The Cairo Codex

by Linda Lambert

  “Well, some of your father’s discoveries have been controversial—like the dig at Darshur. I understand that a few questions remain within the Ministry of Antiquities and among the expats. I believe I was working with the Education Ministry at the time.” Nadia paid close attention to the traffic, her head swiveling back and forth, as she turned out of the airport and onto Sharia Al Uruba Boulevard, a street lined with symmetrical, towering palms.

  “What have you heard? About Darshur.” Justine leaned forward and reached back to pull her damp silk blouse loose from her skin. Suburban Cairo gave way to the City of the Sun, Heliopolis. Polished chrome storefronts housed glitzy shoe stores and boutiques facing east toward giant hotels.

  “I really don’t know the details, but it’s rumored that the Darshur find may have challenged exactly how the biblical exodus happened. As you can imagine, anti-Semitism is still strong enough here that some people savor any suggestion of fraud around the Jews’ favorite story. It raised quite a row for a while.”

  “Dad told me the evidence wasn’t strong enough to claim validity. He likes to make sure everything is on the up-and-up. Personally, I think it’s a non-story.”

  Nadia tilted her head slightly and pursed her thin lips. Justine couldn’t tell whether she believed her or not. She suspected not. “And my mother? What made her notorious?”

  “Her beauty. Her flamboyance. Her ability to gather fascinating people around her. Your mother’s parties attracted royalty and important government officials. I gather that your father would have preferred to stay out of the limelight.”

  “Sounds like Dad. He doesn’t like to mix business and pleasure. And he doesn’t consider himself socially suave—but I think he’s wrong there. Women seem to find him dashing. But how could you possibly know so much about my parents?”

  “Cairo’s a small town. Nearly eighteen million souls and yet we all know each other’s business, especially English-speaking professionals. Sort of a class by ourselves, huddling together for reassurance and inspiration and gossip. We love gossip.” Nadia was still grinning when her cell phone rang. “Okay. Shukran. This afternoon across from the Shepheard.” She hung up and slipped the phone back into her skirt pocket.

  Justine was mulling over Nadia’s notions about her parents and Cairo culture when she noticed the Baron’s Palace set back a few hundred yards from the street. “I vividly remember the night of the ambassador’s ball at that palace,” she said, pointing toward the ornate, Gaudí-like building. “I was only ten, but they let me tag along in my long blue dress. I was awestruck. But now you can hardly make out the elaborate exterior of Buddhas, elephants. Serpents too, I think.”

  “It may return to its former glory soon. It’s being renovated. But don’t be too impressed by any of the façades along this boulevard. Go a block in either direction and the city is still the same.”

  Nothing is ever quite as it seems, or as it is written, in Egypt. “Tell me about the schools.” Justine understood Egyptian protocol: never move into business straightaway, ease into it like a warm bath.

  “We’re really pleased with the project so far! The girls are learning so fast, as though they were born ready and waiting. Well . . . I suppose they were,” Nadia said. “And you, how did you find out about us?”

  “My dad suggested I check out the State Department website and that’s when I found out about your new UNESCO project. To work with such a pioneering effort in girls’ education, and in Cairo, no less—it’s exciting to return here with my own job.”

  “Good fatherly advice.” Nadia swerved to avoid an aggressive bus. “We’re excited to get you. With your training in anthropology, interest in women’s studies, and knowledge of Arabic, you were made for the job.” Beads of perspiration glowed around Nadia’s tiny mouth. They were both reluctant to open the windows to the onslaught of exhaust and noise, so the car was a virtual oven.

  “I imagine that hiring an anthropologist for an education project isn’t the norm . . .” Justine let the words linger in the suffocating air.

  “No, it isn’t. I had to do some fast talking. Tradition can be as firmly rooted in the U.N. as it is in the countries they serve. And in this case, we have to consider both UNESCO and the Egyptian ministries. But we can talk in more detail in the morning, when you’re rested––and we’re both cooler.”

  I wonder what kind of opposition I’ll face, particularly among those who resisted hiring me? “Fine with me. My mind and questions will be clearer after a rest.” She took a packet of Kleenex from her purse, handed one to Nadia, and pressed another to her perspiring forehead and upper lip. What I would give for a bottle of cold water, she thought, sipping the warm water Nadia had given her.

  As she leaned back, she noticed how little green could be seen, even surrounding the palm trees. Abandoned by the rich floodwaters of the Nile more than half a century ago, when the Aswan Dam was built, ancient fields of green had been replaced by a vast coverlet of concrete. The car descended the flyover onto Sharia Ramses and Ramses Square, and Justine quickly recognized the ornate blue and white train station, a sign that they were getting close to the center of Cairo.

  “Tahrir Square is coming up,” announced Nadia. Within moments, they approached the world-famous Egyptian Museum on their right and merged into the Square, the center of the Cairo beehive. People moved every which way, weaving in and out of traffic; horns and the ancient engines of cars bought in the ’70s and somehow kept alive buzzed nonstop.

  Fanning out to their left was the massive downtown leading to Islamic Cairo. Further ahead sat the notorious Egyptian administrative center lovingly known as the Mogamma, a citadel to brittle British bureaucracy. Veering right, they could see the Nile and Garden City just ahead. All familiar now.

  “Tahrir Square is known as the busiest intersection in the world,” said Nadia by way of warning. “In order to cross these crowded lanes, you either take your life in your own hands and move offensively, or look for a friendly traffic cop to stop the traffic.”

  “I’ve never driven here. At least not yet.”

  “Better wait a while before you try it. Watch the rhythm of the traffic and you’ll get the hang of it. Notice the women.” Justine watched as a family with three children wove like ducklings through the traffic ahead of them.

  Women everywhere were wearing the hijab, the headscarf; a few were fully covered with the niqab. “The headscarf is everywhere. I didn’t realize things had changed so much.”

  “Fundamentalism is raising its head . . . and covering it. More than ninety percent of the population is Muslim now, and almost all of the women are wearing the hijab, at least in public. Otherwise they get hassled on the street. The daring few who don’t wear the scarf are of the upper classes or work for Western companies. And then, of course, there are the Coptic Christians, who stand out more than ever.”

  “You’re Muslim, aren’t you?”

  “If your question is why don’t I wear the hijab, I guess there are a number of reasons,” said Nadia, adjusting the scarf she wore loosely around her neck.

  Justine blushed slightly. “I’m being too inquisitive,” she said.

  “Not at all. You see this bushy, wiry hair of mine? It’s hard to tame. But that’s not the real reason. I’ll admit: I’m a bit of a renegade. I like to think of myself as a modern Muslim. As far as I’m concerned, the headscarf takes away a woman’s individuality. We all begin to look alike. And besides, it’s just too hot.”

  Justine looked directly at the scarf laying on Nadia’s shoulders and grinned.

  Nadia pulled at the fabric. “Just in case.” She smiled. The traffic opened slightly as they merged from the square onto a side street. The Shepheard Hotel appeared on the left. The Nile glistened silver and turquoise just ahead, a cement railing separating the river from the waterfront promenade known as the Corniche. Two men dressed like palace guards appeared at the car window.

  “Will you both be staying with us, my lady?” inquired the older
of the two guards.

  “Only my friend. Shukran,” Nadia replied.

  Justine gazed up at the towering façade and memories of the original Shepheard crowded her mind. The memories were older than she was, and they didn’t belong to her but rather to her grandmother Laurence, who had spent many afternoons having tea on the sweeping terrace with her parents.

  She remembered hearing stories of the great hotel as the playground of adventurers and travelers from all over the world. The shaded terrace where her grandmother must have sat in deep wicker chairs held a commanding view of Ibrahim Pasha Street. The grand entrance encircled a spiral staircase leading to the Moorish Hall, deliciously cool and dimly lit by rays coming through a huge dome of colored glass. Laurence had described plump, embroidered chairs set around little octagonal tables. Intimacy with discretion had been the watchwords of its glamorous clientele: Churchill, Lawrence of Arabia, Roosevelt, princes, sheiks, queens, and great authors. The original Shepheard, like the glory days of Cairo, had been consumed by fire some fifty-five years ago.

  “If you’re up to it, I’ve asked a few friends to join us on a felucca this evening,” Nadia said. “I think you will enjoy meeting them. I’ll bring a light dinner and we’ll have a relaxing sail. That would give you about three hours to rest.”

  “I would love to.” As the cool air of the lobby enveloped them, she and Nadia gave a sigh of relief nearly in unison, then went to check in.

  The suite that was to be Justine’s home for the next few weeks opened into a sitting room that led to a small balcony overlooking the Nile. Narrow spiral steps wound upward to a bedroom with an even more superb view. “This is extraordinary. I may never want to leave.”

  “You’ll get tired of hotel food soon enough,” Nadia assured her. The hotel porter deposited the luggage in the bedroom, and Justine handed him a tenpound note from the cache Nadia had loaned her. Both women sought a cold bottle of Evian from the room’s refrigerator.

  “See you in the lobby at seven, then,” Nadia said, after drinking nearly half of the bottle in one swig.

  After she left, Justine removed her damp blouse and skirt and fell spreadeagle across the bed. She was asleep within moments.

  CHAPTER 2

  BY 6:45, JUSTINE HAD TAKEN a nap and shower and changed into a light green sweater, gray linen slacks, and flats. Damp chestnut ringlets surrounded her face. With a small purse and jacket in hand, she descended the stairs to the lobby, exchanged money at the desk, and turned toward the restaurant known as The Caravan. The old Shepheard did not have a monopoly on ornate beauty, she realized. Chandeliers of amber glass reflected on richly carved wood known as mashrabaya, accented with lines of exquisite arabesque lettering. Gothic arches and flourishing palms towered over marble floors, and lamps shaped like lotuses lit the room. Above, a marble balcony circled the eastern side of the room, serving as counterpoint to the huge windows overlooking the Corniche and the Nile to the west.

  “Feeling better?” Nadia asked, walking up behind her.

  “Much, yes. Thank you,” she replied, turning toward the older woman, who was loaded down with a covered basket and satchel heavy with food and bottled juices.

  Nadia stood several inches shorter than Justine’s 5’8”, so her bundles nearly touched the ground. Justine took the heavier one and followed her toward the entrance.

  “Impossible to park close by,” said Nadia. “But the felucca is directly across the Corniche.” A policeman volunteered to escort them across the busy street and onto the wide sidewalk that lined the river for miles in either direction. “This is one of the main meeting places for Cairenes at night. It’s exquisite in the early evening when cool breezes blow in from the northwest.”

  Justine could feel the welcome breeze against her face, slightly ruffling her long hair, drying the ringlets in place. Several couples strolled by hand-in-hand while young girls wove through the crowd selling garlands of jasmine. Justine handed two Egyptian pounds to one of them and bent down while the girl of six or seven placed a garland around her neck. She handed a second garland to Nadia. “Gameel, Gameel awee, very beautiful,” said Justine, touching the child’s ivory cheek. The sweet smell of jasmine merged into the tantalizing aroma of corn roasting on a homemade grill built into half of a tin barrel, split lengthwise and balanced on wheels.

  “Hello there!” Nadia cried, waving as the two women descended the steps from the Corniche to the shore of the river and the moored feluccas. The odor of dead fish momentarily entered Justine’s nostrils, but was quickly masked by the fragrance of gardenias growing at the bases of towering date palms. “Justine, meet Magda Shehata and Amir El Shabry.”

  With their dark good looks, Magda and Amir could have been sister and brother. Magda was striking: lustrous black shoulder-length hair, eyelashes like little Chinese fans, and an eagerly warm demeanor. A classic Egyptian beauty. She took Justine’s hand and pulled her toward her, kissing her on both cheeks.

  Amir was handsome in that mysterious Arab way, although with a distracted expression and cool eyes. His handshake was limp, a little clammy. He clearly didn’t want to be here. Then why is he here? A favor to Nadia?

  Nadia finalized arrangements with the manager of the small fleet, then stepped adroitly across the wide bow of one felucca and into their assigned vessel. She nodded to Amir to follow. Amir stood, one foot on each rocking boat, and gripped the forearms of Magda and Justine in turn as they navigated the unsteady course.

  The felucca was just as Justine remembered: a large, worn wooden boat with padded benches encircling a table in the middle. On the bow, a large mast was wrapped tight with the furled sail. An elderly man in kaftan and turban squatted on the bow talking to a young man in Western dress. The cherrytinted sun dropped behind the western skyline as lights around the river and on the island of Zamalek released the glow of evening.

  Justine felt the warmth of bygone pleasures. The last time she’d been on a felucca was with her parents. We were still a family then, or at least I was young enough to believe in the myth of family solidarity.

  “This charming lad is Mohammed Shalaby from Naser City,” said Nadia, introducing the man who’d been waiting on the boat. Mohammed was short, with graying sideburns. He blushed and extended his hand, which Justine grasped. Amir stepped forward and shook hands with Mohammed, as well as with the ancient pilot beginning to maneuver the boat into the river. A smaller motorboat nudged them along, the three boisterous youth aboard it blasting Arabic rock music from a hand-held boom box. After the felucca caught the wind, the smaller boat would return to shore.

  Nadia busied herself laying out a light supper of hibiscus juice, falafel, and pita sandwiches.

  “Do you and Nadia work together?” Justine asked Magda. Soft purple waves licked the side of the boat, while in the middle of the river the fountain near the Ghezira Sheraton began to spout multi-colored water.

  “I don’t work with the schools. Nadia and I met through mutual friends. And I just love her. She’s like my older sister. My job is with Coca-Cola International. Unfortunately, the demands of my job mean that my two daughters are being raised by my mother. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m not always so patient.”

  At that very moment, the felucca’s giant sail unfurled with a boom, revealing a large Pepsi Cola insignia. They all laughed at the uncanny timing. “So much for romance,” Justine observed. “Western capitalism rises.”

  “So much for business!” Magda exclaimed. “We’re in fierce competition with Pepsi here.” She glanced around the boat, catching the eyes of each of her friends. “Don’t let me hear of any of you frequenting a place serving that forbidden drink!” Hands were raised spontaneously in solemn vow. “Good!” she exclaimed. Turning to Justine, she added, “They put in extra sugar—deadly for a country with a diabetes epidemic!”

  Mohammed was standing at the table, holding a pita sandwich. “I am Egyptian like Magda,” he shyly told Justine, “although my mother is Jordanian.” He spoke in heavi
ly accented English. The front of his sweatshirt boldly announced, I LOVE MY APPLE. “I have a small computer sales and repair shop in Naser City.”

  Justine would never have taken Mohammed for a computer salesman. His appearance was rough, and yet he had a proper way of presenting himself. A cross between a camel driver and a member of Parliament, she thought.

  “Mohammed had a thriving business in Baghdad before the first Gulf War,” Nadia added. “Where’s Lulu tonight?” she asked, attempting to coax Mohammed through his social unease.

  “Business was a little easier in Iraq, I understand. Right, Mohammed?” said Amir. “Our tariffs here can squelch any fledgling venture.” Sarcasm tinged his voice.

  “You are correct, my friend. Import taxes in Egypt on all types of machines, including cars, make them too expensive for most customers.” As Mohammed relaxed into the conversation, his shoulders eased and he sat down. He held his sandwich in both hands, and balanced a glass of hibiscus juice between his knees. “We wouldn’t have come back from Iraq if it hadn’t been for the first Gulf War. Egyptians were forced out when Mubarak supported the war.” He paused to take a drink. “Lulu couldn’t be with me tonight. She has a meeting at the Modern Art Museum. We have two sons at Ain Shams University. That’s my story.”

  I’m sure that’s not all his story, Justine thought, smiling and nodding as they watched the museum come into full view. She’d spent many hours there with her mother. The nearby Cairo Needle loomed tall, in full command of the evening skyline.

  “I met Mohammed and his wife years ago when I was working with his mother on a project with the women of Bulaq,” said Nadia. “That was before the community schools. Unfortunately, I see her less often now. A wonderful, generous woman. She was handing out microloans before it was fashionable.”

  “And, what do you do, Amir?” Justine asked, almost reluctantly. He, alone among the group, did not seem to be in a festive mood.

  Amir hesitated as all eyes turned toward him. He was tall, even for an Egyptian, she noted—and she had little doubt that he was Egyptian. Where else do men wear woolen scarves on a warm evening?