been second only to the Shepheard as the gathering place for writers, adventurers, self-appointed celebrities, and pashas, but it now failed to dazzle. Life had leaked out of Groppi’s like perfume from a broken vial and left only a colorful shop full of candies and cookies behind—but the fragrance of warm cookies still issued forth a friendly invitation.