The Cairo Codex (21 page)

T
HERE WERE MANY GREAT SOUKS, OR MARKETS
, in the world—Fez and Tangiers in Morocco, Tunis, and Istanbul among them. Khan El Khalili in Islamic Cairo was one of the most ancient. Miles of narrow alleyways snaked sinuously through the fourteenth-century structures. Anything could be found there, from leather and gold to stuffed miniature camels, Turkish furniture, tents, hashish, spices, and even false teeth. Sexual desires could be satisfied, business negotiated. The Khan came to life at night, shop lights and the voices of merchants circling the high walls of mashrabaya portals and carved arches. Incense and pipe smoke mingled with the smell of overrun sewers and debris. The diminished tourist trade had made the salesmen bolder, but not offensively so.

Justine had not been to the Khan since returning to Egypt and was pleased when Nadia asked to meet her there. They settled on 7:00 p.m. at the edge of the souk.

She stepped out of the taxi across the street from Khan el Khalili, in front of Al Azhar University. Built in 970 CE, Al Azhar was the oldest continuously operating university in the world, still known for preparing Arabists and Imams. The university drew Muslims from as far away as Timbuktu, Europe, and Indonesia, and was further distinguished as one of the only fully operating Islamic universities in Egypt, others having fallen into disarray or been turned into modern faculties of law. The university’s magnetism was as much a product of its sheikh as its antiquity. The Sheikh of Al Azhar was the highest theological authority for Egyptian Muslims. Between the extensive complex that formed Al Azhar and the sacred Sayyidna al Hussein Mosque across the street, this was the bustling center of medieval Islamic Cairo.

Justine descended the stairs into the dark tunnel running underneath Al-Muizz Li-Din Street and emerged near a row of outdoor restaurants. The mosque ahead was the burial place for one of the Prophet Mohammed’s grandsons, and therefore out of bounds to non-Muslims. The square, known as Midan Hussein, formed the eastern border of the souk. Ragamuffin child beggars darted across the small strip of grass in front of the mosque. Three of them closed in on Justine, blocking her path to Nadia, who was standing at the corner of one of the restaurants. She patted them on the heads and said, “
Mish Mumpkin
—not possible.” She knew if she opened her wallet for the children, fifty more would follow.

Nadia was dressed in her usual attire, black with gold jewelry, comfortable loafers. Even though they’d been together earlier in the day, she warmly opened her arms in welcome.

“I thought we might shop for a while, then get something to eat. Does that suit you?” she asked, taking Justine’s hand and walking toward the main entrance of the souk. Brass amphorae and vases formed a border to the small café on their left, and rows of silver shops lined the right side.

“It does. I could use a few things yet for my apartment. I need candlesticks, a tablecloth, napkins . . . and a few other items that I’ll know when I see them. Perhaps some spices. Definitely earrings.”

“I need a cartouche for my niece’s sixteenth birthday, and I’d ask that you hold off on the tablecloth and napkins. The women of Bulaq do beautiful needlework and they’re holding a bazaar at the Anglican Church next week.”

“A bazaar sounds great . . . and so does the chance to meet some of the women you’ve worked with in the past.” As they moved into the Khan, Justine’s senses were bombarded with layers of odors—pesticides, frying fish and grilling meats, sizzling donuts, and human sweat.

“Come in, my ladies, look at my shop.” The young proprietor touched both of her own eyes, then gently placed her hand on Justine’s elbow. Justine and Nadia stepped inside, clearing their nostrils with the sweet scent of perfume.

Within an hour, the two women had made many of their purchases and woven back through the alleyways to Fishawi’s Coffeehouse, the long-time haunt of the Egyptian writer Naguib Mahfouz. Huge, gilded mirrors encircled a crowded room of small tables filled with elderly men leaning in toward one another mysteriously, cigarettes poised in long, thin fingers. Brass sheeshas stood nearby while roaming hawkers tried unsuccessfully to interrupt conversations. Dark in spite of the mirrors, Fishawi’s was nestled in the middle of the Khan, avoiding all direct light. For more than two hundred years, this coffeehouse had been a center of Cairo gossip and literary exchange.

A boy of about nine moved gracefully among the tables balancing a silver tray of clear glass teacups. His bearing revealed the delicacy of innocence mixed with the premature sophistication granted to those who overhear forbidden conversations.

“Tell me about the women of Bulaq,” Justine asked as soon as they had placed their order with the young boy. The tables were crowded; the whirling smoke formed an eerie mesh through which they spoke. “The comments you made a few days ago about women and the Brotherhood were chilling. Why don’t women fight back now, demand more rights, get enraged? Would women actually vote for the Brotherhood? Support them?”

Nadia stared at the cigarette burns on the table. Justine waited.

“Did you know that the U.N. estimates that 90 percent of women in Egypt have been circumcised?”

“The clitorectomy? The cutting of female genitals, often involving the removal of the clitoris? I know it’s a common Islamic practice in much of Africa, but I find that nearly impossible to believe.” Justine nodded at the boy for their tea as a second, even younger, boy appeared with a tray of rice-stuffed vegetables called
mahshy
, two grilled pigeons, and labna.

“Genital mutilation steals intense sexual and psychic energy from women. Makes them more passive. It takes education and support for women to develop a self-directing consciousness. To find some fire in their bellies. We . . .”

Justine’s eyes narrowed. “We . . . You, Nadia? No.”

“Yes.” Tears formed in both women’s eyes. “When I was five my grandmother, my beloved grandmother, and my mother held me down and robbed me of my clitoris. It took me years to come to terms with that betrayal—that women I loved would diminish my capacity to love.”

Justine was shocked, not only at the vast numbers of women involved, but that Nadia, the woman she cared for, worked for, was telling her this traumatic story. Justine spooned the
mahshy
onto her plate, topped it with a bit of labna, and set the pigeon to the side. “You are telling me that the fire of resistance has been stolen from most Egyptian women.”

Nadia nodded, turning to grasp her pigeon like an ice cream cone. “But not all. Not the middle and upper classes. Educated women have found a way to overcome this physical handicap. Women are still the future of Egypt, Justine, but they must be legitimately empowered. There is legislation in Parliament to outlaw female circumcision, and I expect it to pass. And real empowerment is what our schools are about.”

“Empowerment comes from within, both within the individual and within the culture. We can only help create the conditions in which this can happen. And that’s what we’ll do,” Justine said with revolutionary resolve. She wrapped her small napkin around her roasted pigeon and began to eat it as Nadia did. “I hear you can eat these whole things, bones and all.”

“Do you recognize the man at the table to your far left?” whispered Nadia. “No, no . . . don’t turn around. He’s wearing a green plaid shirt and smoking one of those new cigarettes. His face scares the daylights out of me. I noticed him a couple of times while we were shopping.”

Justine shifted her position so she could see him. “He’s familiar. I have seen him. Perhaps it is just a coincidence.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve noticed him watching you closely. He’s too serious for my taste. I think he may be following you.”

Justine shivered. Was this what she’s been warned about? Was she in real danger? Could word of the codex have leaked already? “Let’s find out,” she said, laying down her unfinished pigeon. “I’m going to finish my shopping and I’ll meet you at the entrance in an hour.”

Nadia was silent for several moments, then she picked up the bill and placed ten pounds on the table. Justine followed suit. “Don’t try to be brave, Justine. That could be dangerous. I have no idea what this could be about, but be cautious. Promise?”

“I promise,” Justine said, patting Nadia’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t confront him.” She picked up her purse and shopping bags, walked out of the restaurant, and stepped back into the alley, careful to avoid the sewer water standing in front of the Khan El Khalili restaurant, then wove through numerous leather shops and turned right toward the spice market, an alley brimming with burlap bags of saffron, cumin, cardamom, ginger, cloves, and hibiscus. She turned back toward the main part of the Khan, entered and exited an antique shop, and re-entered one of the leather shops. While eyeing a small bag, she caught a glimpse of a green shirt across the narrow alleyway and saw the man watching her reflection in the window. Her heart beat rapidly, her hands clammy with perspiration.

“
Masa a nur
, good evening,” she said, walking directly toward the man in question. “Haven’t we met before?” She smiled disarmingly, feeling a fine burst of adrenaline.

“
La, la
. We do not know each other,” he stammered in street Arabic. “I just shop. If you will excuse me.” He quickly walked on. The face was memorable: small scars along his upper lip told of a lisp awkwardly corrected in childhood, and his black eyes, too close together, gave him a look of permanent exclamation.

She followed him. He walked faster.
What am I doing
? But she couldn’t seem to help herself; it was as though she was chasing a piece to a puzzle.
What puzzle?
she asked herself, not for the first time.

The scarred man was walking faster. Justine began to run, splashing some sewer drainage on her linen slacks.
Damn.
As she turned the corner between two leather shops, she slammed into a tall, striking man dressed informally in a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Amir!”

“Oh, hello Justine,” he said averting his eyes, his shoulders stiff.

“What brings you here?” she asked, instantly deciding not to tell him about the stranger she was chasing.

“Nothing important. A few things to pick up. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.” And he was gone, disappearing among the crowd of shoppers and hawkers.

Justine turned into a less busy alley and pressed herself against the cement wall.
What is Amir doing here? He was so evasive . . . Can I trust him? Is there a connection between him and the man with the scarred face?

In the middle of her thought, the man in the green shirt appeared in front of her, his ugly face only a few inches from hers. Justine shrieked. He braced one hand on the wall behind her and pressed a brass Arabian dagger flat against her chest with the other.

“Don’t follow me.” He glared at her, his eyes so penetrating she felt as though they could bore right through her.

Justine started to shiver. Terrified, she managed to ask, “Why are
you
following
me
?”

A crooked grin revealed deteriorating yellow teeth. He shoved her hard against the wall and walked away.

Justine felt dizzy, nauseated; she stood there several more minutes to get her bearings. She was still shaking and fighting tears when she met up with Nadia.

“Are you crazy?” Nadia demanded. “I saw you talking to that man. He might have pulled a knife and killed you right there!”

Justine looked sheepish. “He did pull a knife, one of those daggers right out of some dumb movie. He doubled back and confronted me. All he said was ‘don’t follow me’ and then he pushed me hard.”

“You’re in danger. Perhaps it has something to do with your father. Or just that you’re an American . . . but that doesn’t make sense . . .” She paused and stared at Justine.

“Did you see Amir? I bumped into him and he was so cagey, elusive. What would bring him here? Could he be hunting for Zachariah?”

“Amir? No, I didn’t see him. I didn’t think Zachariah was back in Cairo. They’re not close, you know, although Amir carries his family’s anguish. Zachariah is actually Ibrahim’s favorite, the old man would do anything for the boy. But Amir has just about washed his hands of his younger brother.”

There’s that disconnect again. Who is close to whom?
“Amir is a responsible man. Wouldn’t he help the family find his brother?”

Nadia stared off into the market. “Yes. Amir is a responsible man,” she declared flatly.

When Justine walked into her apartment, the house phone was ringing.

“Nasser? I’m so glad you called!” she said, and without a pause, she continued: “I was followed tonight in the Khan.” She had seriously considered calling Amir, but after tonight she just wasn’t sure . . .

“Are you sure?” he exclaimed.

“I’m positive. We—Nadia and I were shopping and she noticed him, then I spoke to him and he threatened me.”

“Threatened you? How?”

“He confronted me with a dagger to my chest, then pushed me against the wall. All he said was ‘don’t follow me.’” Justine could hardly believe what she’d just said.
This sounds like a third-rate movie.