Justine smiled as she stood and turned to face him. “My grandmother also told me about the glory days of the original Shepheard. She stayed there often as a young girl.” She paused to shake Amir’s hand; she observed that he was clean-shaven and more relaxed than he’d been the day before. “Thanks for meeting me today.”
“You’re quite welcome. Shall we go? We’ll be walking across Tahrir Square, and several blocks east of American University. Do you have your passport? You’ll need it for identification.”
“I do,” she said, thinking that they probably made a striking pair. Both were tall, and their coloring contrasted dramatically. Her with caramel-toned hair and matching eyes; Amir quite dark, with ebony hair and deep brown eyes. They walked swiftly toward the square.
“Tell me, Justine, what is an anthropologist? At least from the perspective of your work here?” They walked close to each other, but observers would have little doubt that they were strangers.
She laughed at what seemed like such a basic question from a man whose museum work surely put him in contact with anthropologists on a frequent basis. “One of my professors used to say that no one can agree on what an anthropologist actually is. The field is quite fragmented, including several forms of anthropology, archeology, linguistics, even paleontology. As a cultural anthropologist here, I’ll be observing students, teachers, and parents in order to understand the behavior patterns among them and whether they are learning in the ways envisioned by the project.”
Amir kept his eyes straight ahead, but she thought she could see puzzlement in his face. “I see. I guess I associate anthropologists with observing primitive cultures during colonial times. A rather paternal, or maternal, profession.”
“Ah, the arrival of the white colonial mother. Let me tell you about my last job,” she said, being careful not to trip on the uneven sidewalk.
Before she could say anything further, Amir took a firm hold of her arm. As they stepped into Kasr Al Aini traffic, he alternately held up his hand to alert drivers they were coming through and touched the hoods of cars to cause them to slow down or stop.
It was a fascinating dance—both the drivers and the pedestrians seemed to be taking responsibility for each other. Perhaps this is what Nadia meant by reciprocity. Justine willingly relinquished responsibility for her life to Amir and enjoyed the crossing.
As they stepped up on the high sidewalk near the main entrance to American University, Amir gave a small bow. “Please continue. I’m sorry we were interrupted.”
Justine straightened her blouse, trying to ignore the feeling of heat where his hand had lingered. “My recent work. I was hired by IBM to sit in on team and board meetings and try to figure out how their culture was being recreated with new staff on board. Quite fun. And primitive.”
Amir chuckled. “My naiveté often gets me into trouble. I seem to like to blow on the yogurt.”
“Blow on the yogurt?”
“An old Egyptian proverb. If hot soup burns you, you learn to blow on it before you eat it the next time. After a while, you may get so careful that you start blowing on your yogurt as well.”
“A useful proverb! May I steal it?” Justine wondered when Amir had been burned . . . and by whom.
“Be my guest.” He steered her across another small intersection. Sitting on the corner was an old colonial mansion with white shutters and ornate French cornices carved with the label “Rare Books Library.”
Friendly guards asked for identification before allowing them to enter a carefully groomed garden exploding with blossoms of yellow and blue, potted palms, and rattan furniture. Inside the library, two flights of circular stairs surrounded the stairwell. On the top floor, Amir knocked gently on the door to room 305.
A deep, gravelly voice cried out, “Come in!”
From behind a cedar desk that was almost as large as he was stepped Professor Ibrahim El Shabry. Justine recognized the playful eyes from her childhood, but little else. The years had taken their toll.
“Justine, my child, how wonderful to see you again.” He stepped toward her, looking up. “You’ve grown quite tall. Like your dad. But then, you know the bones of an old man shrivel. Before the mind does, if we are fortunate. But how could I forget those dimples and amber eyes?”
Justine reached out to clasp his hands. “Wonderful to see you again, Dr. Ibrahim. I believe the last time was more than ten years ago. I remember a party at your home. On the big lawn. Dad sends his greetings and a message about staying out of trouble.” She was struck by how much the professor’s body had aged. His white hair and beard framed a deeply wrinkled face. His piercing black eyes, though, were at once young and timeless.
“Ha! Just like Morgan. Lecturing me about his own follies!”
Justine laughed lightly, realizing that it was serenity, not age, that she primarily felt in Ibrahim’s presence. He motioned her and Amir toward three chairs clustered in front of a wall of books. Against another wall, Justine was surprised to see a computer.
“Your dad’s a fine fellow—like a son to me. As you know, we worked together for years. Met him when I lectured at Berkeley a hundred years ago,” Ibrahim said, motioning toward a chair. “I hear he’s in Peru looking for hidden treasures. Tell him he owes this old man a letter.”
“I will, sir. I’ll tell him you’re well and feisty. He calls frequently. He often forgets I’m no longer a little girl.” She grinned, not so unlike a little girl.
“Feisty, at least. These old knees don’t let me get into the field anymore. Of course, I remember your beautiful mother, Lucrezia. Black hair. Green eyes. We called her Creta the Cat. It’s been too long, too long,” he said nostalgically. He turned toward his grandson. “Amir, my boy, how good of you to bring Justine to see me. I don’t see you often enough. Do you think she’s changed much?”
Justine turned, wide-eyed, toward Amir, who looked quite sheepish. “You knew me as a child?” He continued to catch her off-guard.
“I knew you,” he said, helping his grandfather into one of the chairs. “Yes, Grandfather, I believe she has changed a great deal.” He turned back to Justine. “My father was working in a United Emirates bank when you were here last, so we were out of country. I haven’t seen you since you were quite young, and I didn’t realize that Nadia was bringing you last night. It wasn’t quite the place to reminisce.” His explanation was matter-of-fact, but she sensed again that with Amir, much more was left unsaid than was spoken.
Ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, the tension between them, Ibrahim continued cheerfully: “The two of you used to play together as children at the Ghezira Club. Quite competitive.” He paused, searching for the next words. “How is your younger brother, Amir? I haven’t heard from Zachariah for a long while.”
“I haven’t heard from him recently myself, but I’m sure that he is doing well. He has a new job in Kuwait,” said Amir, wincing almost imperceptibly.
Justine hid her surprise at his quick fabrication—he’d lied to her by omission the night before, and outright just now to his grandfather. Who is this man?
“Tell him to call me, will you? I worry.” A flicker of sadness traveled through Ibrahim’s expressive eyes.
“I will, Grandfather. And I will leave you now so you can visit,” offered Amir, starting to rise from his chair.
“Nonsense, my boy. Stay.” Ibrahim patted his knee. “We can have tea, talk awhile, and then you can take me home.”
“As you wish, Grandfather. I’ll see to the tea.”
As Amir walked out of the room, Ibrahim turned to Justine. “The two boys are terribly close. Always were. Amir is the oldest and he would do anything for Zachariah. Zach has had some problems. Gets depressed, angry. But he’s really a good boy.”
“I’m sure he is, sir.” Justine patted his hand, watching his eyes well up.
Amir returned, followed by an elderly man shaped like a question mark, who carefully balanced three cups of tea on a tray.
Justine watched the crippled man gently pl
ace the tea on Ibrahim’s cedar desk. He appeared to be about the same age as Ibrahim, in his mid-eighties. How invisible he is, she thought, as though he isn’t even here. “Thank you,” she said to the anonymous man.
Ibrahim nodded faintly to the servant, then proceeded to add three cubes of sugar to his cup. Catching Justine’s eye, he smiled and said, “The one indulgence left at my age. So, what brings you back to Cairo, my dear?”
She explained her work with the community schools in simple detail. The female students, teachers, her observations. “They’re called ‘community’ schools because each small community must provide the space and governance, though the project provides the teachers, curriculum, evaluation, and training.”
Ibrahim’s eyes lit up like a small boy’s. “Wonderful idea! Much needed. You are providing a great service to Egypt, my dear.”
Justine flushed. “Thank you. This project was a wonderful opportunity to return to Egypt. Ever since mother took me to Old Cairo as a child, I’ve been intrigued by the travels of the Holy Family here, especially Mary of Nazareth.”
Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully. “There is little in the Bible about Mary. But there is more to be found about her in the Koran. I’ve always found that amazing,” he said.
Amir was watching Justine with uncharacteristic approval—perhaps to acknowledge the respect and care with which she spoke to his grandfather? She sensed a deep affection between the men.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling how the waning afternoon sun touched her skin. “Father reminded me that you and my mother are both Coptic Christian . . .” It was an invitation.
“I was raised a Copt and the beliefs are an important part of me. Jesus, Mary, sacrifice, fasting, worship. ‘Copt’ stems from the original name for Egypt, Misr. We give more attention to Mary than Protestants do—we’re more like Catholics and Greek Orthodox. We even have our own Pope here in Cairo. So yes, I am still a Copt.” He nodded. “However, about twenty years ago, I set out to explore and understand other religious traditions. I’ve been in search of the essence, the common center—the heart, if you will—of religious thought.”
“Have you been successful in your pursuit of the essence of religion, Grandfather?” asked Amir, sipping his sweet tea, one leg crossed over the other.
“I’ve found some success, my boy, although the road stretches out for a lifetime. May God give me enough time to discover more of the Tao.”
“The Tao?” asked Justine.
“Each religious tradition has a Tao, a Way, by which we are to live our lives,” he said. “Each religion seeks to enrich the soul, to find Truth. My dear friend Rabbi Yitzhak Kaduri, a Kabbalist, said, ‘Love thy neighbor. All else is commentary.’ Yitzhak died last year at the good age of 106. May God grant me such longevity.” He paused in remembrance, and a deep, long sigh escaped him.
Ibrahim turned slowly toward Justine. “Egyptian proverbs engraved on our tombs before the time of Abraham implore us to ‘Know ourselves and love our neighbors.’ The great men Jesus and Mohammed asked the same of us. ‘Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you,’ said Mohammed in his last sermon. Shared virtues show us the way. But it is easier to understand them than to live our lives by the Tao.” A little breathless again, Ibrahim stopped and combed his gnarled hand through his beard.
“And what are those virtues, Grandfather? How do we find the Way?” Amir leaned in, his elbows resting on both knees like a young boy.
“The virtues are well known to you, my boy, but we humans have great difficulty living them. We are continually tested. Among the great virtues, we find first and foremost compassion, then love, humility, forgiveness, tolerance, truth-telling, and mercy. Jesus was exceptionally clear about these virtues. To him they were more important than the letter of the Law. The Tao says that courage comes from mercy.”
“Courage comes from mercy?” Justine puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Mercy means compassion, kindness, forgiveness toward those who have offended us.” She could see why her father had often spoken of the influence of Ibrahim’s enthusiasm; his eyes radiated passion as he spoke. “Think of the reconciliation trials in South Africa. The South Africans have moved past their pain and their history of suffering by overcoming their fear of each other and practicing forgiveness. Bishop Tutu says that forgiveness requires us to relinquish our right to revenge. That takes courage.”
“But how do we live the Tao, Dr. Ibrahim? It would seem that many of us attempt the good life, but so often stumble on our egos.” She glanced briefly at Amir.
“The ego is indeed a big stumbling block. The Buddhists and Kabbalists suggest that if we can stand back, listen, and give up the temptation to react, our egos may flow away into the silence, into the Great River of Life. Each tradition—the Jews, Buddhists, Copts, Muslims, Essenes—offers us tasks to prepare us for the Way: sacrifice, poverty, fasting, prayer, giving, forgiving. The Tao says he who is gentle and yielding is the disciple of life. I think this may be what Mohammed meant by ‘submission.’” Ibrahim raised his glasses and rubbed his nose. “Enough of my philosophizing for today, my children. Can you take me home now, Amir?”
A few minutes later, Amir returned, and the taxi pulled out into the busy traffic alongside the Roman aqueduct. Gazing out the window, he said, “Grandfather has lived here all of his life, and although the building is falling down around him, he refuses to move.”
“This life may make the Tao easier,” Justine suggested. They both smiled.
Amir suddenly leaned forward and told the driver, “El ahramaat, Sawe Taks.” The driver made a U-turn and headed west toward Roda Island.
“The pyramids?” She was surprised. “I thought you were taking me back to the Shepheard.”
“You haven’t been to the pyramids yet, right?” His dark eyes sparkled playfully.
“I just arrived yesterday, so you know I haven’t been there on this trip. I’m not fond of being abducted,” she said lightly.
“Ah, but it’s the right time of day. The sunset is almost upon us.” With that, Amir took out his phone and checked for texts. As he read one, Justine thought she could see anguish wash across his face, and he remained on his phone for the rest of the drive.
As they rode in silence, she allowed herself to relax, gazing at the miles of new development east of the Nile and recalling the conversation with Ibrahim.
After a few minutes, she leaned forward and addressed the driver. “Hassan,” she said, reading the nametag hanging from the dash. “Are you from Cairo?” she asked in Arabic.
“No, miss,” he said over his shoulder. “From Aswan. To the south.”
“Aswan is so beautiful. You must miss it.”
“Iwa, I miss my mother, my brothers. But no work in Aswan. Few tourists since 9/11.”
“I understand. It was a tragedy for all of us. Do you have family here?”
“Good family, but sad for me. For my daughter, Adara. When she was six, she pulled boiling water off stove. Scar her body. Horrible, Miss. Horrible! Now she sixteen in year three secondary school. She depressed, isolates herself. She says she won’t marry—no one will want her.”
In the rearview mirror, Justine watched Hassan’s eyes moisten; she turned to see if Amir was listening. His fingers had stilled on the keys of his phone, and without looking up, he nodded solemnly. Health coverage didn’t exist in Egypt, at least not for families like Hassan’s. “Let me talk with our agency doctor,” she told the driver. “I’m not sure if anything can be done, but give me your phone number.”
“Thank you, Miss,” he said, handing her his card and falling quiet.
As the pyramids began to rise above the glitzy shops of Giza, Justine’s attention was drawn to a black canvas-sided army truck in front of them. Four young soldiers dangled their feet from the back, kicking the air, laughing, and smoking. Soon the truck turned north onto the desert road, providing the young men with a clear view of the pyramids. None of them looked up.
; “They didn’t even look,” exclaimed Justine. “One of the great wonders of the world in their line of sight and they didn’t look up!”
Amir smiled wryly. “We Egyptians cherish our history, but sometimes the youth pay no attention. Without history, the pyramids are just a pile of rocks.”
She turned toward him to see if he was kidding. He shrugged.
The taxi entered a gate alongside the Sphinx, where Amir showed his government pass. “Taxis are usually not allowed on this road,” he explained, “but we’re headed for the desert plateau about half a mile to the west.” The taxi drove forward onto the road, weaving between the largest two of the three pyramids.
The dark, towering walls of the Great Pyramid Cheops and his brother Chephren blotted out the sky. At no other place on the massive Giza plateau could Justine have felt the same eerie powers of the unexplainable. She trembled. Ahead, the slanting walls of the pyramids blended sand and sky into a golden V. The taxi wound into the Sahara sands and parked atop a plateau crowded with Bedouins, complete with turbans and camels. Dusty maroon cloths stretched out on the ground, displaying the wares of local traders: small alabaster jars, daggers, silver jewelry, and striped camel blankets with long black tassels.
One of the Bedouin leaders, holding the reins of a camel in one hand, gestured invitingly toward Justine as she stepped from the car. She took several steps toward him.
Two hands grabbed her firmly by the waist. She turned, eyes flashing with indignation. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Amir raised his hands in pacification, amusement written on his face. “If you walk up to the camel, you’ll be lifted on top to have your picture taken. He’ll expect generous baksheesh. There’ll be no turning back.” Now quite serious, he warned, “Bedouins don’t like to be disappointed.”
She laughed softly. “Mafeesh mushkilla, no problem . . . I didn’t even bring my camera.” She turned around as the now displeasured Bedouin moved toward Amir with his camel whip raised in the air.
“Perhaps we should leave,” he said, his voice tensing. “Quickly.”
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