The Cairo Codex (8 page)

“Each religious tradition has a Tao, a Way, by which we are to live our lives,” he said. “Each religion seeks to enrich the soul, to find Truth. My dear friend Rabbi Yitzhak Kaduri, a Kabbalist, said, ‘Love thy neighbor. All else is commentary.’ Yitzhak died last year at the good age of 106. May God grant me such longevity.” He paused in remembrance, and a deep, long sigh escaped him.

Ibrahim turned slowly toward Justine. “Egyptian proverbs engraved on our tombs before the time of Abraham implore us to ‘Know ourselves and love our neighbors.’ The great men Jesus and Mohammed asked the same of us. ‘Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you,’ said Mohammed in his last sermon. Shared virtues show us the way. But it is easier to understand them than to live our lives by the Tao.” A little breathless again, Ibrahim stopped and combed his gnarled hand through his beard.

“And what are those virtues, Grandfather? How do we find the Way?” Amir leaned in, his elbows resting on both knees like a young boy.

“The virtues are well known to you, my boy, but we humans have great difficulty living them. We are continually tested. Among the great virtues, we find first and foremost compassion, then love, humility, forgiveness, tolerance, truth-telling, and mercy. Jesus was exceptionally clear about these virtues. To him they were more important than the letter of the Law. The Tao says that courage comes from mercy.”

“Courage comes from mercy?” Justine puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mercy means compassion, kindness, forgiveness toward those who have offended us.” She could see why her father had often spoken of the influence of Ibrahim’s enthusiasm; his eyes radiated passion as he spoke. “Think of the reconciliation trials in South Africa. The South Africans have moved past their pain and their history of suffering by overcoming their fear of each other and practicing forgiveness. Bishop Tutu says that forgiveness requires us to relinquish our right to revenge. That takes courage.”

“But how do we live the Tao, Dr. Ibrahim? It would seem that many of us attempt the good life, but so often stumble on our egos.” She glanced briefly at Amir.

“The ego is indeed a big stumbling block. The Buddhists and Kabbalists suggest that if we can stand back, listen, and give up the temptation to react, our egos may flow away into the silence, into the Great River of Life. Each tradition—the Jews, Buddhists, Copts, Muslims, Essenes—offers us tasks to prepare us for the Way: sacrifice, poverty, fasting, prayer, giving, forgiving. The Tao says he who is gentle and yielding is the disciple of life. I think this may be what Mohammed meant by ‘submission.’” Ibrahim raised his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Enough of my philosophizing for today, my children. Can you take me home now, Amir?”

A few minutes later, Amir returned, and the taxi pulled out into the busy traffic alongside the Roman aqueduct. Gazing out the window, he said, “Grandfather has lived here all of his life, and although the building is falling down around him, he refuses to move.”

“This life may make the Tao easier,” Justine suggested. They both smiled.

Amir suddenly leaned forward and told the driver, “El ahramaat, Sawe Taks
.” The driver made a U-turn and headed west toward Roda Island.

“The pyramids?” She was surprised. “I thought you were taking me back to the Shepheard.”

“You haven’t been to the pyramids yet, right?” His dark eyes sparkled playfully.

“I just arrived yesterday, so you know I haven’t been there on this trip. I’m not fond of being abducted,” she said lightly.

“Ah, but it’s the right time of day. The sunset is almost upon us.” With that, Amir took out his phone and checked for texts. As he read one, Justine thought she could see anguish wash across his face, and he remained on his phone for the rest of the drive.

As they rode in silence, she allowed herself to relax, gazing at the miles of new development east of the Nile and recalling the conversation with Ibrahim.

After a few minutes, she leaned forward and addressed the driver. “Hassan,” she said, reading the nametag hanging from the dash. “Are you from Cairo?” she asked in Arabic.

“No, miss,” he said over his shoulder. “From Aswan. To the south.”

“Aswan is so beautiful. You must miss it.”

“
Iwa
, I miss my mother, my brothers. But no work in Aswan. Few tourists since 9/11.”

“I understand. It was a tragedy for all of us. Do you have family here?”

“Good family, but sad for me. For my daughter, Adara. When she was six, she pulled boiling water off stove. Scar her body. Horrible, Miss. Horrible! Now she sixteen in year three secondary school. She depressed, isolates herself. She says she won’t marry—no one will want her.”

In the rearview mirror, Justine watched Hassan’s eyes moisten; she turned to see if Amir was listening. His fingers had stilled on the keys of his phone, and without looking up, he nodded solemnly. Health coverage didn’t exist in Egypt, at least not for families like Hassan’s. “Let me talk with our agency doctor,” she told the driver. “I’m not sure if anything can be done, but give me your phone number.”

“Thank you, Miss,” he said, handing her his card and falling quiet.

As the pyramids began to rise above the glitzy shops of Giza, Justine’s attention was drawn to a black canvas-sided army truck in front of them. Four young soldiers dangled their feet from the back, kicking the air, laughing, and smoking. Soon the truck turned north onto the desert road, providing the young men with a clear view of the pyramids. None of them looked up.

“They didn’t even look,” exclaimed Justine. “One of the great wonders of the world in their line of sight and they didn’t look up!”

Amir smiled wryly. “We Egyptians cherish our history, but sometimes the youth pay no attention. Without history, the pyramids are just a pile of rocks.”

She turned toward him to see if he was kidding. He shrugged.

The taxi entered a gate alongside the Sphinx, where Amir showed his government pass. “Taxis are usually not allowed on this road,” he explained, “but we’re headed for the desert plateau about half a mile to the west.” The taxi drove forward onto the road, weaving between the largest two of the three pyramids.

The dark, towering walls of the Great Pyramid Cheops and his brother Chephren blotted out the sky. At no other place on the massive Giza plateau could Justine have felt the same eerie powers of the unexplainable. She trembled. Ahead, the slanting walls of the pyramids blended sand and sky into a golden V. The taxi wound into the Sahara sands and parked atop a plateau crowded with Bedouins, complete with turbans and camels. Dusty maroon cloths stretched out on the ground, displaying the wares of local traders: small alabaster jars, daggers, silver jewelry, and striped camel blankets with long black tassels.

One of the Bedouin leaders, holding the reins of a camel in one hand, gestured invitingly toward Justine as she stepped from the car. She took several steps toward him.

Two hands grabbed her firmly by the waist. She turned, eyes flashing with indignation. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Amir raised his hands in pacification, amusement written on his face. “If you walk up to the camel, you’ll be lifted on top to have your picture taken. He’ll expect generous baksheesh. There’ll be no turning back.” Now quite serious, he warned, “Bedouins don’t like to be disappointed.”

She laughed softly. “
Mafeesh mushkilla
, no problem . . . I didn’t even bring my camera.” She turned around as the now displeasured Bedouin moved toward Amir with his camel whip raised in the air.

“Perhaps we should leave,” he said, his voice tensing. “Quickly.”

My young son holds tight to my hand and the basket used for our purchases. Across the Great River to the west, giant pyramids loom above the landscape.

His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open as he looks at the golden saffron from India, purple saffron from Persia, and green mint from the Sinai, all pressed together in canvas bags surrounding a one-eyed man in a turban.

The local market, nestled in the center of our small, but expanding, village is always busy in the days before Passover. Double flutes and sistrums, rattles with soft metallic sounds to soothe the gods, are but breezes blowing through papyrus reeds, while the thundering voices of passionate speakers of all persuasions throb in the air. A cacophony of tongues and a distinctive mix of facial features and dress attest to varied countries of origin . . . many from the East have trekked across the desert from the Red Sea and will go north on the Great River to Alexandria, Crete, and Rome. Purple-skinned Nubians who have herded camels from the South now tether them at the edge of the village. Still others are the color of olive oil from The Fayoum.

“Mother, where do all the people come from?” My son’s eyes are excited, sparked by the exotic peoples and products.

“They come from many places—the East, Persia, Nubia, and villages in the desert. They meet here for today’s market. Tomorrow they may go on to Heliopolis or Memphis.”

We walk among overflowing bags of oranges, lemons, and small bananas arranged together with local garlic, onions, and lentils. Tunics, prayer cloths, and tablecloths embellished with gold and silver threads are displayed on a large spread of fabric under the shade of a blue canvas awning.

“What have we come for today, Mother?” he asks without taking his eyes off the flying, snake-shaped stick being thrown about by a group of small children.

“To find some saffron for our fish stews, some olive oil from The Fayoum, a few pieces of papyrus, and a small gift for your father—that is, if merchants will accept a few coins and some buds of garlic.” Not unlike other families in the village, our family grows food, fishes, and makes most of our own clothes and furnishings. Barter is the usual medium of exchange, although the Romans have given my husband a small number of dinars for his work on the gates, and our eldest earns a few more from his work on the canal. Recently, we purchased a new donkey.

I stop beside a seated man who is unbothered by the swirling fury around him. The scribe, surrounded by his papyrus, pallets, pens, and ink, sits in the middle of the market, ready to take dictation from travelers eager to send letters to their families. I ask for three pieces of papyrus.

“Why the papyrus?” my son asks. “For writing to our family in Palestine?”

“Yes, my son. Our family members are hungry for news from us. They ask about how you and your brother are growing up and what it is like to live in this land. They miss us. And your father misses his family.” I take a few clusters of garlic from my pocket to hand to the scribe.

My son hesitates before asking the question I know has been pressing on his young mind. “I have noticed that Rachel and Noha do not write. Can only some women write?”

“All women can write if they are taught how. Just as you were taught to read and write.”

The scribe, a neighbor to the north, holds up his hand and gently refuses the garlic. “I do not need any garlic today. Why don’t you have your son bring me radishes tomorrow?”

“It will be so,” I say. I direct us toward a large stone near the side of the market. As we sit down, a young boy appears and asks if we would have tea. I agree and he scampers off.

“How did you learn to write, Mother?” my son asks, balancing on the edge of the rock and folding his tunic between his tanned legs.

“It is unusual for women to learn to write. You have observed well. I was fortunate. My grandmother taught me when I was but a girl. She thought it important for women to be able to do many of the same things men do. Grandmother considered inequality the source of all evil. I wish you could have known her.”

“What did she mean by ‘inequality is the source of all evil’?” he puzzles.

The tea arrives in two chipped, mismatched cups. I hand the boy a cluster of garlic. My son has an inquiring mind, much like I did as a child. “What do you think she might have meant?”

“I don’t know. To me, most people seem unequal: Noha is not like Rachel, Isaiah is not like Samir.”

“I see the same things. But Grandmother also talked of inequality between the rich and poor, men and women, the educated and uneducated, the old and the young, Jews and pagans, Romans and Israelites. These inequalities lead to misery, hatred, and wars, which are evil. Her family came from Mt. Carmel and had many strong ideas about how life should be lived. Many of these ideas I carry with me.”

“But why did God make us unequal if He wanted us to be equal? I don’t understand.”

“I’m not so sure God made us so. Perhaps we did that to ourselves. It is we who choose to obey the powerful and deprive others of their rights. Perhaps God gave us these choices to test our compassion.”

We sit silently for a while, sipping the strong tea to which the boy has generously added a little honey. As he always does when he is struggling with an idea, my son sits very still, as though hypnotized by some distant object. I try to follow his eyes, but they seem to rest in the air over the market. We finish our tea and set the cups on a small tray left nearby.