by Dara Horn
The rabbi drew his dark eyebrows together, squinting in the sunlight. “There are those who pretend to be rich, but have nothing,” he quoted.
It was from the book of Proverbs. Without thinking, Schechter completed the verse: “And those who pretend to be poor, but have great wealth.”
The rabbi leaned forward, and smiled. Schechter had found the key.
“What you are looking for isn’t here in modern Cairo,” the rabbi said. “You will have to go to Fustat, the medieval fortress, to the Palestinian synagogue.”
The door was opening—just barely, but light was seeping through. “Palestinian?”
“Yes, the one built by the Palestinian Jews, the ones who came here from the Holy Land after the Fatimid conquest, one thousand years ago. It is older than the synagogues in this part of the city. The synagogues here were built by the Jews who came here from Babylonia only nine hundred years ago. The genizah you are looking for is in the Palestinian synagogue in Fustat.”
Schechter waited silently as the rabbi inhaled cigarette smoke, letting it flow out of his nostrils. Had he made it in?
“But I cannot advise it,” the rabbi said. “It has been said that a serpent guards the door to the room, a descendant of the serpent who provoked our ancestors in Paradise.”
Schechter stared at the rabbi, hoping that this was a joke. A serpent? It was like something out of one of his children’s books, the one about the girl who fell down a rabbit hole. But the rabbi’s face was deadpan, earnest—or at least the sort of earnestness that one pretends for children.
“The serpent in Paradise offered mankind the fruits of the Tree of Knowledge,” Schechter replied, in careful biblical Hebrew. He felt idiotic, as if he were talking to a book. “Your serpent does the opposite.”
“Ibn Ezra hints that the serpent in Paradise transformed himself into the revolving sword that guards the Tree of Life,” the rabbi intoned.
Where? Schechter thought. His mind reproduced the Hebrew page of the Pentateuch, locating in his mind’s eye the margin of the page with the medieval scholar Ibn Ezra’s commentary on the text. There was no such hint, of course. The rabbi knew it. They had graduated to fake quotes. He glanced at Schechter, his eyebrows raised, waiting to see if Schechter would call his bluff. Schechter drew in his breath.
“Rabbenu Tam suggests that the snake in Genesis becomes the snake in Exodus that transformed from the staff of Moses before the Egyptian king, to show the snake’s repentance,” Schechter replied. This, naturally, was also horseshit. Schechter could compete on horseshit. “Surely your snake would be willing to repent as well.”
The rabbi smirked. “The snakes in the pit where Joseph was thrown by his brothers before they sold him into Egypt showed no remorse. As Rabban Gamliel said, ‘A stranger sent to Egypt will suffer the serpent’s tooth, as Joseph did in the pit.’”
The quoting game was much more fun when one wasn’t limited to actual quotes. Schechter parried with nonsense of his own. “But when Joseph’s brothers sold him into Egypt, they didn’t know that they were saving themselves from the famine that would come years later, after Joseph interpreted the king’s dreams and showed him how to save the country from starvation. Rabbi Tarfon said in the name of Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, ‘Strangers who come to Egypt shall enrich the land through dreams.’”
The rabbi smirked. He was no longer wary of this pith-helmeted foreigner, Schechter saw. He was having fun. “But Joseph’s brothers’ arrival in Egypt led the people into centuries of slavery,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “Saadia Gaon said, ‘Beware all those who venture to Egypt,’ and Rav Amram Gaon said, ‘In foreign lands one must be on guard against misunderstood dreams.’”
“Indeed,” Schechter nodded, with mock seriousness. “And it is also said that after the exodus, Jews should never live in Egypt, as it is written in Deuteronomy: ‘Do not cause the people to return to Egypt … because God has said to you, Never again return on that road.’”
This was a real quote. The rabbi’s smirk disappeared. Now the leader of the two-thousand-year-old Egyptian Jewish community leaned toward the redheaded foreigner, and stared in silence. A long moment passed before the rabbi spoke again.
“The synagogue in Fustat is in the old part of the city, where Rambam once lived,” the rabbi said. “The building is over a thousand years old. But Fustat’s fortunes have changed in recent times. The Nile altered its course by a thousand cubits. Fustat had been a wealthy place, important for business. When the river moved, those living in Fustat were left destitute. It was a great tragedy for the Jews of Fustat.”
Schechter raised his glass and sipped his coffee, summoning sympathy. “How unfortunate,” he said. “And this was in recent times?”
The rabbi nodded. “Seven hundred years ago.”
Schechter managed to keep his coffee in his mouth.
“It was a great tragedy. Few Jews live there anymore,” the rabbi said. “We have reconstructed the exterior of the building, but we have not been able to complete the repairs to the interior. The costs have been prohibitive, and because the congregation there is slight, there are few in the community who are willing to support it. If only some wise visitor would truly appreciate its worth! But alas,” he quoted, “when there is no flour, there is no Torah.” The rabbi let out a loud sigh.
Schechter swallowed. This, of course, had been Elkan Adler’s mistake, the same mistake Schechter had made with the agent in Alexandria. He had paid, but not enough.
“How fortunate for you that I have arrived at precisely your time of need,” Schechter grandly announced. He thought of Professor Taylor, of Professor Taylor’s scholarship, of Professor Taylor’s money, of Professor Taylor slapping him on the back, wishing him well. The cavalier attitude toward money, common among people who never actually had to earn it, felt forever foreign to Schechter. He spoke like an actor in a play, as though he were wearing a costume, dressed in royal robes. “I would be pleased to make a generous donation toward the costs of the synagogue’s repair.”
The rabbi smiled, but said nothing. Instead he drank more coffee, then lit another cigarette.
Schechter was puzzled. Had he done something wrong? It reminded him of when he had first arrived in Vienna from Romania, of seeing adults in strange clothes doing outlandish things: intelligent men walking about with their backs straight and their heads high in the air like arrogant fools, sophisticated men shaking each other’s hands like children, rational men eating their meals without washing their hands first, elite men and women walking arm-in-arm on the boulevards without a whiff of scandal. Everything seems absurd until one learns the code. What was the rabbi getting at? Schechter was wracking his mind for an appropriate way to ask when the rabbi spoke again.
“I have never seen the tombs of the ancient kings,” the rabbi said.
This seemed to be a complete non sequitur. Was it a quote? If it was, Schechter couldn’t place it. He had never before heard a Hebrew quote he couldn’t place. His breath caught in his throat.
The rabbi continued. “They are not distant from here, but alas, the day is short and the price of the journey is high. Woe betide me, that I may go to my reward in the world to come without having seen the wonders of our own.”
Schechter gave up. “What tombs?”
“The graves in which the ancient pharaohs were entombed, though thieves have long since removed the bodies of the idolaters and their idols as well, may the one true God be praised.”
So the rabbi was indeed acquainted with reality, Schechter noted. Now he wondered which tombs the man meant. He could be referring to any one of dozens of excavation sites. For the past few weeks Schechter had been keeping up with the latest archeological research in the journals at the university library, preparing for his trip. “Do you mean the discoveries at Tanis?” he asked. “They do sound impressive.” He took a sip of coffee, which had become unpleasantly lukewarm.
“Not at Tanis. At Giza.”
This time Sch
echter choked. “The pyramids?”
The rabbi watched him calmly, smiling at him as he coughed, breathed. Finally Schechter stammered, returning to Hebrew, “But—but you’ve lived here all your life!”
The rabbi nodded. “Many in our holy congregation do not venture to the tombs, for we do not wish to be seen paying respects to the graves of the pharaohs who once enslaved our people.”
Schechter considered this. “But the pyramids were built at least a thousand years before the ancient Israelites are even mentioned in any source,” he said. He heard the pedantry in his own voice poisoned with helplessness, an overtone of protest. It was slowly occurring to him that facts were irrelevant.
The rabbi leaned back, heaving another dramatic sigh. “I have long wished to journey to Giza, to fulfill my dream of spitting on the pharaohs’ graves,” he said wistfully.
“Giza can’t be more than an hour’s ride from here,” Schechter pointed out.
“Halevai,” the rabbi replied, in a plaintive voice that seemed oddly childlike coming from a man in gold and silver brocade. He sighed again. “Would that I had the means to make the journey, in a fashion worthy of a man of my station!”
Schechter had resisted the obvious, but now there was no longer any point. “I would be pleased to take you to Giza,” Schechter announced. “In a hired coach.” He tried to make his voice grand, munificent with Professor Taylor’s money. Schechter had considered asking the university for a grant, but Taylor knew that if Schechter told the university of his plans, word would be out, and the likes of Adolf Neubauer or David Margoliouth at Oxford might well have beaten him to Cairo—to the great embarrassment of the entire university, and of Taylor himself. Surely Taylor wouldn’t begrudge the rabbi an excursion to the pyramids, Schechter thought, if that was what it took to open the door. “We can go tomorrow if you like.”
The rabbi smiled again and sipped his coffee, but once more said nothing. Schechter felt his own irritation welling up, the pique that, he knew, could turn into fury in minutes. But he could not destroy everything now. He swallowed his rage as the rabbi spoke again.
“My brother, may he prosper, is a scholar and teacher, a righteous man,” the rabbi said. “He instructs learned visitors in the Arabic tongue, so that they may better comport themselves in our great city. But woe betide him, his students have become few in number, so that his family barely survives. My esteemed Rabbi Shneur Zalman, may your family never know such misfortune.”
This seemed implausible at best. Schechter had counted three servants so far in the rabbi’s courtyard alone. He thought of his own years of traveling in fourth-class train cars, to save a bit more of his pathetic salary to send home to help his family. But by now Schechter fully understood. Like British weather conditions, the rabbi’s hypothetically starving brother was well beside the point.
“Without sufficient students, my dear brother eats the bread of idleness, a sin against the Holy Name,” the rabbi was saying. “Would that there were more learned visitors in need of his services!” The rabbi sighed once more.
Schechter suppressed a growl, and spread his lips in an enormous grin. “How fortunate that you should mention it!” he exclaimed, with an enthusiasm worthy of his four-year-old daughter. “I have always dreamed of studying the Arabic tongue with a private tutor. Surely no instructor in England could compare.”
The rabbi smiled once more. Schechter thought of his own twin brother, and then of his five other brothers and his elder sister. He offered a silent prayer that the rabbi didn’t have more siblings—and then another prayer that he wouldn’t invent any.
Schechter was contemplating the rabbi’s coffee-stained teeth, wondering if he would be obliged to remit payment for dentistry as well, when the rabbi finally spoke again.
“I collect royal seals,” the rabbi said.
“Pardon?”
“Royal seals. Emblems that kingdoms issue to their citizens, so they may send letters to distant lands,” he said.
“Stamps?” Schechter asked in English.
The rabbi didn’t understand, or chose to ignore him. “I own many seals of this type, having acquired them from visitors to my father’s court since I was a boy. It is a cherished dream of mine to have British royal seals. Of course I already have those seals used by British emissaries in North Africa. The ones I still seek are those issued by the Queen for use within her borders, those adorned with the most recent images of the Queen. But alas, like that of a virtuous woman, the Queen’s price is far beyond rubies.”
The rabbi sighed once more—a magnificent, theatrical sigh. The sheer virtuosity of his performance made Schechter want to applaud.
Stamp collecting, Schechter marveled. He could manage that. “I can obtain the royal seals for you,” he answered, matching the rabbi’s stilted Hebrew. “Consider it my gift, if you will set me as a seal upon your heart.” Song of Songs, of course.
At last the rabbi smiled. “My esteemed colleague,” he exclaimed, “you have found favor in my sight!” He picked up Schechter’s book from the table and kissed it three times. Then he stood, and Schechter stood up with him. An instant later the rabbi was embracing him—and then, to Schechter’s alarm, kissed him on the mouth.
Schechter resisted the urge to wipe his lips on his sleeve. When the rabbi handed him his pith helmet, Schechter knew he had arrived.
5
In the name of God, Lord of the Universe:
To my honored pupil Joseph (may the Rock protect you), son of Judah (may his repose be in Paradise),
Ever since you resolved to come to me, from a distant country, to study under my direction, I thought highly of your thirst for knowledge. This was the case ever since your letters and compositions in rhymed prose came to me from Alexandria, before your grasp was put to the test … When I commenced by way of hints, I noticed that you desired additional explanation, urging me to expound on some metaphysical problems. I perceived that you had acquired some knowledge in those matters from others, and that you were perplexed and bewildered; yet you sought to find a solution to your difficulty … When, by the will of God, we parted, and you went on your way, our discussions aroused in me a resolution which had long been dormant. Your absence has prompted me to compose this treatise for you and for those who are like you, however few they may be. Farewell!
At night, Josephine Ashkenazi had begun studying the Hebrew and French edition of Guide for the Perplexed. In the realm of fantasy, in a ten-by-ten-foot room, she became convinced that Maimonides had addressed his treatise specifically to her.
The cell phone video of her execution had been surprisingly easy to create. At first she had had a reflexive dignity, refusing to cooperate. The man wearing the “Jon’s Bar Mitzvah” T-shirt (at first they never seemed to change their clothes; she sometimes imagined that they too were prisoners, that this prison was much larger than the room) had nodded, and had then invited in two other men, shorter and seemingly younger than he was—the first wearing a T-shirt that said “Bear Stearns” and the second wearing one that said “Doctors Without Borders”—who held her against the sarcophagus and whacked her with truncheons until she complied. Mostly they had beaten her legs, presumably to protect her precious brain from injury, but that had not stopped Doctors Without Borders from occasionally slamming her in the head. Her captors had a surprising sense of propriety: the woman who may or may not have been Nasreen had come in again, once Josie was gagged, to thread the rope into a harness beneath her arms under her shirt before binding her arms and legs with packing tape. During the hanging itself she was terrified, convinced that the harness under her arms wouldn’t work, that she actually would die. When they cut her down, she was unconscious. When she awoke, her battered ankle was attached by an iron shackle to a three-foot-long chain which ended in a bucket-sized block of poured concrete in the corner of the room. The sarcophagus was no longer within her reach.
It occurred to her, after her hanging, that no one would ever look for her again, t
hat Itamar and everyone else she knew were probably certain she was dead. Which made it abundantly clear that ransom and release were no longer options, and that her captors’ ultimate intent was to murder her for real. When would they do it? Surely not for a while; otherwise the faked execution would have been unnecessary. But then what was their purpose in keeping her alive? She considered the obvious possibilities, but beyond the beatings, none of them had ever touched her, except for the woman who might or might not have been Nasreen. Yet it had been impossible for her to walk down the street in Cairo or Alexandria without men eyeballing her; more than once, on crowded sidewalks, she had even felt strangers’ hands along her legs. Soon she couldn’t think about it anymore, couldn’t think anymore at all. Instead, she stared at the sarcophagus and fell into a long and demented sleep.
When the man returned she was slouched in the corner of the room between the concrete block and the wall, dreaming of Tali—odd dreams, sick dreams, dreams where she coated Tali with cake frosting and licked it off her daughter’s arms. She could feel it beginning to happen: the descent from earth to underground, the abandonment of logic, the sinking into inarticulable thoughts, the transformation from woman into animal. She awoke with the clank of the lock. Seeing the man enter the room with a thin steel bat in one hand made her shake violently, uncontrollably. Her chained leg rattled against the stone wall as warm urine trickled between her legs. But when he spoke, his words nudged her back to what once was real.
“You are a famous lady,” he said. “You make famous computers.” He smiled, and waited for her to reply.
Suddenly that person existed again: Josephine Ashkenazi, inventor, executive, winner of prizes, interpreter of dreams. It was likely a trick of some kind, this odd flattery, but she seized it.