The Cairo Codex (44 page)

“Perhaps He changed his mind,” suggested Andrea with a hint of irony. “Perhaps he decided that the world wasn’t ready for a woman prophet.”

The Imam shifted in his seat, clearly impatient. “There are too many women trying to expand their influence in our faiths—to the detriment of all.” He made an exaggerated, encompassing motion with his arm. “Those of you who are interpreting this codex would have us think that Mary was a primary teacher of Jesus, when it is clear in our faiths that Jesus was the teacher from infancy. I would draw your attention to the obscenities the Catholic Church is struggling with regarding Mary of Magdalene. The role of women in the lives of prophets must be minimized.” The Imam’s stubby hand reached for his tea. Peering out over his cup, his round face made him look more like an obstinate child than a man with the authority to dismiss more than half the human race.

“But why?” asked Justine impulsively. “Why minimize the role of women?” She instantly knew she didn’t want to hear the response. In an effort to draw attention away from her own question, she continued: “She might have been the Daughter of God as envisioned by the Essenes.”

Visibly startled by this irreverent interpretation, Mostafa, Father Zein, and the Imam looked at each other as though a tribal secret had been unleashed before them. The Imam was compelled to react again. “Why, you ask, young woman,” he said with unveiled contempt. “Let me tell you why. God—Allah—created women to please and to serve men. So it is written. The Prophets are the source of the Priesthoods. The sex of the prophets is no accident, nor is their masculinity incidental. This is a divine choice!”

Speechless, Justine and Andrea turned to each other. Ibrahim and Father Zein were embarrassed, Mostafa impatient to complete his agenda. For the moment, no one challenged the Imam.

To challenge him would be pushing the stone uphill
. She took a long sip of her tea.
Be calm, Justine, be calm.

“If I may continue,” Mostafa said sternly. “We are here this afternoon to ask—no, to direct—that the information about the alleged female twin in the codex be kept confidential. It is not to be released under any circumstances.”

“Elizabeth,” corrected Justine, “her name was Elizabeth.” She felt personally offended by such depersonalization.

“What?” he asked impatiently. “Oh, yes. Elizabeth. If I may continue—if this information is made public, I will deny its credibility. Since the original codex is no longer present to challenge or confirm the validity of the released information, I can assure you that anyone bringing the information to light will be discredited. Do I have your assurances?”

“I will have to take that command under advisement,” said Andrea with cool detachment. “I am a scholar first and a politician second. You must know, Dr. Mostafa, such directives are not well received by self-respecting scholars.” Andrea directed her comment to Omar Mostafa, but stared at Ibrahim, who sat gazing down at his own twisted hands.

“While you are ‘advising’ yourself, Dr. LeMartin, do not forget that you are a guest in Egypt,” Mostafa said cryptically.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” said the Imam, “that a woman would take that position. It is only further testimony of the need to diminish the role of women in decision circles. I made it clear today that I would not attend a meeting with a Jew. I should have included women as well.” Everyone in the room looked surprised that the Imam would allow himself to be moved to such impolitic words.

Simultaneously, Andrea and Justine picked up their belongings and headed for the door. “I believe our meeting is over, gentlemen,” said Justine.

“Maybe they’re right,” said Andrea as they moved rapidly down the stairs and into the sun-strewn courtyard.

“What? What are you talking about?” asked Justine, stopping abruptly.

“About the danger of a twin, a female twin.” Andrea watched small children playing around the marble fountain, daringly dunking their toes or fingers. Alabaster sculptures of bygone heroes stood proudly on the emerald carpet of well-tended grass. “That reality could break apart the male mythology of faith.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I had a twin, Justine. A fraternal twin. There are things about being a twin that others can’t grasp.” She collapsed onto the smooth edge of the fountain.

“I had no idea.” Justine’s voice softened, and she joined her. “Did he die?”

“Christopher died on our fifth birthday,” Andrea said, her moist eyes catching the shimmer of the fountain. “Oddly, I remember it vividly. Or perhaps my memories are formed by stories I’ve heard.”

Justine moved closer, placing her hand on Andrea’s forearm.

“Even though we were in different placentas, we shared the same sounds, the same sights, the same nutrients in the womb. When our mother was upset or tired, we felt the same stress. We tussled back and forth in there.”

“How do you know all that?” Justine was incredulous.

“I don’t remember, I guess, but I feel it—I’ve always felt it. I miss him as though part of me has been amputated. Bereaved twins are half-souls you know. Twins develop in relation to each other. When a twin is lost, a part of ourselves is lost. You have to recalibrate your heart.”

“You’re talking about Jesus and Elizabeth also?”

“Two thousand years ago, a multiple birth was a miracle in itself. So many things could go wrong. They were a great gift from God. And people were wiser about binding them together. They would have slept in the same bed, been held to Mary’s breasts at the same time.”

“What does this tell us about Jesus? About who he became?”

“Jesus would have defined himself in relation to Elizabeth, taking on many of the female qualities she represented—just as he would have done if she’d lived. He may have absorbed sensitivity, empathy, connectedness, an aversion to injustice . . . the qualities women hold dear.”

“And if he defined himself in relation to Elizabeth . . .”

Andrea finished her thought: “. . . then Mary would have helped him develop the essential qualities of both genders, to become remarkably balanced and perceptive.”

“Yes, yes, Mom, thanks . . . I’m doing well. All mended . . . or almost.” Justine had dialed Italy as soon as she got back to her apartment, wanting to hear her mother’s voice. Tell her about the meeting. Given the rising level of threat, she really needed to know why Ibrahim had told her to call her mother.

“And your heart? It’s mending too?”

Justine hadn’t told her mother about the decision to break up with Nasser.
How does she know these things?

“Well, let’s say my mind is working better than my heart, but you know me: I keep it beating regularly by jogging on Roda Island.”

“Ah, Roda. My closest friend lives behind the Manial Palace. Beautiful gardens . . .”

Lucrezia sounded ready to be interrupted, so Justine changed the topic. “I have an issue concerning the codex . . . and Ibrahim . . . and you, Mom.”

“Ibrahim? And me?” Stillness now on the other end of the phone. Justine could hear the squabbling shrieks of jays in her mother’s garden.
She must be standing on the terrace.

“Andrea and I had a difficult meeting today with Ibrahim. There was some conflict over his reluctance to let parts of the codex come to light—sections that would challenge strongly held religious beliefs, both Christian and Muslim. Earlier, he said: ‘Talk to your mother.’”

“Talk to your mother? Ibrahim asked you to talk with me about the codex?” There was a tone of incredulousness in her mother’s voice, and Justine could almost feel her thinking. “Ah . . . Ibrahim is being cautious again and he thinks that I might support him. Is that it?”

“I would say that’s pretty close.” Justine grinned into the phone. “He, along with Omar Mostafa, the Imam, and a Coptic priest named Father Zein. They want to keep it secret that Jesus had a twin sister. And, of course, they would like to suppress that Mary wasn’t a virgin. And the Holy Family’s reason for coming to Egypt. Pretty much the whole thing, really.”

Lucrezia laughed. “The Church—Rome and Alexandria and Constantinople—has thousands of years of practice in deception and burying new revelations. They’ll not give up easily. Consider what happened to the finds of the past sixty years and the recent Gospel of Judas. Have they really changed anything?”

Justine was quiet, considering. “I see what you mean. Information that could, would, alter the meaning of Christianity is cleverly deflected. But tell me, why did Ibrahim ask me to talk with you? What is your connection to him? Other than as a family friend, I mean.”

“Okay . . . well . . . this is going to be a long story. Do you have time?”

Justine’s stomach tightened. “Go ahead. I have time.”

“From my home here in Fiesole I overlook the Duomo—it’s my constant reminder of the collusion of the Church with what seems to be a universal male need for a virgin mother. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You first should know that Ibrahim watched me grow up, and when he deemed me old enough, he seduced me.”

“An affair, Mom? With Ibrahim? Mother! How could that happen? Did Father know?” Her shocked voice gained momentum as she spoke.

“Slow down, Justine. One question at a time! No, your father never knew. And I’d like to keep it that way. Please. After all, Ibrahim was his mentor and colleague.”

“Okay . . . but Ibrahim is so much older. How . . . why?”

“Twenty-seven years older. But remember, my anthropologist daughter, that in many parts of the world a difference in age is not considered relevant.”

“Now I remember the mischievous sparkle in his eyes when he talks about you,” Justine said wryly. “But I never suspected. That scoundrel! My god . . . what happened?”

“Ibrahim was a friend of the family. We attended the same church and we all belonged to the Ghezira Club. I had a teenage crush on him, I suppose. In those days, he was dashing and thoroughly mysterious. When he began to make advances, I was flattered. Enthralled, actually. It was a seduction, yes, Justine, but I went along with it. My parents never knew.” Justine was trying to take all this in when her mother continued with, “Thank god I never got pregnant.” Lucrezia said this calmly, as though she were reporting a routine event.

“How old were you?” asked Justine, bracing herself to be shocked again.

“Seventeen . . . or maybe a little younger.”

“In America we would put him in jail!” Justine said with an air of self-righteousness. She felt angry, righteously angry, with Ibrahim.

“The rest of the world is not as puritanical as America,” reminded her mother.

“I know . . . I know that . . . But why is Ibrahim so sure you would support him?”

“Ibrahim thinks he knows me. He thinks I’m still that devout young girl, loyal to Coptic Christianity. Unwavering in my beliefs. But he hasn’t known me for a long time. I’m quite a different person now. You might even say I’m a devout agnostic.”

Justine nearly dropped the mascara she was holding, but she couldn’t help laughing. “A devout agnostic? I knew you were an agnostic. But devout? Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“No . . . I’m just passionate about knowledge. And since God is unprovable, at least in my mind, he or she is unknowable. I’m more drawn to explanations of the universe that are Epicurean or Kabbalistic in nature. In those traditions, the world is explained as atoms and personal experience. An energy source in the universe. But then you and I have explored these ideas before. Let me just assure you, daughter, that it is not in my nature to withhold knowledge in the interest of faith.”

“I’d never thought otherwise, Mom. And just so you know, I think Ibrahim is edging into senility and that his distant memory is probably more vivid than his memory of yesterday. I’m sure he remembers the young, compliant Lucrezia.”

Lucrezia only sighed, and Justine said, “Thanks Mom. I think that tells me what I needed to know.”

“But wait a minute, Justine. You know that your dad and I talk . . . right? We are both worried there are dangers there you’re not telling us about. You said the meeting with the Minister of Education went well. So why don’t you just get out of there . . . come home?”

Justine wasn’t prepared for this. “Mom . . . thank you. I always feel your support. Yours and Dad’s. But I don’t think I’m ready yet. I’ve still got work to do in the schools . . . with the girls. And Mom, about the codex . . . somehow I feel I was just meant to find it.”
If they knew the full story, they’d send the National Guard after me.