“Mrs. Lewis,” he said, “Mrs. Gibson. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He was a handsome man, more so than pictures in the newspaper would indicate, with lively blue eyes, a wide white mustache, and a stomach the size of a woman’s six months gone.
“The pleasure is ours.”
Motioning for them to sit, Lord Cromer lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and crossed his legs.
“How do you take your tea?”
“Light cream, no sugar,” Margaret said.
Agnes nodded in assent as another butler came into the room and Lord Cromer asked him to bring three cups of tea, light cream, no sugar.
“I had a crate of Afternoon Darjeeling shipped in last week,” he said. “Taylors of Harrogate. It is a luxury, but I am sure you will agree a very important one given the quality of tea available in Egypt.”
The twins did agree, very much, on the importance of such luxuries and the sorry selection of tea available in Egypt.
“Now then,” Lord Cromer said, crossing his hands in his lap, “old Claude mentioned you are acquainted with his niece, Miss de Witt?”
They both nodded, though this was the first they had heard of old Claude.
“And I understand that you played a part in discovering the Sinai Palimpsest?”
“Yes,” Agnes said, for it was she who had discovered it.
Lord Cromer tilted his head from one side to the other, as if attempting to persuade a dram or two of bathwater from his ears.
“Is it true the manuscript was being used as a butter dish when you found it?”
“Not entirely,” Agnes said, smiling to suppress a grimace. “It was in a bad state when we came across it. But the story of the butter dish, charming as it may be, was entirely the fantasy of a newspaper editor.”
“One would imagine the monks of St. Catherine’s don’t have much in the way of butter,” Lord Cromer observed. “One would think they use olive oil, primarily.”
Agnes smiled at Margaret, acknowledging the astute perception of their host. It was a pleasure to be in the company of someone who understood.
“Precisely.”
“In addition to your scholarly pursuits, I understand that you have also been rather involved in the establishment of the Presbyterian Synod at Cambridge.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. Assuming Lord Cromer did not share their faith, and would not think much of women’s involvement in such affairs, she did her best to minimize their role in the synod. “We are very devoted to our church.”
As he blew across his tea, his Lordship’s gaze drifted, and Margaret could sense his attention wandering toward the stack of papers on his desk. As much as he enjoyed this little chat, the look seemed to imply, it would need to end shortly.
“My Lord, we have a small request,” Agnes said, and Lord Cromer pressed his hands together in front of his mouth, indicating that he was ready to consider.
“Miss de Witt’s uncle may have mentioned that the Chief Rabbi of Egypt, Rabbi Ben Shimon, recently granted Dr. Schechter and ourselves the rights to the contents of the attic at Ibn Ezra.”
“Yes.”
“The contents of the attic,” Margaret continued, “are really quite astounding. We have not yet had the time to look through all of the documents, but I would venture to say that it will be the most significant such discovery in the past fifty years.”
Lord Cromer nodded, to show he understood fully the significance of their find.
“Although the Chief Rabbi granted us permission to remove the documents and transport them back to Cambridge, we have encountered some difficulties in navigating the Customs Authority.”
As Margaret spoke, Lord Cromer wrote a few words on the notepad in front of him.
“I will see that the matter is resolved,” he said, punctuating the sentence with a rather loud sip of tea. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
Margaret patted down the front of her dress and glanced at her sister, unsure whether this question was a signal of the interview’s conclusion or an invitation to continue. There were so many things Lord Cromer could do for them. With a flick of the pen, he could build a school, protect a building, or send someone to prison. With a few words, he could change the course of history. What might Lord Cromer say if they told him about Mr. Bechor, their trip to Bassatine, their speculations about the Ezra Scroll? Margaret’s head swam with possibility. But before she could distill the possibilities into a single request, Agnes brought the interview to an end.
“I am sure you are quite busy,” she said, and they both stood. “Thank you so very much for your help.”
That same evening, as they were dressing for dinner, the twins received word that the documents had been approved for export. Along with this official communication came a personal note from Lord Cromer, in which he thanked them kindly for their visit. The note was accompanied also by a tin of his Lordship’s prized Afternoon Darjeeling, which he hoped would serve them well for the remainder of their journey.
Although they had accomplished fully what they set out to achieve—and gotten a tin of Darjeeling to boot—Agnes and Margaret could not help but feel that they had been handled. Perhaps this was how it was with Lord Cromer. One was flattered, stroked, assisted, then shown the door. Either way, the sisters both felt the tang of a missed opportunity. Being in the presence of such power, such decisiveness, gave one a certain intoxication, the sense that anything truly was possible.
* * *
—
Once they had secured the approval of the Egyptian Customs Authority, things began to move rather quickly. Railcars were secured, telegrams were sent, forms were stamped with official seals. Miss de Witt volunteered to accompany the documents—to Alexandria, then on to Marseilles, Dover, and Cambridge—so that Dr. Schechter could go on to meet his brother in Palestine. He had considered changing his plans in order that he might personally deliver the crates to Cambridge, but Miss de Witt succeeded in persuading him otherwise. She had pledged to watch over the crates as closely as she would her own newborn child. What was more, she said, her uncle planned to join her for the second half of the journey.
But before Marseilles, before Palestine, and the Cambridge University Library, before any of this, the crates needed to be packed, labeled, sealed, and delivered to Cairo Station in time for Tuesday’s Alexandria Express.
“Shouldn’t be too much trouble,” Miss de Witt said when she saw the extent of the task before them. “I quite enjoy packing, myself.”
If Agnes and Margaret had retained any doubts about the young woman’s character, they were swept aside in those final days of dust and sealing wax. With her cheerful assistance, the work went much more quickly than they had imagined, so much so that they were able to spend much of Monday afternoon in the lobby of the hotel drinking Lord Cromer’s Darjeeling.
“I nearly forgot,” Miss de Witt said when Agnes asked about some detail of her uncle’s travel plans. “I received a note from him yesterday. He inquired after you and insisted that I give you his very best.”
“Your uncle,” Margaret said, imagining some obscure professor of mathematics whom they invited to dinner once or twice a year, “he is a Cantabrigian?”
“No, he lives in London.”
“And he said to give us his best,” Agnes repeated.
“Remind us of your uncle’s name, my dear,” Margaret said, cutting to the point. “I’m afraid we’re not as familiar with London as we once were.”
“Mr. Claude Montefiore.”
She said the name with a hint of question in her voice, but of course they knew it. Mr. Montefiore was one of the richest men in England, and Dr. Schechter’s greatest benefactor.
“Surely, Dr. Schechter mentioned who my uncle was.”
As Miss de Witt looked from Agnes to Margaret and
back, she was overcome with a heavy blush of realization. Dr. Schechter had not mentioned who her uncle was. He had neglected to inform the twins that his young research assistant was also the niece of Mr. Montefiore. If they had known—if Dr. Schechter had told them that Miss de Witt had come to Cairo as an emissary of her uncle—the twins would never have questioned her propriety. But Dr. Schechter was exceedingly private when it came to money and he disliked speaking of his benefactors. So he had left to their imaginations the explanation for Miss de Witt’s presence. And what else could they think? There were only so many reasons a young woman would accompany a married man halfway around the world.
“Well,” Miss de Witt said, unable to meet their gaze. She touched her neck, stood, then sat back down again. “I cannot imagine—”
All three of them were silent for a long while, Agnes and Margaret embarrassed by the suspicious tilt of their imaginations, and Miss de Witt by her realization of what the twins must have thought.
“Are you planning to be in Cambridge for Easter term?” Agnes said, changing the subject abruptly.
Miss de Witt looked up from her tea.
“Yes, I am.”
“We will not be back for another month at least,” Margaret continued, “but when we do return we would be very glad for you to call on us.”
“It would be a pleasure,” Miss de Witt said.
“We are always interested in assisting the education of young women,” Agnes agreed, “especially those as promising as yourself.”
“Thank you,” she said, and after a brief pause Agnes directed the conversation back to the details of the crates’ upcoming journey.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon, when Miss de Witt went back to her hotel to wash up, that the twins were able to discuss the misunderstanding in private.
“What were we supposed to think?” Margaret asked with a touch of anger in her voice. “Dr. Schechter should have told us her uncle was Mr. Montefiore.”
Agnes considered this for a few moments before responding.
“He should have told us,” she agreed, “though we also could have asked.”
“True,” Margaret allowed.
They both looked out the window and were silent as they watched a flock of starlings ducking and diving in formation against the deep blue gathering twilight. Neither of them raised the subject of their own omissions and half-truths, their own transgressions. And in their silence, they agreed that it would be best to keep all that to themselves. It would be best not to tell Dr. Schechter about the Ezra Scroll, the geniza leak, or their suspicions of Mr. Bechor. For there was nothing to be gained by such revelations, and much to be lost. Agnes and Margaret continued watching the birds for a long while, until their swoop bled into the night and they were nothing more than a rustle.
Such was life, speeding ever more quickly toward its conclusion.
“Leaps and bounds,” Agnes said. “Leaps and bounds.”
They both knew they might not return to Cairo. They knew that the Four o’Clock Mail might be their last train out of Cairo Station, their final trip into the desert they loved so well. They had never ceased to be grateful for the chance to visit Egypt, not to mention Jerusalem, Istanbul, and everywhere else they had been. Most people felt lucky to see Paris or Rome, and they had been around the world many times over. Still, it was difficult not to want more—more trips, more books, more discoveries. It was difficult not to wonder what they might uncover if they stayed on a few more days in Cairo. But there would always be another scroll, another cache of documents, wouldn’t there? Sometimes persistence was a virtue, and sometimes it was better to let go.
After some time, Margaret rose and took out the scrap of paper she had removed from the geniza a few weeks earlier.
“I was thinking,” she said, after staring down at it for a few moments, “I was thinking that this fragment might make a suitable gift, to thank Mr. al-Raqb for his kindness.”
“An excellent idea,” Agnes said.
Staring together out the window, into the darkness, their thoughts turned to that final unanswered question, the Ezra Scroll, and they recalled the words of their father’s favorite theologian, Hugh of St. Victor.
It is, therefore, a great source of virtue for the practiced mind to learn, bit by bit, first to change about in visible and transitory things, so that afterwards it may be able to leave them behind altogether. The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land.
The wisest among us, they knew, were those who could accept that God’s plan was both infinitely complex and utterly incomprehensible, that the world was full of mysteries whose answers would never be revealed.
13
IN THE WEEKS following his trial, Ali kept mostly to himself. He did his rounds, tended to his kittens, and performed his prayers. On those occasions when he was forced to leave the house—going to the produce market or the bakery—he kept his eyes on the ground and was especially careful to avoid any encounters with members of the judicial council. For although their judgment had been generous, he knew that there were still many who had not forgiven him. And why should they, when he hadn’t forgiven himself?
Most of all, Ali was terrified of seeing Shemarya the Pious and his sons, because he had betrayed their trust, but also because he feared that the sight of them might bring back all those feelings he had so painfully repressed. In spite of everything, he could still feel desire lurking at the dark corners of his mind. The very thought of his beloved made the scars on his arm pulse with blood and he knew that the slightest provocation could return him to his prior state.
His only consolation during that period was the patient sympathy of his kittens. On those days when Ali was feeling especially frustrated, he would take one of them into his lap and, scratching it between the ears, he would unburden himself of all his worries and regrets. Although they never responded, Ali felt they understood. They were orphans, too. Like himself, they were teetering unsteadily on the verge of adulthood, beginning to make their way in the world for the first time. Sitting with them, Ali would often recall the wise words of that other orphan, the Prophet Muhammad. The worst among you are your bachelors. Marriage is my way; whoever shuns my way is not of me.
Ali knew he needed to find a wife. The council had given him two months to accomplish this task. But he had no idea where to look and, moreover, he worried that no one would want him as a husband. As the days slipped past, drawing ever closer to the council’s deadline, Ali convinced himself there was no solution to his problems. Eventually he became resigned to the idea of losing his position at the synagogue. It would be an appropriate punishment, perhaps what the council had intended all along. He would go back to his uncle’s house and live out the rest of his days as a lowly water carrier.
Then, one afternoon less than a week before the date by which he needed to find a wife, Ali decided on a whim to visit the tomb of the great saint Sayyida Nafisa. He did not usually place much stock in the power of saints’ tombs, but he needed to do something and by that point he could think of nothing else.
The next morning, after passing the watch to al-Zikri, Ali packed a sack of food and set out toward the tomb. As he passed through the gates of Fustat, he fell in with a stream of pilgrims making their way across the empty plain. There were old men with wooden walking sticks, sick children in their fathers’ arms, the wives of wealthy merchants, a donkey laden with marble tombstones, and more than a few pregnant women, all of them journeying to visit the tomb of Sayyida Nafisa. According to Aunt Fatimah, his own mother used to visit the shrine when she was troubled or nervous or in need of guidance. In fact, she had visited just a few weeks before his birth. Ali had no idea what she might have wished for then, but the thought of his mother, pregnant with him and praying at
the saint’s tomb, gave him no small amount of comfort.
After walking for much of the morning, Ali saw in the distance the outline of a minaret surrounded by mud huts, a scattering of trees, and the makeshift cemeteries of those who wanted to spend eternity next to the great saint. As he drew closer and made his way through the outskirts of this strange village—this city of the dead—he noticed the buildings were all festooned with lanterns and green fabric. All around him, the streets were teeming with beggars and pilgrims, the faithful, the hopeful, the superstitious, and, at the edges of the crowd, a ring of vendors selling food and strips of paper on which one might record a prayer. He overheard two women talking about the festival and realized that he had come to the shrine on the holiest day of its year, the celebration of the saint’s birthday. Ali inched through the crowd and before long he was standing in front of the great yellow mosque, inside which the body of Sayyida Nafisa was interred.
The area outside the mosque was thick with supplicants and it took a good deal of pushing for him to reach the entrance. When he did, he removed his sandals, placed them in the pile of footwear, and waded through the pilgrims, sliding his bare toes along the carpet until he found himself less than an arm’s length from the tomb itself. Lady of benevolence and miracles, a scholar unmatched in knowledge and piety, Sayyida Nafisa was the great-great-great-granddaughter of the Prophet Muhammad and one of Qahira’s three patron saints. Her holiness, people said, bestowed great powers on her tomb. She made barren women fertile and granted great riches to the humblest of men. Ali knelt and laced his fingers through the metal grill that protected the tomb. He was not asking for a miracle. He did not want to be healed. He was not requesting money or a change of station. He only wanted a bit of guidance.
The Last Watchman of Old Cairo Page 18