The Cairo Codex (20 page)

“Tell me, who is the real Justine Jenner?” he asked, flashing his irresistible grin.

She laughed. “That’s a tougher question than you would think. I seem to be a woman in transition . . . from a daughter and student to an independent person and anthropologist . . . from an American to an Egyptian . . . and I’m known to be stubborn at times,” she added.

“I find stubbornness seductive,” he said, sitting back on his pillow, eyeing her with amusement.

“Oh? How is that?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Take right now,” he observed. “You have a challenging sparkle in your amber eyes, and your body tells me you are ready to take me on. I find that captivating. Mysterious.”

Justine felt a warm flush of embarrassment and desire move across her face. She unfolded her arms and rearranged her skirt, thankful that it was not taffeta. “Well,” she grinned, “I love old movies and good books, particularly romantic ones. I would say I’m spiritual but not religious. I trust my senses and use them in my work. Enough for now?”

“Enough for now,” he nodded, as though this were only the first installment. “What do you mean by ‘spiritual but not religious’?” A young Sudanese waiter decked out in a gold-trimmed vest, pantaloon pants, and a tarboosh set wine, bottled water, and salads on their brass table.

“By spiritual, I mean I’m conscious of a greater purpose in life. I believe that we should leave the world a little better than we found it. I’d say I have an intense desire for truth and a deep reverence for nature,” Justine said.
What is this religious talk with both Amir and Nasser? A litmus test?

“Does God fit into your picture?” he asked casually, as though it held little importance. The corner of his mouth curled slightly.

“Not necessarily. I’m not sure a god is essential to my worldview—although I don’t dismiss the possibility,” she assured him, deciding not to go down this road again tonight. “And what about you? Who is the real Nasser Khalid?”

Nasser rebalanced his weight on the pillow and released a low, comfortable sigh. “Perhaps I’m in transition too. I’m not sure I’m cut out for the teaching business. I’m looking for a way into the world of archaeology. I’ve got three sisters, all younger, and a traditional father. I admire my mother but would like to see her stand up for herself more often. I like to play football and read philosophy. Philo is my favorite. I’m a Christian of sorts.” Nasser paused and held her eyes, his gaze a combination of altar boy and prince.

“Tell me about your sisters,” she asked, trying unsuccessfully to ignore his seductive expression.
A man of many faces
. He had a way of disconcerting her that she relished, yet which somehow made her uncomfortable.

“They’re a lot like you,” Nasser said. “Independent, rather bold. They’re each pursuing a career. Nura tells me you can’t trust a man to always take care of you.”

“I would have to agree with Nura. How old is she?”

“Twenty-one next month. She’s in the faculty of law at Cairo University and can argue anyone under the table.” He grinned. “Maha is 18 and will be entering the faculty of medicine next year. Leila is just 16 and still in secondary school.”

“You’re proud of your sisters,” she offered. Each reached for the bottle of water to refill the glasses, and their fingers touched. Justine felt a slight tremor move through her body.
I wonder if Nasser felt the same
. She glanced at his face for clues.

After a brief pause and a slight look of surprise, he responded, “I am proud of them, I admit, even though they can be a nuisance. ‘Take me here, take me there,’ ‘Why can’t I come?’” he mimicked playfully.

“They sound like young women everywhere.” She laughed. “You said that you weren’t sure you were made for teaching. What are your options?”

“The university pays very little, and the assignment is semester to semester. I keep holding out for an archeology assignment, but I may have to get into business. Maybe the oil business.”

“I can understand the need for more lucrative work—but the oil business is quite an environmental offender.”

Nasser’s expression became grave, the sparkle in his eyes replaced by dark, gunmetal gray. “That’s business, Justine. It doesn’t compare to what the Chinese are doing in Africa or are permitting to happen in the Sudan.”

“I suppose not,” she said, tempted to add:
But is that the standard you want to go by?
She sensed she was crossing some invisible line.

Nasser was quiet for several moments, slowly eating his shwarma. When he looked up, he readjusted his expression once more. “You have a point. But I’m a realist, not a crusader. I may have to go where the work is.”

“I’ve never been sure what it means to be a realist, but I hope you find work with an archaeology team. We’re all better off if we can follow our passions, don’t you think?” She forked the shwarma onto her plate and topped the pulled beef with a dollop of labna.

“Oh sure, sure. A realist, in my book, is someone who accepts what he can’t change. Now as for passions, they can take many forms.” The words hung in the air between them. “Do you play the piano?”

Justine was suddenly conscious of Nasser’s gaze on her lips moving silently to the music, her fingers searching for invisible keys. “I did as a child . . . why?”

“I love to watch your hands when you talk. They’re the graceful hands of a piano player or dancer,” he observed.

“I do love music, but my talking style can be credited to my Italian grandmother.” She unconsciously crossed her hands in her lap.
Like with Amir, I have this strong sense that Nasser has many secrets, yet he touches something in me that I haven’t felt since my first love . . . God, I’ve got to be careful. I’m not ready for this . . .

“Dr. Jenner?” the waiter asked, handing Justine a note. She sat forward, startled.
Who could possibly know that I’m here?
She read the note from Andrea, refolded it, and placed it in her purse. She checked her cell phone. It was turned off.

She looked up at Nasser’s quizzical face, tamping down the excitement she felt after reading Andrea’s note. She raised her glass of wine.
Time for that tomorrow. Tonight I’m just going to enjoy this attractive man.

“Sorry for the interruption last night,
chérie.
I was so excited about the codex that I came by your apartment. Apparently, your cell phone was turned off, but the boab had overheard the two of you discussing the restaurant.”

“I’m glad you were able to reach me,” Justine said simply. “How are you this morning, Dr. Ibrahim?” She had just walked over to his office in the Rare Books Library.

Ibrahim was gazing at the bougainvillea climbing up the wall below his window, his bushy eyebrows drawn close together. “Fine, my dear, fine,” he said, pulling up a chair for her. “I called a photographer friend in Geneva. Ancient parchments are his specialty. He’ll be here soon to photograph the codex. I’m quite pleased.”

“Good, Ibrahim. Good,” said Andrea, looking eager to get on with her own revelations. “I know it’s nearly impossible, but I have to believe what I’ve seen. I’ve only examined random portions of the codex, but the writing is very close to that of the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Justine asked, a strange chill running through her. She vigorously rubbed her arms through the thin silk fabric of her blouse as her two colleagues stared hungrily at the little book.

“These delicate little formations are written in the Jewish book-hand style, although most of it is in Aramaic. The script is carefully drawn with delicate flourishes . . . see this line?” Andrea drew her close, holding her forearm and pointing. “The hieroglyphs are less than an eighth of an inch high, and some letters, or I should say words, or phrases, are virtually the same as those in the Scrolls. And there are little drawings along the sides of some pages—flowers, birds. See here . . .”

Justine examined the miniscule letters, which looked much like the algebraic sign for pi or some form of shorthand. She’d seen writings from the Levant to Egypt from the same period as the Dead Sea Scrolls, although, frankly, they all appeared almost the same to her. She squinted and drew closer.

“Here,” Ibrahim said. “Try this.” He handed her a magnifying glass.

“This form of writing was perfected during the Herodian period and was usually written on calfskin—I think the cover may well be calfskin,” he said. “Remember, the Dead Sea Scrolls were buried in several caves twelve hundred feet below sea level, so they were protected by the dryness. Hundreds of fragments.

“The author could be an Essene—highly unlikely, but I wouldn’t rule it out,” he added, excited as a young boy.

“Did you both come to the same conclusion?” Justine glanced from Andrea to Ibrahim and back again.

“I can read Aramaic, but I am not a paleographer. I can’t distinguish between fine differences,” said Ibrahim, vigorously rubbing his right knee. The stairs were causing him problems these days. “I’m not finely attuned to the differences in the shape and form of the letters like Andrea is. I think it may be time to consult my colleague Amal Al Rasul, the director at the new Centre for Writing and Calligraphy at the Alexandria Bibliotheca. Amal was at Cairo University with me before he recently founded the Centre. His specialty is paleography. When could you two go to Alexandria?”

“Ibrahim is right, perhaps the two of us should make the trip,” affirmed Andrea, giving Justine a conspiratorial wink. “I want confirmation by an expert in ancient Middle Eastern languages.”

Justine grinned. “Let’s do it! I’ll work it out with Nadia.”

As the two women walked out into the lush garden of palms, willows, and bougainvillea surrounding the library, Justine said, “Receiving the note last night was a bit disconcerting. I’ll have to be more careful. Especially if I want to keep my love life private.”

“From now on, you may indeed need to be more careful,” Andrea said seriously. “Religious and political forces managed to keep the Dead Sea Scrolls secret for nearly fifty years after they were discovered in the 1940s. You’d be amazed how people of like minds can conspire. And those caught in the middle do not fare well.”

Justine stared at her in amazement. If this little codex was of the same origin as the scrolls . . .
What am I getting myself into?

As my youngest son and I stroll through the market once more, he is careful to stay within the length of two donkeys. “I must be able to see you,” I tell him. The souk, the market, is a fascinating cauldron of colors, sounds, and motion. Aromas of roasting pigeons and breads fill our nostrils. Turbans adorn the men of the East, while white robes signify travelers from Arabia. Melons and lemons, almonds and camel livers, snakes and silver, silks and spices, baskets and painted amphora . . . wonders to be sold and bartered for line tables and fill baskets.

A sistrum flute plays sweetly from one of the alleyways leading away from the open market, luring my son away. For a moment I lose sight of him in the dark caverns of the village. Turning right into a narrow passageway, he moves toward the song of the flute. Mud brick houses hover close to each other, blocking out the sunlight and clutching into their womb the odors of human sweat and sizzling fish that permeate the air of the nomadic quarter. Shadowy figures move silently along the path, carrying heavy bundles that bump him as he passes.

I watch as he turns his attention away from the burdened traders and peers into an opening in the wall where a man is grabbing the hair of a woman who kneels at his feet while a frightened child looks on. Below the window, a lone woman of perhaps eighteen summers sits playing the sistrum. My son stands mesmerized by the melancholy melody and the tortured scene. A single tear moves down his cheek.

From nearby, a beggar calls to him, “Alms, my boy, alms.” The beggar takes hold of his arm, pulling him. My son can surely smell his rancid breath, see the bloodshot eyes and rotting skin tucked into a long woolen scarf.

“I am sorry, sir, I have no alms. But how can I be of service?” he asks, undisturbed by the wretchedness of the man who holds his arm. The beggar loosens his grip. His face sheds the lines of menace made more noticeable by ruined teeth and poxed skin. His hideous face becomes smooth, his expression almost beatific. His eyes fill with wonder.

“Has God sent you?” he asks without guile.

My son lightly touches the man’s matted hair, smiles, and quietly turns away.

“My son, where are you?” I call from the entry to the alley.

“I’m here, Mother,” he says and hurries toward my voice.