The Cairo Codex (26 page)

Justine laughed. “A bit like the square dance we did in middle school, only not as organized. I’m surprised that a German team could make sense of it all.”

“They couldn’t. They had a Turkish Muslim engineer with them,” Ibrahim said proudly. “Culture is everything, Justine.”

“Everything, Professor?”

“Well, just about . . . We’re nearing the St. Barbara Church grounds in Old Cairo, and I haven’t said much about Father Zein Hakeem. Zein and I have been friends since our college days. Not only is he knowledgeable about the Coptic religion and the history of St. Sergius, but he’s also a good storyteller and knows a particular tale I want you to hear. I think you’ll like him.”

A story I need to hear? Ah, the plot thickens
. “I’m sure I will, professor. Have you told him about the codex?”

“Not yet. Andrea won’t let me,” Ibrahim said with a devilish grin as their taxi turned into one of Cairo’s many secret gardens and stopped near a three-story office building of aging white stucco. Sycamore branches and ivy covered the seating area nearby where three priests leaned toward each other, absorbed in conversation. A towering stone wall left by the peripatetic Romans formed the western boundary of the vast property, revealing layers of civilizations that blended effortlessly in the ancient world.

Justine could have picked Father Zein out of any crowd. He looked just as she’d imagined. Embracing Ibrahim, his graying hair and flowing gown completely enveloped the shorter professor. Laugh lines were etched into his aging face; his eyes were saucy. He turned toward Justine and squeezed her extended hand gently.

“Follow me, my dear,” he said. Slowly, Father Zein led them up winding stairs to an imposing office, where he waved them toward two velvet-upholstered chairs in front of a massive desk. He released his own considerable weight into a large chair situated between his desk and a window opening to the lush garden below.

For several moments, he absently arranged the items on his cluttered desk, giving himself time to regain his breath. “Before 1981, St. Barbara Church was a church of the dead. Now it is a church of the living. We have five priests here—two more were just ordained—a school for English, and technological training. We’re an active, alive institution.”

A timid, elderly man entered the room, knelt, and kissed the hand of the priest before quietly receiving the order for tea.
Such worship must be routine
, thought Justine,
for there are no signs of discomfort on Zein’s part.

“Professor Ibrahim and I have known each other for a hundred years or more. Isn’t that so, my friend?” Zein asked playfully. “Where did you get that God-awful hat?”

“Dashing, don’t you think?” Ibrahim’s shaking hands delicately touched his black and green plaid tam on all sides. Turning to reveal his pleasing patrician profile, he replied, “We’ve known each other for at least that long. But you’re not going to talk me out of my hat.”

Father Zein smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “We met in New York, where we were both students of philosophy at City College. I was dating a beautiful young woman and Ibrahim was jealous. He tried to steal her away, but she recognized the better man.” As Zein talked, Ibrahim was clearly enjoying himself. “Rebecca now lives in New York near our children. I’ve one daughter in Cairo. My wife’s not fond of Cairo, and I’ve grown weary of New York.”

“You see, my dear,” Ibrahim explained to Justine, “in the Coptic Church, priests can marry, but only before they’re ordained. Father Zein wasn’t ordained until 1981, when he came to St. Barbara.”

“I see,” she smiled. “That must cause quite a last-minute run on weddings.”

“Ha! You are so right, my dear.” Father Zein laughed, placing both hands on his stomach. “I just reserve the church for a month before ordination.” He cleared his throat. “I understand from my friend here that you have some questions for me. I am happy to oblige.” He shifted his weight in his oversized chair and pulled at his beard with a ring-adorned hand. Even Spielberg would have trouble topping this man as a character in a period movie.

“Let me start with an easy one,” said Justine. “How do Copts and Muslims get along today in Egypt?”

“If that’s an easy question, I may not be able to answer the hard ones.” Father Zein paused. “I would say we tolerate each other quite well. You may know that before the Muslim invasion in the seventh century, Coptic Christianity was the religion of Egypt. In fact, Christianity began in Egypt, established in Alexandria by St. Mark. Even the idea of monasteries started right here in the Eastern desert. Egyptians took to Christianity like ducks take to water. Ah, perhaps even better.”

“Better than ducks, Father? That’s quite a claim.”

“Well founded, I’d say. Keep in mind that the Holy Family came to us. Our land was the safe haven when Herod ordered all of the male babies under the age of two killed to make sure the Messiah did not live. We were honored by the visit of Mary and her new son.”

“Further,” added Ibrahim, “the worship of the goddess Isis was the primary religion in Egypt and much of the Roman world at that time. Egyptians were wholly committed to a mother figure who had resurrected her husband and devoted herself to her divine son. She was considered the giver of life and the mother of God. We realize this tale is a little heretical. But there you have it.”

Zein shook his head in disagreement, but distributed the tea. “Sugar? Milk?”

“I remember hearing about Isis from my mother. Why heretical?” asked Justine. “Transferring the worship of one woman and son to another would seem to be quite natural, as well as rational.”

Father Zein scoffed. “To think that the path to worshiping Mary and her divine son came through paganism is unthinkable, my dear. We prefer to believe that coming to Jesus Christ occurs through divine epiphany.”

“I see,” said Justine, who understood it at one irrational level. “Please go on. You were describing the Copts and the Muslims.”

“
Iwa
. I lose my train of thought easily these days. We Copts now make up only about 10 percent of the population of Egypt. On the surface, we get along relatively well, but I’m afraid the friction is growing once again. Copts are rarely elected to local offices or Parliament, even when we see fit to run. Our women do not cover themselves, so we stand out more than ever. We keep too much to ourselves. We’re the Jews of the twenty-first century.” He sighed.

“But you do have some common ground, don’t you? Muslims believe that Jesus was a great prophet, and Mary is honored.”

“Jesus is considered a prophet—but not a son of God. And, curiously, Mary is spoken of quite often in the Koran. You might say that the Virgin Mary is a bridge between our two religions, especially in Egypt,” said Father Zein. “The Muslims accept almost no Christian miracles, but the Virgin birth is one of them.”

“Are there others?” Justine slid forward on the velvet chair. “I love a good story.”

“Just one. The story of St. Samaan, the Tanner.” Father Zein turned to Ibrahim. “Do we have time to tell this story?”

“I think we should take the time,” said Ibrahim. “It’s an important story for her to hear.”

Justine looked quizzically at Ibrahim. “I’d like to hear it.”

Father Zein tipped his head in acquiescence. “In the late tenth century, Caliph Al-Mu’iz Li Din Illah was the first Fatimid ruler of Egypt. Copts were still in great number then and led by Pope Abram, a Syrian. Samaan was a devoted Christian tanner living in the village below Muqattum.” The priest pointed northwest with his shaky left hand. “Samaan knew his scriptures well. One day, a beautiful woman came in to be measured for some shoes. Although he prided himself on his self-discipline, that morning Samaan felt lust for this woman. Knowing the wishes of Jesus from the Sermon on the Mount, Samaan took his tanning tool and plunged it into his right eye. His right eye had offended God, he reasoned. He would pluck it out.”

Justine inhaled sharply, her mind racing back to the note pushed under her door.
If your right eye offends you
,
pluck it out.
She glanced at Ibrahim, who nodded as though to say, “This is why I brought you here.”

“But this is not the point of the story,” declared Father Zein, bringing their attention back to him. “Sometime after this incident with Samaan, the caliph called together the Coptic pope and a Jewish scholar. The caliph was a man of learning who liked to listen to fierce debates. The Jewish scholar quoted from Jesus: ‘If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.’ Surely the pope could not move mountains, challenged the scholar.”

“And this was taken literally?” Justine asked in amazement.

“Quite literally, my dear. The caliph’s advisor said to him: ‘Ask the pope to move the mountain, my lord. If their faith is the true one, the mountain will move. If it is not a true faith, it will not.’ The caliph thought this a fine idea and demanded it so. As you can imagine, Pope Abram was perplexed. What could he do? He asked his people to fast and pray, fast and pray, but no solution appeared to them. Finally, the solution appeared in the image of the Virgin Mary, who said to the pope: ‘Go out through the iron gate and into the market. Find the one-eyed tanner, the one called Samaan, for he is pure. He will show you the way.’ And he did. Samaan told the pope to take his leaders and his people to the mountaintop with bibles and candles and pray four hundred times, one hundred times in each direction. They prayed all night. By dawn, the pope told the caliph they were ready to perform the miracle. While the caliph and his men watched from a distance, a great quake came and moved the mountain, dividing it into three parts. For some moments, the caliph could even see under the mountain to the sunrise beyond. The caliph and his people became frightened and soon cried out: ‘God is great; may his name be blessed. You have proven that your faith is the true one!’”

“What happened then?” interjected Justine. “Were the Christians more accepted?”

“Many, many things happened, my eager young friend. Many churches were restored, and Christians were protected for some time to come. Peace replaced upheaval and war. Pope Shenouda III kept the miracle in our hearts by adding three days to the Christmas fast and building a great church in the name of St. Samaan at Muqattum.” Father Zein paused, sipped his tea, and shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Why ‘Muqattum’? What does it mean?”

“To ‘cut up.’” God cut up the mountain that morning into three pieces.”

“Is there any physical evidence of an earthquake occurring at that time?” ventured Justine, immediately regretting her infidel impulses.

“You Westerners,” said Father Zein with a tolerant smile. “You want to get to the bottom of things, to dissect, to study. Orientals can simply appreciate an icon behind glass; Westerners want to know how old it is, what it is made of, how much it’s worth. You want to take it out from behind the glass and hold it. We accept God’s gifts on faith. We’re more spiritual. You Westerners, you take away the mystery.”

Justine offered her most engaging smile. “This is so. Even though I am only part American, I confess to the sin of reason.”

Father Zein laughed heartily, holding his stomach. Ibrahim followed suit, the mood lightening as the pink and lavender glow of early evening filled the room. Finally Father Zein asked, “Do you have more questions?”

“My head and heart are quite full, Father,” Justine said with appreciation. “Any other questions can wait for another day.”

It was nearly dark by the time the taxi carrying Ibrahim and Justine began to weave through the traffic on Qasr al-Ainy. “Zein is a dear friend, but he lives in a boxed-in faith. He knows nothing of Nag Hammadi, or anything else that would challenge his beliefs in the slightest. He’s not curious in the usual sense, but he’s a happy man.”

“I was raised to think that educated people are by nature curious.”

“That’s not always true in Egypt, my dear. Of course there are those who escaped the curses of colonization. They’re intensely curious. But remember, before 1952, we hadn’t ruled ourselves since before the Ptolemys, and even then it was a theocracy.”

“I do have another question. For you.” Justine hesitated. “I know Andrea talked to you about the missing pages. What do you suspect? What could have happened to them?”

Ibrahim watched the traffic as though he were the driver, then turned to her. “I don’t know. I’m sure the codex was secure in my little safe . . . I have no idea. That’s what I told Andrea. No idea. No idea.” His hands trembled; his voice was raspy.

“I don’t like to press you on this, professor, but those pages disappeared within the space of two days. Someone is responsible. You’re sure you didn’t leave the codex lying on your desk? For just a moment? I could understand that happening.” She didn’t say,
Where Amir could find it
, or ask,
Are you protecting Amir?

“Where’s Zachariah?” Ibrahim’s eyes looked panicked; he began to rub his knee vigorously. “Watch out, my boy! Those bullies . . .” His eyes refocused on Justine. “My knee hurts, my dear. The stairs, you know . . .”