The Cairo Codex (7 page)

Nadia nodded as though she’d been pondering this next question. “Well . . . we’re hoping that an anthropologist with your background can show us some things our eyes can’t see.”

Some things our eyes can’t see,
Justine mused, glancing at young women in hijabs passing on the sidewalk below.
I wonder what yearnings these young women have?
“A lovely invitation,” she said.

“We want to understand how the girls relate to each other and how they’re learning. Most importantly, we want these girls to have the confidence and the ability to make choices that will bring them more freedom later on. Such freedom is rare in our world.” The conversation paused for a moment while the waiter replenished the hot water for their tea.

“Such freedom is rare in any world,” Justine said once he’d departed. “And as you’ve indicated, a critical element of freedom is choice. We may want to ask ourselves: How do these girls choose? Are they generating their own measuring sticks for choice? Mimicking peers? Trying to please adults? Remaining silent as a form of non-choice?”

Nadia’s lips expanded into a grin. “Exactly. We’ve thought that what passes for choice is often just imitating others, but we’ve not been able to observe keenly enough to know how to intervene. You can understand all that? Just by
watching
?”

“Well . . . there’s a little more to it than that,” Justine admitted, energized by Nadia’s enthusiasm. “I think we can observe those things. As soon as the girls trust me I can code behaviors within learning circles, questions, silences. Then we’ll know how to intervene.”

The waiter returned with two menus, as though waiting for them to realize they were hungry. Nadia suggested some traditional Egyptian fare for sharing: kofta, tabbouleh, and babaghanoush with baladi bread.

“I’d like for you to visit some schools first. We have two new ones in the area. One in the City of the Dead, a unique community in the middle of urban sprawl, and the other in Birqash, a small village about thirty-five kilometers northwest of town that hosts the camel market. What if we start with the school in Birqash on Monday morning? Then you can help me get ready for a dinner party that evening. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

By 3:45, Justine was reclining in one of the brocaded chairs in the lobby, her ankle-length skirt almost touching her sturdy walking shoes. She stared at the ceiling, allowing herself to be mesmerized once again by the huge amber glass chandelier overhead.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Amir, standing behind her, his eyes following hers. “I wish I’d seen the original. My grandmother said it was a vision to behold.”

Justine smiled as she stood and turned to face him. “My grandmother also told me about the glory days of the original Shepheard. She stayed there often as a young girl.” She paused to shake Amir’s hand; she observed that he was clean-shaven and more relaxed than he’d been the day before. “Thanks for meeting me today.”

“You’re quite welcome. Shall we go? We’ll be walking across Tahrir Square, and several blocks east of American University. Do you have your passport? You’ll need it for identification.”

“I do,” she said, thinking that they probably made a striking pair. Both were tall, and their coloring contrasted dramatically. Her with caramel-toned hair and matching eyes; Amir quite dark, with ebony hair and deep brown eyes. They walked swiftly toward the square.

“Tell me, Justine, what is an anthropologist? At least from the perspective of your work here?” They walked close to each other, but observers would have little doubt that they were strangers.

She laughed at what seemed like such a basic question from a man whose museum work surely put him in contact with anthropologists on a frequent basis. “One of my professors used to say that no one can agree on what an anthropologist actually is. The field is quite fragmented, including several forms of anthropology, archeology, linguistics, even paleontology. As a cultural anthropologist here, I’ll be observing students, teachers, and parents in order to understand the behavior patterns among them and whether they are learning in the ways envisioned by the project.”

Amir kept his eyes straight ahead, but she thought she could see puzzlement in his face. “I see. I guess I associate anthropologists with observing primitive cultures during colonial times. A rather paternal, or maternal, profession.”

“Ah, the arrival of the white colonial mother. Let me tell you about my last job,” she said, being careful not to trip on the uneven sidewalk.

Before she could say anything further, Amir took a firm hold of her arm. As they stepped into Kasr Al Aini traffic, he alternately held up his hand to alert drivers they were coming through and touched the hoods of cars to cause them to slow down or stop.

It was a fascinating dance—both the drivers and the pedestrians seemed to be taking responsibility for each other.
Perhaps this is what Nadia meant by reciprocity
. Justine willingly relinquished responsibility for her life to Amir and enjoyed the crossing.

As they stepped up on the high sidewalk near the main entrance to American University, Amir gave a small bow. “Please continue. I’m sorry we were interrupted.”

Justine straightened her blouse, trying to ignore the feeling of heat where his hand had lingered. “My recent work. I was hired by IBM to sit in on team and board meetings and try to figure out how their culture was being recreated with new staff on board. Quite fun. And primitive.”

Amir chuckled. “My naiveté often gets me into trouble. I seem to like to blow on the yogurt.”

“Blow on the yogurt?”

“An old Egyptian proverb. If hot soup burns you, you learn to blow on it before you eat it the next time. After a while, you may get so careful that you start blowing on your yogurt as well.”

“A useful proverb! May I steal it?” Justine wondered when Amir had been burned . . . and by whom.

“Be my guest.” He steered her across another small intersection. Sitting on the corner was an old colonial mansion with white shutters and ornate French cornices carved with the label “Rare Books Library.”

Friendly guards asked for identification before allowing them to enter a carefully groomed garden exploding with blossoms of yellow and blue, potted palms, and rattan furniture. Inside the library, two flights of circular stairs surrounded the stairwell. On the top floor, Amir knocked gently on the door to room 305.

A deep, gravelly voice cried out, “Come in!”

From behind a cedar desk that was almost as large as he was stepped Professor Ibrahim El Shabry. Justine recognized the playful eyes from her childhood, but little else. The years had taken their toll.

“Justine, my child, how wonderful to see you again.” He stepped toward her, looking up. “You’ve grown quite tall. Like your dad. But then, you know the bones of an old man shrivel. Before the mind does, if we are fortunate. But how could I forget those dimples and amber eyes?”

Justine reached out to clasp his hands. “Wonderful to see you again, Dr. Ibrahim. I believe the last time was more than ten years ago. I remember a party at your home. On the big lawn. Dad sends his greetings and a message about staying out of trouble.” She was struck by how much the professor’s body had aged. His white hair and beard framed a deeply wrinkled face. His piercing black eyes, though, were at once young and timeless.

“Ha! Just like Morgan. Lecturing me about his own follies!”

Justine laughed lightly, realizing that it was serenity, not age, that she primarily felt in Ibrahim’s presence. He motioned her and Amir toward three chairs clustered in front of a wall of books. Against another wall, Justine was surprised to see a computer.

“Your dad’s a fine fellow—like a son to me. As you know, we worked together for years. Met him when I lectured at Berkeley a hundred years ago,” Ibrahim said, motioning toward a chair. “I hear he’s in Peru looking for hidden treasures. Tell him he owes this old man a letter.”

“I will, sir. I’ll tell him you’re well and feisty. He calls frequently. He often forgets I’m no longer a little girl.” She grinned, not so unlike a little girl.

“Feisty, at least. These old knees don’t let me get into the field anymore. Of course, I remember your beautiful mother, Lucrezia. Black hair. Green eyes. We called her Creta the Cat. It’s been too long, too long,” he said nostalgically. He turned toward his grandson. “Amir, my boy, how good of you to bring Justine to see me. I don’t see you often enough. Do you think she’s changed much?”

Justine turned, wide-eyed, toward Amir, who looked quite sheepish. “You knew me as a child?” He continued to catch her off-guard.

“I knew you,” he said, helping his grandfather into one of the chairs. “Yes, Grandfather, I believe she has changed a great deal.” He turned back to Justine. “My father was working in a United Emirates bank when you were here last, so we were out of country. I haven’t seen you since you were quite young, and I didn’t realize that Nadia was bringing you last night. It wasn’t quite the place to reminisce.” His explanation was matter-of-fact, but she sensed again that with Amir, much more was left unsaid than was spoken.

Ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, the tension between them, Ibrahim continued cheerfully: “The two of you used to play together as children at the Ghezira Club. Quite competitive.” He paused, searching for the next words. “How is your younger brother, Amir? I haven’t heard from Zachariah for a long while.”

“I haven’t heard from him recently myself, but I’m sure that he is doing well. He has a new job in Kuwait,” said Amir, wincing almost imperceptibly.

Justine hid her surprise at his quick fabrication—he’d lied to her by omission the night before, and outright just now to his grandfather.
Who is this man?

“Tell him to call me, will you? I worry.” A flicker of sadness traveled through Ibrahim’s expressive eyes.

“I will, Grandfather. And I will leave you now so you can visit,” offered Amir, starting to rise from his chair.

“Nonsense, my boy. Stay.” Ibrahim patted his knee. “We can have tea, talk awhile, and then you can take me home.”

“As you wish, Grandfather. I’ll see to the tea.”

As Amir walked out of the room, Ibrahim turned to Justine. “The two boys are terribly close. Always were. Amir is the oldest and he would do anything for Zachariah. Zach has had some problems. Gets depressed, angry. But he’s really a good boy.”

“I’m sure he is, sir.” Justine patted his hand, watching his eyes well up.

Amir returned, followed by an elderly man shaped like a question mark, who carefully balanced three cups of tea on a tray.

Justine watched the crippled man gently place the tea on Ibrahim’s cedar desk. He appeared to be about the same age as Ibrahim, in his mid-eighties.
How invisible he is
, she thought,
as though he isn’t even here
. “Thank you,” she said to the anonymous man.

Ibrahim nodded faintly to the servant, then proceeded to add three cubes of sugar to his cup. Catching Justine’s eye, he smiled and said, “The one indulgence left at my age. So, what brings you back to Cairo, my dear?”

She explained her work with the community schools in simple detail. The female students, teachers, her observations. “They’re called ‘community’ schools because each small community must provide the space and governance, though the project provides the teachers, curriculum, evaluation, and training.”

Ibrahim’s eyes lit up like a small boy’s. “Wonderful idea! Much needed. You are providing a great service to Egypt, my dear.”

Justine flushed. “Thank you. This project was a wonderful opportunity to return to Egypt. Ever since mother took me to Old Cairo as a child, I’ve been intrigued by the travels of the Holy Family here, especially Mary of Nazareth.”

Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully. “There is little in the Bible about Mary. But there is more to be found about her in the Koran. I’ve always found that amazing,” he said.

Amir was watching Justine with uncharacteristic approval—perhaps to acknowledge the respect and care with which she spoke to his grandfather? She sensed a deep affection between the men.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling how the waning afternoon sun touched her skin. “Father reminded me that you and my mother are both Coptic Christian . . .” It was an invitation.

“I was raised a Copt and the beliefs are an important part of me. Jesus, Mary, sacrifice, fasting, worship. ‘Copt’ stems from the original name for Egypt,
Misr
. We give more attention to Mary than Protestants do—we’re more like Catholics and Greek Orthodox. We even have our own Pope here in Cairo. So yes, I am still a Copt.” He nodded. “However, about twenty years ago, I set out to explore and understand other religious traditions. I’ve been in search of the essence, the common center—the heart, if you will—of religious thought.”

“Have you been successful in your pursuit of the essence of religion, Grandfather?” asked Amir, sipping his sweet tea, one leg crossed over the other.

“I’ve found some success, my boy, although the road stretches out for a lifetime. May God give me enough time to discover more of the Tao.”

“The Tao?” asked Justine.