After a few songs, we sat down again and Mr. Mosseri took the scroll inside. The pews were gleaming like a movie set, like a postcard from a dream. The light bent as I watched Mr. Mosseri climb the stairs to the women’s section. He disappeared behind a copse of pillars. Then he was halfway up the ladder to the attic, still cradling the scroll like a baby. It was only then that I considered what it was I had been holding. Only in its absence could I really feel that tingling sensation, like a distant hum of electricity. Looking from Rabbi Saada to Khalid and back again, I tried to formulate a question, about the scroll, about my father, about the fragment, the documents in Cambridge.
“Was that—”
Before I could complete the thought, Mr. Mosseri emerged empty-handed and I swallowed back the final words of the sentence.
* * *
—
“Do you think it was the Ezra Scroll?” Abdullah asked, later that night, after I told him about Rabbi Saada and the scroll.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I was still swirling slightly from the Smirnoff, still felt the beat of the music. I didn’t want to talk about all that. Stretching out on the couch, I tried to pull him down to me.
“Maybe your uncle was wrong,” Abdullah persisted, sitting up straight. “Maybe the scroll wasn’t stolen. Maybe they got it back from the police.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Maneuvering my head to the arm of the couch, I watched the reflections of the chandelier on the wall, trying to recall what Rabbi Saada had said about Moses on the mountaintop, about the bones of Joseph, the promise of the promised land. I thought about the geniza—all those documents, all those stories—an infinity of paper scattered to libraries around the world, and the attic itself as empty as a mine. I thought about my father, packing up his things, moving into his younger brother’s apartment, and I imagined him sitting there on the orange armchair in the corner of his room, running his thumb along the edge of the fragment.
It was the only thing he had, that scrap of paper, his only connection to a world that no longer existed, before the Yom Kippur War, before Nasser and Golda Meir, before the creation of the State of Israel and the rise of Arab nationalism. It was the only proof that his stories were anything more than a fantasy. It was the only thing he had, the only physical reminder of what he had lost. And yet, I would like to think that, in the depths of his dejection, as he traced the letters of the fragment with his index finger, going over the details of his great shame, I would like to think that, in those moments, he thought of me. And maybe it made him happy, thinking that one day he would pass the fragment to his son, to the final link of a chain that stretched back over a thousand years.
“What do you think?” Abdullah asked again, bringing us back to the question at hand. “Do you think it was the scroll?”
“I don’t know,” I said, flopping onto my stomach.
It would be nice, to redeem my father and rewrite the ending of Uncle Hassan’s story, to prove that it was all nothing more than a misunderstanding, a secret the Jewish community had kept even from their trusted watchman.
“It’s just that—”
In a way, it didn’t really matter, whether or not the scroll was still there, hidden in the attic of the synagogue. For it was the question that mattered, not the answer. Any meaning the Ezra Scroll might possess wasn’t in the scroll itself. It wasn’t in the parchment or the letters or even the hand that formed them. The magic of the Ezra Scroll, if there was any, resided in its possibility, in the constellation of stories circling around it. And the beating heart of any story was an unanswerable question.
15
“Have I shown you my letter, for The Times?”
Dr. Schechter, Miss de Witt, and the twins were standing together on an open train platform a few hundred yards from the primary bustle of Cairo Station, watching a team of stevedores load their precious crates into the brassy blue train compartment Lord Cromer had arranged for them.
“No,” Agnes said, muffling a cough, “but if you have a copy we would be very eager to see it.”
Fortunately, he did. With a flourish, Dr. Schechter produced the folded typescript from his breast pocket and began reading aloud. After a few paragraphs of introduction, the letter launched into a lengthy description of the geniza.
“It is a battlefield of books, and the literary production of many centuries had their share in the battle; their disjecta membra are now strewn over its area. Some of the belligerents have perished outright, and are literally ground to dust in the terrible struggle for space, whilst others, as if overtaken by a general crush, are squeezed into big unshapely lumps.”
The letter went on to describe in great detail the range of belligerents found on this battlefield of books—old Bibles, ancient leases, marriage contracts, rationalist works denying the existence of angels and demons, and amulets invoking the assistance of the latter in matters of the heart—but not once did Dr. Schechter mention the assistance or participation of anyone else, not Miss de Witt and certainly not Mrs. Gibson or Mrs. Lewis. The twins had come to expect such omissions. Still, it stung. When he finished reading, Dr. Schechter refolded the letter and looked up at his audience.
“I could not have done it without your assistance,” he said, as if pasting one final sentence at the end of the letter.
“Yes,” Margaret smiled, “thank you so much for mentioning that.”
Whether Dr. Schechter heard the sarcasm in her voice, Margaret could not be sure. He had never been one for anything but the most literal of interpretations and, indeed, she could not be certain he had heard her at all. Even as he folded the letter, his attention swung to a pair of stevedores attempting to fit an ungainly crate through the door of the train compartment.
“Slowly,” he shouted in Arabic as he bustled over to instruct them in the proper manner of handling the crates. “Slowly, please.”
“He is very excited,” Miss de Witt said once he was out of earshot.
“It would seem so.”
“And he really does value your help.”
“Yes,” Margaret reflected, “everything has its value. Doesn’t it?”
Dr. Schechter had good reason to be excited. He had secured the geniza. And this letter to The Times—which the editors had agreed to hold until the documents arrived safely in the bosom of the Cambridge University Library—would trumpet his name throughout England. Could Agnes and Margaret blame him for neglecting to mention them, two fusty widows who had helped facilitate his success?
Watching Dr. Schechter give orders to the stevedores, the twins noticed a new confidence bubbling beneath his familiar scholarly aspect. The future was bright for Dr. Schechter. He would be invited to deliver lectures to learned societies. He would be asked to dine with peers of the realm and, after a few drinks, he would be convinced to tell his story, the famous story of how Dr. Schechter had discovered the geniza. Being Jewish, of course, he could not be a full professor at Cambridge. Still, he would have an illustrious career. One day, the name Solomon Schechter would brush the lips of schoolchildren around the world.
“You are leaving tomorrow?” Miss de Witt asked.
“Four o’Clock Mail to Suez,” Margaret confirmed. “There we meet our camels and set off into the desert.”
Although they were looking forward to the desert, the twins were both somewhat saddened by the prospect of leaving Cairo—and the Ezra Scroll—behind.
“How marvelous,” Miss de Witt said, clapping her hands together. “You have been to the desert so many times, though; it probably feels like a second home.”
“You would be surprised how difficult it is to accustom oneself,” Agnes said. “Even after so many visits, the cold nights and long camel rides are no less cold and long.”
“The scope of the place is beyond the limit of human comprehension,” Margaret added. “I believe even
the Bedouins must wake each morning with a sense of surprise.”
As she tried to explain the feeling—of waking alone in the middle of the desert—the Chief Rabbi and Mr. Bechor arrived in a carriage conveying six long wooden panels, the same ones Dr. Schechter had pointed out on their first visit to the synagogue.
“We are very glad that Dr. Schechter agreed to find them a proper home,” Rabbi Ben Shimon said, joining the ladies as Mr. Bechor went off to help supervise the stevedores, “and of course we wanted some way to express our gratitude.”
For hundreds of years, he explained, these panels had served as a border around the entrance of the synagogue. Each was engraved with a passage from scripture or a few words of dedication, wishing blessings on those who had contributed to the building’s refurbishment. Watching a particularly long panel disappear into the train car, Agnes thought she recognized a phrase from one of her favorite psalms.
“ ‘Enter into his gates with thanksgiving,’ ” she murmured, “ ‘and into his courts with praise; thankful unto him, and bless his name.’ ”
“If there is any way we can thank you,” Rabbi Ben Shimon said as if responding to the psalm, “for your generosity and for your expert navigation of the Customs Authority, I do hope you will let us know.”
The twins seemed to let this offer pass. They were both silent for a moment, watching the panels as they were carried from carriage to train like sections of a broken crown. Then Margaret spoke.
“There might be something, actually.”
“We are at your service.”
“My sister and I have become enamored recently of the idea of the Ezra Scroll.”
She did not elaborate any further. She did not actually make the request, but the Chief Rabbi’s tiny cough made clear that he understood her perfectly.
“I think we might be able to arrange something,” he said, glancing across the platform in the direction of Mr. Bechor. “Do you have any engagements tonight?”
“None at all.”
“Then I will meet you at your hotel at nine o’clock.”
“Nine o’clock tonight,” Agnes confirmed.
“Mr. al-Raqb speaks very highly of you,” Rabbi Ben Shimon added, implying that his invitation rested heavily on the watchman’s recommendation.
“I trust he will be there tonight,” Agnes said. “We have a small token of gratitude we would like to present to him.”
“A token of gratitude?” Mr. Bechor asked, interjecting himself into their circle as he bounded across the platform. “It is you, my fine ladies, who deserve our gratitude. Not the other way around.”
He bowed and took each of the fine ladies by her hand.
“And you, Mr. Bechor,” Margaret said. “You must be very happy to know that the geniza is secure.”
“Indeed,” he said and, pausing, he adjusted a button on the cuff of his shirt. “There is one thing that—”
“Yes,” Agnes said, though her tone was not particularly inviting.
“Have you had a chance to write the letter of introduction, for my son Marcel?”
Margaret opened her mouth, ready to deliver the tirade she had been preparing the past few days. But, feeling her sister’s hand at her elbow, she paused to reconsider her approach.
“We haven’t written yet,” Agnes said, “but we will this afternoon, and I should think that you will be pleased with the results.”
Margaret stared at her sister in disbelief as Mr. Bechor thanked them, kissed their hands again, and turned to leave.
“You really intend to write that letter?” she asked on their way back to the hotel.
“It’s not the boy’s fault,” Agnes said. “If anything, he deserves our sympathy.”
She then paused for a moment and cocked her head as if trying to speed the path of a memory.
“What was it Father said, after that trouble with his cousin?”
“ ‘Mercy is more powerful than justice,’ ” Margaret recited, imitating their dear father’s thick, gravelly voice. “ ‘Forgiveness is greater than revenge.’ ”
“I was thinking that perhaps Lord Cromer would be willing to intercede on young Marcel’s behalf,” Agnes suggested.
“I should think he would,” Margaret said, and she smiled inwardly at her sister’s unexpected fount of compassion. “If we asked, I should think he would.”
* * *
—
Huddled together in the Chief Rabbi’s carriage, Agnes and Margaret were both very much aware of their own lamplight, the sound of horseshoes clacking against the pavement, and the smell of dinner being prepared in surrounding homes. How long had they waited for this moment? How many nights had they lain awake contemplating the possibility of the Ezra Scroll? And now there they were, on their way to see it. They had needed to ask, of course; one always needed to ask. But once they had put forth the request, it was answered as easily as that.
“Mr. Bechor will not be joining us?” Mr. al-Raqb asked as he opened the gates of the synagogue.
Rabbi Ben Shimon did not respond, but a flash of recognition passed between them, and the watchman nodded. Observing this exchange, Agnes and Margaret knew that there was no need to expose Mr. Bechor. Rabbi Ben Shimon and Mr. al-Raqb both already knew about the leak, the black-market document dealers, the cemetery, and much more, one would imagine. If Mr. Bechor hadn’t yet been judged, he soon would be, and by the harshest of tribunals, the aggrieved members of his own community.
“This way,” Mr. al-Raqb said, as if welcoming unexpected guests into his home.
Knowing what they now knew, the twins both felt rather silly for ever suspecting Mr. al-Raqb. But, of course, our mortifications are always sharper in hindsight.
“Thank you,” Agnes said, with a small bow.
As they walked toward the golden flicker that illuminated the interior of the synagogue, Agnes glanced in the direction of Mr. al-Raqb’s home. On his doorstep, a dozen or so light gray cats gathered around the feet of a young man, no older than sixteen, who appeared to be feeding them the remnants of his dinner. Teeming about the food, the cats looked like a single organism flashing silver in the lamplight.
“My younger son, Rashid,” Mr. al-Raqb said and, as if embarrassed by the boy’s charity, he added: “He is very attached to the cats.”
Agnes and Margaret both looked at the boy. He was the son who had been caught in unnatural congress with Marcel Bechor, a rather slight child with green eyes and an unkempt gust of dark brown hair. When he saw the twins looking at him, he collected his things and went inside.
“He’s a good boy,” Mr. al-Raqb said, mostly to himself, “but he needs something to keep him busy.”
“If you don’t mind,” Margaret put in, “I think we might have just the thing. When we saw him the other day, Lord Cromer mentioned that he was looking for household help. If you think your son would be willing—”
Agnes raised an eyebrow. Lord Cromer had said no such thing, but it was an awfully good idea. Whether he was looking for help or not, the Consul-General would certainly be able to find a suitable position for the boy, far from the disapproving gaze of Old Cairo.
“Yes,” Mr. al-Raqb said, “thank you.”
“Which reminds me,” Agnes added, reaching into her bag. “My sister and I have a small token of appreciation for you.”
They had spent a good portion of the afternoon procuring a glass covering and a red leather case suitable for the fragment they wished to present to the watchman.
“It was the least we could do,” Margaret said, “after all your assistance.”
Mr. al-Raqb thanked them again as he turned the presentation case over in his hands. He opened it, inspected the plaque, and ran his thumb along the black velvet interior. Whether or not he understood the significance of the fragment nestled inside, he seemed to appreciate th
e sentiment behind the gift. After staring at it for a long while, he shut the case and slipped it into the pocket of his galabiya. Then he led them into the warm yellow light of the synagogue.
“Here it is,” Rabbi Ben Shimon said and, stepping aside, he extended his arm.
In the middle of the prayer hall, unfurled atop a hexagonal marble bima, was an ancient Torah scroll. Agnes held her breath while Margaret stepped up and leaned over to inspect the scroll, bringing her face nearly to the parchment. Cracked and brown at the edges, it was open to that passage in the middle of Exodus where Moses observes the burning bush, the bush that burned but was not consumed. Four hundred years before Christ, she thought, Ezra—the great scribe, the flower that appeared on earth—took it upon himself to compile an unimpeachable version of the Hebrew Scriptures, without error or innovation. And here it was, the original against which all others would be measured. The building had been named for him. Ibn Ezra, it was called: Son of Ezra. For all believers were, in one way or another, the children of Ezra. They all owed the basis of their faith to this text.
Margaret shivered as she lowered her nose to the ancient parchment and inhaled its slightly sour smell. One could not hear the word of God except in the perfect empty chambers of one’s heart. She believed this to the very depths of her being. And yet, as she stood at the bima, she felt her face warmed by those letters, their soft slant and their tiny fiery embellishments. If she had a burning bush of her own, it was this very scroll.
“Wonderful,” she said and, smiling with girlish delight, stepped down to give her sister a chance to look.
The first thing Agnes noticed about the scroll was the color of the parchment, particularly that of the reverse. Over the centuries, it had taken on the distinctive brownish-gray color of denatured goatskin. What really struck her, though, was the parchment’s exceedingly smooth texture, indicating that the animal’s hair had been removed with lime. This was quite troubling indeed. As far as she knew, the process of dehairing with lime was first developed in Italy, nearly a thousand years after the birth of Christ. Agnes brought her face closer to the parchment. She could almost smell it, the lime, more than a millennium after it had been applied.
The Last Watchman of Old Cairo Page 21