by Paul Sussman
Again the Israeli asked what was going on, again Khalifa didn't reply, just flicked away his cigarette and beckoned Ben-Roi into the building. They paused a moment in the entrance, taking in the marble pulpit, the wooden galleries, the intricately decorated walls and ceiling, then walked forward until they were standing in front of the high wooden shrine at the synagogue's far end, flanked to either side by the brass menorahs.
'Welcome, Yusuf. I knew you would return.'
As on his previous visit, Khalifa had been certain the synagogue was empty. Yet there was the tall, white-haired man again, sitting as before in the shadows beneath the gallery. He raised a hand in greeting, staring at them both for a moment before standing and coming over to them. Khalifa introduced his companion.
'Arieh Ben-Roi,' he said. 'Of the Israel Police Force.'
The man nodded, as if he had been expecting some such answer, eyes lingering on the menorah pendant hanging around Ben-Roi's neck. Khalifa shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. Now that it came to it he wasn't entirely certain how to vocalize what was on his mind. Wasn't even entirely certain what it was that was on his mind. The man seemed to understand his dilemma because he came forward a step and laid a hand on his shoulder.
'It was brought here a very long time ago,' he said gently. 'Seventy generations now. Matthias the High Priest ordered it. When he knew the holy city would fall to the Romans.'
Khalifa blinked at him.
'The . . .'
'Other one?' Again the man seemed to understand what he was thinking even before Khalifa himself did. 'Eleazar the Goldsmith cast that. To mislead our enemies. The original was sent to Egypt with my forefather, here to wait until better times should come. Our family has guarded it ever since.'
Ben-Roi opened his mouth, then shut it again, bemused. There was a long silence.
'You've never told anyone?' asked Khalifa eventually.
The old man shrugged. 'The time was not right.'
'It is now?'
'Oh yes. Now the time is right. The signs have been fulfilled.'
His eyes, to Khalifa's surprise, seemed to well with tears – of gladness, not sorrow. He gazed down at the detective, then, slowly, turned away towards the nearest of the menorahs, reaching out a hand and touching his fingertips to one of its branches.
'Three signs to guide you,' he recited softly, his voice distant suddenly, as though echoing across a wide expanse of space and time. 'First, the greatest of the twelve shall come and in his hand a hawk; second, a son of Ishmael and a son of Isaac shall stand together as friends in the House of God; third, the lion and the shepherd shall be as one, and about their neck a lamp. When these things come to pass, then it will be time.'
There was another silence, the man's words seeming to linger in the still, cool air of the synagogue's interior, then he turned again, sapphire eyes sparkling.
'Your coming fulfilled the first sign,' he said, smiling at Khalifa. 'For the greatest of the twelve sons of Jacob was Joseph, Yusuf in the Arab tongue. And you brought with you a hawk. The second sign' – he spread his hands to encompass both detectives – 'this you both fulfilled. For it is to Ishmael that the Muslim people trace their ancestry, and from his brother Isaac that the Jewish race is descended. A Muslim and a Jew side by side in the House of God. As for the third sign . . .'
He tilted his head, indicating Ben-Roi's pendant.
'Lion?' asked Khalifa, his voice sounding strangely thick and foreign to him. 'Shepherd?'
The man said nothing, just looked over at Ben-Roi.
'My name,' mumbled the Israeli. 'Arieh is the Hebrew for lion. Roi is shepherd. Listen, what the fuck's all this about?'
The man's smile broadened and he let out a soft chuckle. 'Let me show you, my friend. Let me show both of you. Seventy generations, and now, finally, the time has come for it to be revealed.'
He took them both by the arm and led them to the rear corner of the synagogue where he produced a key and opened a low door set into the wooden panels lining the walls.
'Our synagogue was built in the late ninth century, on the ruins of an old Coptic Church,' he explained, ushering them down a staircase into a large flag-stoned basement, empty aside from a stack of folding wooden chairs and, in the middle of the floor, a large rush mat. 'That in turn, however, stood on the ruins of an even older building, one dating right the way back to Roman times. When my ancestors first came here that building was the home of the leader of the Jewish community in Babylon, a very wise and holy man. Abner was his name.'
He crossed to the mat and, leaning down, grasped its corner.
'Nothing now remains of that original house save one small part – a vault, very deep, once used for storing wine. That has survived untouched while above it the centuries have slowly passed and the buildings come and gone.'
He drew the mat aside, revealing a stone slab with a socket at its centre, larger than the surrounding flags, smoother, older somehow, much older. With the detectives' help he lifted it aside, opening a hole within which a set of worn steps led downwards. Khalifa couldn't be certain, but he thought he caught a faint hint of light down below.
'Come,' said the man. 'It is waiting.'
He led them down the steps and into a narrow arched passage with a corbelled ceiling and dusty brick walls. The light was now unmistakable, a rich warm glow emanating from round a corner at the passage's far end. They moved towards it, the glow growing stronger with each stride, deeper and more intense, their nostrils picking up a vague suggestion of perfume on the air, barely noticeable and yet at the same time strangely intoxicating so that they began to feel light-headed. They came to the end of the passage, turned the corner and halted.
'Oh God,' choked Ben-Roi.
In front of them was a vault hewn out of bare rock, its walls and ceiling rough and uneven, its interior suffused with the warmest, sweetest, most exquisite light Khalifa had ever known. Standing at its far end, the source of the light, was a seven-branched Menorah, seven flickering flames rising from its lamps, identical to the one they had found in the mine yet at the same time wholly different, its gold infinitely richer and more alluring, its form infinitely lighter and more graceful, its decoration so subtle and lifelike that beside it real flowers and leaves and fruits would have seemed no more than tawdry imitations.
The detectives looked across at each other, eyes meeting and holding for a moment before they turned away again. Following the white-haired man, they walked forward until they were standing directly in front of the candelabrum, its light washing over them like a wave of gold, streaming into their eyes, flooding the remotest recesses of their bodies, filling them.
'You keep the lamps lit?' asked Ben-Roi, his voice barely audible.
'The lamps have not been touched since the Menorah was brought here,' replied the man. 'They were lit then, and have remained so ever since. Their wicks have never burnt down, their oil has never run out.'
They shook their heads in wonder and shuffled forward a few more inches, gazing into the flames. They were unlike any Khalifa had ever seen before, made up of all the colours of the rainbow and more, colours Khalifa didn't even know existed, colours so pure, so perfect, so hypnotic that thereafter every colour he saw would look unbearably drab and monochrome by contrast. They seemed to draw him inwards, swirling and spiralling around him, caressing his face as though he was passing through some diaphanous veil before it suddenly parted to reveal vast open spaces, spaces that somehow – and he never was able to explain it properly – contained every person he had ever known, every place he had ever been, everything he had ever done: his entire life spread out in front of him, all perfectly clear, perfectly real. There were his father and mother, his brother Ali, his police graduation, the day as a five-year-old when he had run away from home and climbed all the way to the top of the Great Pyramid of Cheops. And right in the midst of it all, clearest and brightest by far, laughing and waving at him as if he was looking at them through a window, Zenab and the children.
'I can see Galia.'
Khalifa turned. To his horror he saw that Ben-Roi had reached out his hand and was holding it right in the middle of one of the flames. He raised his own hand, intending to pull the Israeli's back, but the white-haired man restrained him.
'The light of God cannot harm those who at heart are truly righteous,' he said quietly. 'Let him be.'
Ben-Roi was smiling, the flame seeming to expand and swell so that it encased his entire hand, wrapping it in a brilliant glove of golden light.
'I can feel her hair,' he whispered, 'her face. She's here. Galia's here.'
He began to laugh, fingers moving back and forth through the flame as though he was stroking a loved one's skin, continuing thus for several moments before suddenly his face crumpled in on itself and he let out a deep choking sob. Another one came, and another, and another, each more violent than the last, his entire body seeming to convulse with the force of his grief. He withdrew his hand, bent forward, clutched his sides, but the convulsions grew stronger and eventually he was driven down onto his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, the tears pouring out of him like water from a broken dam, on and on, emptying him.
'I loved her so much,' he kept saying. 'Oh God, I loved her so much.'
Khalifa tried to mumble some words of comfort, but they seemed wholly inadequate and, stepping forward, he laid a hand on Ben-Roi's shoulder. Still the sobbing continued, tears coursing down the Israeli's craggy face, his breath coming in short, agonized howls. Eventually, hardly even aware he was doing it, Khalifa came forward another step, sank to his haunches and wrapped his arms around the big man.
'I loved her so much,' choked Ben-Roi. 'I miss her. Oh God, I miss her.'
The Egyptian said nothing, just held him close, the light of the Menorah enveloping them both like a glittering cloak, drawing them together, binding them. The old man smiled, turned and walked from the vault.
When they finally climbed back up into the synagogue the man was nowhere to be found. They called his name, but there was no response, and after wandering around for a few minutes they went outside again.
It had been midday when they arrived. Yet now, inexplicably, it was dawn again, as if the conveyor belt of Time had somehow slipped and surged, breaking the normal rhythm of the day's cycle. They gazed east at the swirls of pink and green staining the sky above the ragged heads of the Muqattam Hills, then walked forward and sat down on a bench beneath the bole of a giant India laurel tree. As they did so a little boy in a white djellaba came up carrying a tray with two glasses of tea on it, his eyes blue and bright as sapphires.
'Grandfather said to give you these when you came out,' he said, extending the tray. 'He'll be waiting for you in the synagogue when you're ready.'
They took the glasses and he scuttled off again. Khalifa lit a cigarette and gazed up at the last faint stars still twinkling in the sky above. There was a long silence.
'So, what do we do with it?' he asked eventually.
Beside him, Ben-Roi had hunched forward, blowing on his tea.
'Do good things,' he murmured. 'Try to make a difference.'
'Hmm?'
'The last thing Galia said to me. Before she died. Do good things. Try to make a difference. It was this phrase we had.' He glanced up at Khalifa, then down again. 'I've never told anyone that.'
The Egyptian smiled and sipped his tea. It was very sweet and very strong, the liquid clear and reddish brown, almost ruby-coloured – just how he liked it.
'It's going to cause trouble,' said Ben-Roi after another brief silence, sipping his own drink. 'If people know it's been found. The way things are at the moment. There are other Har-Zions out there. Other al-Mulathams, too.'
Khalifa took a puff on his cigarette. The head of the sun was just peeping up above the hills, a thin sickle of brilliant red.
'It's just too . . . powerful,' continued Ben-Roi. 'Too . . . special. If it was to go back . . . I just don't think we're ready for it. Things are complicated enough as they are.'
He laid his glass aside and folded his arms. A pair of bee-eaters fluttered down from the branches above, pecking at the ground with their long, quilllike beaks, hopping back and forth. The two men looked at each other, then nodded, knowing they were both thinking the same thing.
'Agreed?' asked Ben-Roi.
'Agreed,' said Khalifa, finishing his cigarette and grinding the butt out beneath his shoe.
'I'll call Milan. Tell him it's safe. He won't want to know any more.'
'He can be trusted?'
'Yehuda?' Ben-Roi smiled. 'Yes, he can be trusted. That's why I called him about the Menorah in the first place. He's a good person. Like his daughter.'
'His daughter?'
'I thought I told you,' said Ben-Roi. 'I'm sure I did.'
'Told me what?'
The Israeli ran a hand through his hair.
'Yehuda Milan was Galia's father.'
They were concerned their decision would upset the old man. When they found him and told him, however, he merely nodded and smiled that enigmatic smile of his.
'Our task was to guard the Lamp, and when the time was right reveal its whereabouts,' he said quietly. 'This we have done. No more was expected, either from us or by us.'
There was a patter of feet and the little boy came running into the synagogue, taking up position at his grandfather's side. The man put an arm around his shoulders.
'What will you do now?' asked Khalifa.
'Now?' The man shrugged. 'We are the caretakers here, this is our home. That will not change. Nothing will change.'
'The Lamp?'
'The Lamp will remain where it is. Until it is God's will it should be moved. While its cups burn there will always be light in the world, however dark things may seem.'
The little boy tugged his robe and, coming up on tiptoes, whispered in his ear. The man chuckled and kissed the boy on the forehead.
'He says to tell you that when I am dead and gone and it is he who is caretaker, you will both be welcome to come and see the Lamp whenever you wish.'
The detectives smiled.
'May God be with you, my friends. The light of the Menorah is in you now. Do not let it fade.'
He held them in his eyes for a moment, both men experiencing a sudden strange feeling of weightlessness, as if they were floating on the air. Then, with a nod, he took the little boy's hand in his own, turned and walked into the shadows beneath the synagogue's wooden gallery, the two of them disappearing from sight as if they had never existed.
As they left the synagogue, Ben-Roi suddenly raised a hand to the side of his head.
'My ear's healed up,' he said.
CAIRO
'Last call for Egyptair Flight 431 to Aswan via Luxor.'
It was six p.m. and, finally, Khalifa was on his way home. He would have got an earlier flight, but when he'd spoken to Zenab she had insisted that since he was in Cairo he might as well take the time to make some social calls. So he'd had breakfast with their old friends Tawfik and Narwal at Groppi's on Midan Talaat Harb, then spent the day in the Antiquities Museum with his mentor, dear old Professor al-Habibi – recently returned from his lecture tour in Europe – before finishing up back at Groppi's with his childhood mate Fat Abdul Wassami, who, true to his name, had managed to work his way through six eclairs, three pieces of basbousa and a massive slice of honey-soaked katif ('I'll call it a day there,' he had announced virtuously. 'We're out for dinner tonight and I don't want to spoil my appetite.').
Now, however, Khalifa was ready for home.
'Last call for Egyptair Flight 431.'
On the other side of the security barriers he could see the last few passengers filing through the glass doors and into the bus that would carry them out to their plane. He turned, scanning the departures hall, looking for Ben-Roi, who was booked on to an eight p.m. flight out of the International Terminal and had agreed to meet here to say a final goodbye. The place was crowded with tourists, including a large group of E
nglish women all of whom were for some reason wearing matching sombreros. No sign of the Israeli, however. He gave it another minute, then, with his flight again being called, started towards the security point.
'Khalifa!'
The Israeli was pushing his way through the herd of English women, two enormous carrier bags clasped in his hands. The Egyptian went forward to meet him.
'I thought you weren't going to make it.'
'Couldn't find the fucking terminal.'
Ben-Roi dropped his bags, wiped a hand across his sweat-stained forehead and, pulling out his silver hip-flask, unscrewed the lid and took a long gulp. As he lowered it again he noticed the faintly disapproving look in Khalifa's eyes.