The Cairo Codex (5 page)

“If you’re up to it, I’ve asked a few friends to join us on a felucca this evening,” Nadia said. “I think you will enjoy meeting them. I’ll bring a light dinner and we’ll have a relaxing sail. That would give you about three hours to rest.”

“I would love to.” As the cool air of the lobby enveloped them, she and Nadia gave a sigh of relief nearly in unison, then went to check in.

The suite that was to be Justine’s home for the next few weeks opened into a sitting room that led to a small balcony overlooking the Nile. Narrow spiral steps wound upward to a bedroom with an even more superb view. “This is extraordinary. I may never want to leave.”

“You’ll get tired of hotel food soon enough,” Nadia assured her. The hotel porter deposited the luggage in the bedroom, and Justine handed him a tenpound note from the cache Nadia had loaned her. Both women sought a cold bottle of Evian from the room’s refrigerator.

“See you in the lobby at seven, then,” Nadia said, after drinking nearly half of the bottle in one swig.

After she left, Justine removed her damp blouse and skirt and fell spreadeagle across the bed. She was asleep within moments.

B
Y
6:45, J
USTINE HAD TAKEN
a nap and shower and changed into a light green sweater, gray linen slacks, and flats. Damp chestnut ringlets surrounded her face. With a small purse and jacket in hand, she descended the stairs to the lobby, exchanged money at the desk, and turned toward the restaurant known as The Caravan. The old Shepheard did not have a monopoly on ornate beauty, she realized. Chandeliers of amber glass reflected on richly carved wood known as mashrabaya, accented with lines of exquisite arabesque lettering. Gothic arches and flourishing palms towered over marble floors, and lamps shaped like lotuses lit the room. Above, a marble balcony circled the eastern side of the room, serving as counterpoint to the huge windows overlooking the Corniche and the Nile to the west.

“Feeling better?” Nadia asked, walking up behind her.

“Much, yes. Thank you,” she replied, turning toward the older woman, who was loaded down with a covered basket and satchel heavy with food and bottled juices.

Nadia stood several inches shorter than Justine’s 5’8”, so her bundles nearly touched the ground. Justine took the heavier one and followed her toward the entrance.

“Impossible to park close by,” said Nadia. “But the felucca is directly across the Corniche.” A policeman volunteered to escort them across the busy street and onto the wide sidewalk that lined the river for miles in either direction. “This is one of the main meeting places for Cairenes at night. It’s exquisite in the early evening when cool breezes blow in from the northwest.”

Justine could feel the welcome breeze against her face, slightly ruffling her long hair, drying the ringlets in place. Several couples strolled by hand-in-hand while young girls wove through the crowd selling garlands of jasmine. Justine handed two Egyptian pounds to one of them and bent down while the girl of six or seven placed a garland around her neck. She handed a second garland to Nadia. “
Gameel
,
Gameel awee
,
very beautiful
,” said Justine, touching the child’s ivory cheek. The sweet smell of jasmine merged into the tantalizing aroma of corn roasting on a homemade grill built into half of a tin barrel, split lengthwise and balanced on wheels.

“Hello there!” Nadia cried, waving as the two women descended the steps from the Corniche to the shore of the river and the moored feluccas. The odor of dead fish momentarily entered Justine’s nostrils, but was quickly masked by the fragrance of gardenias growing at the bases of towering date palms. “Justine, meet Magda Shehata and Amir El Shabry.”

With their dark good looks, Magda and Amir could have been sister and brother. Magda was striking: lustrous black shoulder-length hair, eyelashes like little Chinese fans, and an eagerly warm demeanor. A classic Egyptian beauty. She took Justine’s hand and pulled her toward her, kissing her on both cheeks.

Amir was handsome in that mysterious Arab way, although with a distracted expression and cool eyes. His handshake was limp, a little clammy. He clearly didn’t want to be here.
Then why is he here? A favor to Nadia?

Nadia finalized arrangements with the manager of the small fleet, then stepped adroitly across the wide bow of one felucca and into their assigned vessel. She nodded to Amir to follow. Amir stood, one foot on each rocking boat, and gripped the forearms of Magda and Justine in turn as they navigated the unsteady course.

The felucca was just as Justine remembered: a large, worn wooden boat with padded benches encircling a table in the middle. On the bow, a large mast was wrapped tight with the furled sail. An elderly man in kaftan and turban squatted on the bow talking to a young man in Western dress. The cherrytinted sun dropped behind the western skyline as lights around the river and on the island of Zamalek released the glow of evening.

Justine felt the warmth of bygone pleasures. The last time she’d been on a felucca was with her parents.
We were still a family then, or at least I was young enough to believe in the myth of family solidarity.

“This charming lad is Mohammed Shalaby from Naser City,” said Nadia, introducing the man who’d been waiting on the boat. Mohammed was short, with graying sideburns. He blushed and extended his hand, which Justine grasped. Amir stepped forward and shook hands with Mohammed, as well as with the ancient pilot beginning to maneuver the boat into the river. A smaller motorboat nudged them along, the three boisterous youth aboard it blasting Arabic rock music from a hand-held boom box. After the felucca caught the wind, the smaller boat would return to shore.

Nadia busied herself laying out a light supper of hibiscus juice, falafel, and pita sandwiches.

“Do you and Nadia work together?” Justine asked Magda. Soft purple waves licked the side of the boat, while in the middle of the river the fountain near the Ghezira Sheraton began to spout multi-colored water.

“I don’t work with the schools. Nadia and I met through mutual friends. And I just love her. She’s like my older sister. My job is with Coca-Cola International. Unfortunately, the demands of my job mean that my two daughters are being raised by my mother. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not always so patient.”

At that very moment, the felucca’s giant sail unfurled with a boom, revealing a large Pepsi Cola insignia. They all laughed at the uncanny timing. “So much for romance,” Justine observed. “Western capitalism rises.”

“So much for business!” Magda exclaimed. “We’re in fierce competition with Pepsi here.” She glanced around the boat, catching the eyes of each of her friends. “Don’t let me hear of any of you frequenting a place serving that forbidden drink!” Hands were raised spontaneously in solemn vow. “Good!” she exclaimed. Turning to Justine, she added, “They put in extra sugar—deadly for a country with a diabetes epidemic!”

Mohammed was standing at the table, holding a pita sandwich. “I am Egyptian like Magda,” he shyly told Justine, “although my mother is Jordanian.” He spoke in heavily accented English. The front of his sweatshirt boldly announced, I LOVE MY APPLE. “I have a small computer sales and repair shop in Naser City.”

Justine would never have taken Mohammed for a computer salesman. His appearance was rough, and yet he had a proper way of presenting himself.
A cross between a camel driver and a member of Parliament
, she thought.

“Mohammed had a thriving business in Baghdad before the first Gulf War,” Nadia added. “Where’s Lulu tonight?” she asked, attempting to coax Mohammed through his social unease.

“Business was a little easier in Iraq, I understand. Right, Mohammed?” said Amir. “Our tariffs here can squelch any fledgling venture.” Sarcasm tinged his voice.

“You are correct, my friend. Import taxes in Egypt on all types of machines, including cars, make them too expensive for most customers.” As Mohammed relaxed into the conversation, his shoulders eased and he sat down. He held his sandwich in both hands, and balanced a glass of hibiscus juice between his knees. “We wouldn’t have come back from Iraq if it hadn’t been for the first Gulf War. Egyptians were forced out when Mubarak supported the war.” He paused to take a drink. “Lulu couldn’t be with me tonight. She has a meeting at the Modern Art Museum. We have two sons at Ain Shams University. That’s my story.”

I’m sure that’s not all his story
, Justine thought, smiling and nodding as they watched the museum come into full view. She’d spent many hours there with her mother. The nearby Cairo Needle loomed tall, in full command of the evening skyline.

“I met Mohammed and his wife years ago when I was working with his mother on a project with the women of Bulaq,” said Nadia. “That was before the community schools. Unfortunately, I see her less often now. A wonderful, generous woman. She was handing out microloans before it was fashionable.”

“And, what do you do, Amir?” Justine asked, almost reluctantly. He, alone among the group, did not seem to be in a festive mood.

Amir hesitated as all eyes turned toward him. He was tall, even for an Egyptian, she noted—and she had little doubt that he was Egyptian.
Where else do men wear woolen scarves on a warm evening?

Amir explained that he worked at the Egyptian Museum as curator of the Ptolemy exhibition, and occasionally lectured at the American University of Cairo. “Nadia and I see each other often in the faculty room at AUC. And, like Mohammed, we’re family friends.”

“You’re an archaeologist, then?” Justine lifted her hair with both hands to collect the soft breeze.

“By training, but I don’t get into the field as much as I’d like.” He stood, feet apart, at the table, pouring himself a glass of juice. “I was involved in a few digs in Alex when the new library was being built.”

“I understand you’re trying to redesign the Ptolemaic section,” said Magda. “It’s one of the worst parts of the museum. Few artifacts and no written descriptions. The last time I took my daughters there, we skipped that part.”

“You’re going to see quite a difference soon.” He smiled warmly, clearly taking no offense. “When you and your girls come back, let me know and you’ll be my guests. I’m negotiating with the new library in Alexandria and the British Museum to return several artifacts as well.”

“I hear that getting the West to return artifacts can be frustrating,” said Justine. The breeze billowed her light sweater and she felt a welcoming coolness.

Amir brushed a curly lock of hair from his eyes. “I’m banking on a new international agreement developed by the Arab League. We’ll see. I’m not going to let myself get too optimistic. I’m not much of an optimist anyway.” His friends laughed.

Certainly not an optimist
, Justine thought wryly. She detected a definite streak of arrogance.

“And why are you here, Justine?” His tone was challenging, edgy.

“I’m here for a few reasons, really.” She met Amir’s gaze.
There is something in his eyes, something he’s not saying.
Suddenly, she had the odd sensation that they’d met before. She shook it off and turned toward the others. “My mother is Egyptian and my father American, a complicated mixture—at least it was when I was young. As you heard from Nadia, I’ll be working with her on the Community Schools for Girls project, visiting classrooms and teacher training sessions. As an anthropologist, I’ll be observing how children interact when they are learning—how they interact with teachers.” The felucca began a rhythmic rocking, responding to the wake of a good-sized motor craft.

“I’m also interested in visiting St. Sergius again. I understand the ground waters from the last earthquake have been cleaned up. My mother used to tell me amazing stories about Isis and the Virgin Mary when I was a girl. That the Holy Family lived in Egypt much longer than Christians think.”

“We Muslims think so. They were here about seven years,” Mohammed said without reservation. “As an Abrahamic religion, Islam honors both the old and new Christian testaments. Yet we have our own ideas about the Holy Family and Egypt since they traveled here for so long.”

Justine nodded. “I’ll bet my mother learned some of her stories from Muslim friends.”

“Childhood stories are among our most powerful influences,” said Amir, his voice distracted. “Is there another reason you came?”

The question startled her, though she wasn’t sure why. “Well, yes. To meet some old friends of the family, particularly my father’s former teacher, Dr. Ibrahim El Shabry. Dad tells me that he may be long retired, but he’s still engrossed in his research.”

Amir looked surprised, but something about his expression struck Justine as disingenuous. “Ibrahim is my grandfather,” he said. “My mother’s father. He’s retired, but keeps his office at the Rare Books Library near AUC.”

Justine’s eyes widened. “El Shabry. Of course. I should have made the connection. Amazing. Nadia, did you know that?” She turned.

“No, I didn’t,” said Nadia, arching an eyebrow, equally surprised.

“Curious,” said Justine, hanging on to one of the roof slats covering the table as she moved closer to Amir.