The Last Watchman of Old Cairo

by Michael David Lukas

  The longer the twins spent in Cairo, the more enamored they had become of the scroll’s possibility. They were happy to have found the geniza, of course, but the Ezra Scroll, that would truly be a groundbreaking discovery.

  “No,” Margaret said. “Not that I could see.”

  “Though of course one wouldn’t expect to find it lying out in the open.”

  “No,” Margaret agreed and she turned back to the journals of Jacob Saphir, a Lithuanian traveler who was said to have discovered the geniza.

  That following morning, as she was paging through the same book—looking for the section in which Saphir described peeking into the dark closet that housed the Ezra Scroll—Dr. Schechter appeared, entirely unannounced, wearing a newly pressed brown suit. Without a word of greeting he sat down, crossed his legs, and smiled.

  “My ladies,” he said, “we have permission.”

  After accepting their congratulations, he went on to regale them with the story of his week, the incessant coffee and cigarettes, the long late meals and trips about town. He had spent most of Wednesday drinking at the club with Mr. Bechor, and Thursday he accompanied the Chief Rabbi on a tour of the pyramids. That very morning, the three of them had sealed the deal over tea at Mr. Bechor’s residence. Rabbi Ben Shimon had even provided them with a letter of permission, in case anyone questioned their authority. Dr. Schechter produced the letter from his breast pocket and handed it across the table for inspection.

  “There is one thing,” he remembered. “Mr. Bechor asked whether you might be willing to write that letter, on behalf of his son.”

  “We will be happy to,” Margaret said, intercepting a look from her sister, “whatever we can do to advance the cause.”

  “And then, of course,” Dr. Schechter continued, fiddling with the buttons of his jacket, “we will need to rent a room in which to store the documents.”

  The twins had known from the first that there would be, at some point, a request for funds. There always was, and it was always somewhat disheartening. Not that they begrudged giving. Quite the contrary. Agnes and Margaret very much enjoyed the practice of philanthropy. What bothered them was the constant focus on the material. If one dwelt long enough in the realm of money, as they had, one began to see the entire world through a golden screen. Every building or professor, every book, painting, every good deed or good idea could be traced back to a lump of gold. And then, of course, neither of them wanted to be treated like a dotty rich old aunt.

  “Have you spoken to Mr. Montefiore?” Agnes asked.

  “Or Dr. Taylor?” Margaret added.

  It was well known among their circle at Cambridge that Mr. Montefiore helped supplement Dr. Schechter’s salary, and that his trip to Cairo had been endowed through the generosity of Dr. Taylor. Being, however, an exceedingly private person, at least when it came to money, Dr. Schechter did not like to discuss his benefactors.

  “They have both been rather generous,” he said, pausing for a moment as if to better consider their generosity. “But I am not sure they would fully understand the importance and immediacy of the geniza, not quite as well as you.”

  He looked up at the space between them, to see how this line of reasoning was settling.

  “Surely Dr. Taylor would understand,” Agnes said, for surely he would.

  “I should think also that it would be best at present to keep the matter confined to the three of us,” Dr. Schechter said.

  “And Miss de Witt,” Agnes added.

  Margaret smiled and put a hand on her sister’s wrist. There was no need to make Dr. Schechter squirm. They all knew where the discussion would end.

  “How many rooms do you expect we will need?”

  “Two,” he said, “two or three. I’ve spoken to the manager of my hotel and he indicated that he would be able to provide the rooms at a discounted price.”

  “Let us speak to our concierge,” Agnes offered. “I think we might be able to extract an especially good price from him.”

  Dr. Schechter was clearly not comfortable with the idea of housing the documents at the Hotel d’Angleterre—and thus ceding physical control of the geniza manuscripts to Agnes and Margaret—but he knew when not to push.

  “I thank you,” he said, rising from his seat with a small bow. “Knowledge thanks you, as do generations of future scholars.”

  “Yes, well,” Agnes said, “I, for one, am glad to get to work.”

  * * *

  —

  Early Monday morning—after reserving a suite across the hall and purchasing the crates they would use to transport the documents from the synagogue to the hotel and on across the water to the Cambridge University Library—the twins met Dr. Schechter and Miss de Witt outside their hotel. None of them had slept well the night before and all four were silent as they rode south along the water toward Old Cairo, the fog hung thick as cream over the Nile.

  As they disembarked in front of the synagogue, Miss de Witt broke the silence.

  “Well, hello there,” she cooed, bending down to pick up a tiny light-gray kitten mewing for its brood. “Are you lost?”

  “Do not touch that filthy creature,” Agnes said, and the girl jerked up as if stung.

  She had not intended such a sharp rebuke, but she knew that it was in Miss de Witt’s best interest. What had Dr. Taylor always said? In Cairo, pigeon is a delicacy, dogs are shunned, and cats are filthy as sewer rats. It sounded like a riddle, but it was really nothing more than the truth. Every great city had its pest. Istanbul had its dogs, London its rodents, and Rome its pigeons. In Cairo the species of nuisance was Felis silvestris catus, the common house cat. The city pulsed with thousands of the vile little puss-eyed creatures, hissing and mewing, huddled together in dank alleyways, and digging through piles of garbage. One could not go around handling such animals. It simply was not sanitary. Still, she should not have spoken so sharply.

  “What I meant,” Agnes said, but before she could find the proper words of apology, Mr. al-Raqb appeared and swept the kitten aside with his foot.

  “Good morning to you all.”

  “A morning of light,” Margaret replied, hoping that the traditional stream of greetings might draw the watchman out of his shell.

  “A morning of flowers.” Mr. al-Raqb smiled, continuing the chain.

  “And to you a morning of cream.”

  “Mr. Bechor has informed you of our agreement?” Dr. Schechter asked once he was quite certain the greetings were finished.

  The watchman nodded and welcomed them into the courtyard with an open arm. With the same motion, he attempted to shoo away a gathering crowd of dirt-streaked, dark-eyed children. Some of them were rather young and a few looked to be on the verge of manhood, but they all had the same hungry and somewhat pitiful expression.

  “Solomon,” Miss de Witt entreated, “do you think we might be able to use the assistance of these boys?”

  They were not begging. For the most part, they seemed curious, wondering at the foreigners with their strange clothes and their crates. But one could also see that they would not turn down a coin or a crust of bread.

  “I rather think we could,” Agnes said, pitching her agreement over Dr. Schechter’s mumbled objections.

  Miss de Witt smiled quite unabashedly and so did Agnes. In a single stroke, she had given Miss de Witt a gift far better than a dozen apologies, agreeing with her rather good idea to hire the boys while ignoring her excessive familiarity with Dr. Schechter.

  “In either case,” Dr. Schechter said, “I would like to get to work as soon as possible.”

  “Very well,” Agnes concluded and turned to Mr. al-Raqb. “I think eight will do.”

  It was agreed that Dr. Schechter and Miss de Witt would oversee the boys packing crates in the courtyard, while Agnes and Margaret volunteered to manage the geniza side of the operation
, so long as their lungs held up. Seated on low stools in the middle of the room, they directed the flow of documents with a series of sharp commands and hand motions. The boys soon fell into the rhythm of the work, hauling load after load up the wall, down the ladder, and into the light of the courtyard, their hands and faces accruing a ghostly paste of dust and sweat as the day progressed. Dr. Schechter had expected the job to take at least two days, but with the help of the boys, they were finished by late afternoon.

  “Done and sorted,” Margaret called out and her voice echoed off the walls of the nearly empty attic.

  “But no Ezra Scroll?” Agnes asked.

  Margaret shook her head—she had been thinking precisely the same thing—and they both looked around this dusty room that had, for nearly a thousand years, held a mountain of discarded documents. It was stripped nearly bare now, a hull of its former self. And yet, the room still pulsed with a twinge of the electricity Margaret had felt before, when it was full.

  That same tingling feeling was with them as they climbed down the ladder and found the carriage outside, fully loaded with crates.

  “I believe it would be best,” Dr. Schechter suggested, “if Miss de Witt and I were to ride back with the first load while the two of you stay behind with the remainder.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” Margaret said with a quick glance at her sister.

  Without Dr. Schechter and Miss de Witt around, they would finally have the opportunity to talk frankly with Mr. al-Raqb.

  “Yes,” Agnes agreed.

  After the carriage left, the watchman asked Agnes and Margaret if they would like some tea. Neither of them was particularly thirsty, but they had learned long ago never to refuse an offer of food or drink. To do so was a grave insult and, moreover, such invitations were often a prelude to further conversation.

  “Very much so,” Agnes smiled and, without a word, Mr. al-Raqb disappeared into his house.

  A moment later he returned with three stools, a small charcoal stove, and a clay pot. They sat on the stools and watched in silence while he prepared and poured the tea.

  “May God grant you health,” he said as he handed them their glasses.

  “Health to you,” the twins said in unison, and they raised the dark sugary tea to their lips.

  Agnes and Margaret had a number of questions for Mr. al-Raqb, but they waited for him to speak first.

  “My father was a watchman,” he said finally, “and his father and his father, too. For nearly a thousand years.”

  Margaret nodded and took another sip of tea. She had suspected that Ali—the young Muslim boy indicated in the fragment she had removed from the geniza—might be related somehow to the current watchman.

  “I cannot read,” Mr. al-Raqb continued. “I cannot write. I know nothing of these papers in the attic. But I do know that many other people are interested.”

  “Many people are interested,” Agnes repeated, watching Mr. al-Raqb’s face for a reaction, “and many people want to buy them.”

  He nodded again, in confirmation, the anger in his face as clear as the fading day. The geniza leak, it seemed, troubled him as much as it did them.

  “Can you tell us who?” Margaret asked.

  “It is not for me to tell.”

  “We are prepared to offer you a very sizeable reward for the information.”

  “It is not for me to tell,” he repeated.

  Margaret looked into the bottom of her glass and swirled the last remnants of tea.

  “Do you know the Ezra Scroll?” she asked, taking a slightly different tack. “They say it is hidden in a dark closet, guarded by a snake.”

  A flicker of recognition shot across the watchman’s craggy face; then he looked up at Margaret, making direct eye contact for the first time in their conversation.

  “There is no snake.”

  “But the scroll,” Agnes persisted, “the Ezra Scroll. Is it here in the synagogue?”

  Mr. al-Raqb regarded her over the rim of his glass, pursed his lips, then shook his head once.

  “You have been to the cemetery?” he asked. “Bassatine? You know, they bury papers there.”

  “And books?” Margaret persisted. “Scrolls?”

  The watchman squinted, as if trying to see the outline of his reply in the sun falling below the walls of the Babylonian Fortress.

  “My father showed me this scroll when I was small,” he said, “but they moved it when they rebuilt the synagogue. It is not where it once was.”

  The twins exchanged a quick glance.

  “Do you know where it is now?” Agnes pressed. “Is it in the cemetery?”

  “That is all I know.” Mr. al-Raqb refilled their glasses. “I have told you what I know.”

  By the time they finished their second glass of tea, the carriage had pulled up to the main gate of the synagogue; Dr. Schechter leaped out with a smile.

  “Ready for the next load,” he said.

  Rising from their stools, Agnes and Margaret thanked Mr. al-Raqb for his hospitality and promised that his kindness would be repaid. They helped Dr. Schechter as well as they could with the loading, then joined Miss de Witt in the carriage.

  “Quite a nice man,” Agnes remarked to her sister.

  “Did he say anything of interest?” Miss de Witt asked.

  “No,” Margaret said, “not particularly.”

  “Well then,” Dr. Schechter exclaimed as he climbed into the carriage. “We have reason to congratulate ourselves. The only remaining obstacle is the Egyptian Customs Authority.”

  As they rode, Agnes and Margaret both looked out the window of the carriage. A pale yellow stretch of sky lay atop the water like a layer of sponge cake. They certainly did have reason to congratulate themselves. After two long weeks of work, the geniza documents were safe from thieves and poachers and the pull of the black market. There was still the Ezra Scroll, of course, and the question of who was responsible for the leak. But for the moment, they were content to bask in the not-insignificant accomplishment of securing their documents.

  7

  FOR A WEEK and a day, Ali kept Hasdi il-Sephardi’s charm with him at all times. Clutching it in his pocket and rubbing the edge of the string, he could feel its magic balanced at the edge of his perception like a low hum. But as much as he believed in its power, there was no way to know whether the amulet was truly working. At some times, he was sure he could feel his beloved burning for him. At others, he pictured her going about her daily chores, completely unaffected by the charm. After eight days of this with no results—at least not as far as he could discern—Ali decided to seek out stronger magic.

  Finding Hasdi’s shop again proved to be much more difficult than Ali had imagined. At first, he tried retracing his steps through the wood-carvers’ market, but no matter what path he chose he found himself back where he had started. He asked a few shopkeepers nearby if they might direct him to Hasdi il-Sephardi’s shop, but most had never heard the name and those who had merely shook their heads. After searching for the better part of the afternoon with no success, Ali sat down to rest near a food stall selling taamiya and ful. He was weighing the coins in his pocket against his hunger, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Looking for me?”

  It was Hasdi. His grip was surprisingly strong, and in the dim light of the alley his wild white hair seemed tinged an unnatural shade of blue.

  “Come,” he said with a tilt of his head. “My shop is just around the corner.”

  Cutting through a row of empty stalls, Hasdi led Ali deeper and deeper into the market. They turned left, skirted around the edges of the glassblowers’ market, then doubled back and emerged into that familiar passageway shaded by olive branches. Hasdi’s shop was exactly as Ali remembered it. This time, however, the reed cage near the door was filled with pigeons instead of
frogs.

  “The charm was unsuccessful,” Hasdi concluded before Ali could say anything. “May I inspect it?”

  Turning it over in his hands, Hasdi nodded to himself as if realizing a fatal flaw. Then he threw the charm into the stove behind him. It went up with a quick bright flame.

  “You are the watchman of the Ibn Ezra Synagogue.”

  “Yes,” Ali said, for there was no use in lying.

  “And,” Hasdi said as he disappeared underneath the counter, emerging a moment later with a slightly translucent piece of vellum, “you are familiar with the Ezra Scroll?”

  Ali shook his head. He had never heard of the Ezra Scroll.

  “In the attic,” Hasdi prompted.

  He threw a handful of powder into the air and the shop shimmered with a faint silver light. As the light receded, Ali recalled that peculiar incident a week earlier, after the Feast of the Temporary Dwellings. He remembered how he had awoken to the distant sound of humming and found the council of Ibn Ezra gathered in the alley, all dressed in white, and one of them holding a luminous object about the size of a Sefer Torah scroll.

  “When you are in the attic of the synagogue,” Hasdi continued, speaking slowly and clearly, as one might to a small child, “extinguish your lantern. You will notice one of the panels glowing slightly. Open the compartment and place this piece of vellum inside. Leave it there for two nights, then bring it back to me.”

  Ali began to ask a question, but Hasdi cut him off.

  “You want her to feel for you, the way you feel for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is what you must do.”

  Later that night, rubbing the vellum between his fingers, Ali stared into his tiny fire and tried to work out the consequences of what he had been asked to do. He knew nothing about the Ezra Scroll. Still, he sensed something very wrong with the plan. Hasdi il-Sephardi was not a good person; he knew this for certain. And he knew that good magic could not come from bad people. Even so, he told himself, perhaps it was not a question of intentions but results. What could be wrong with a charm that brought him closer to his beloved?