“She left and no one can find her. They think she was unharmed. She should have called me, but she may have been too traumatized.”
“Let’s find her,” Justine said, her leg and head throbbing anew.
“Iwa, we’ll leave the families with their grief and return when they’re ready to think about rebuilding the school.” Nadia snapped into action and walked toward her car. “I’ll call Om Mahmoud in a couple of days,” she said over her shoulder. “Today is not a time to talk about the future.”
Since the passenger door was nearly impossible to open, Justine slid into the Renault through the driver’s seat, hugging two bottles of Evian and wincing as her leg rubbed against the frayed seat cover. “Was the school built by UNESCO?” she asked as Nadia started the car on the second try.
“No, the building was an old storage area that the community converted into a school,” Nadia answered once they were back on the road. “In our project, each community provides its own space. But I still feel responsible. I never questioned its safety, never asked about whether it met building codes. Those questions are just not asked.”
“Mohammed told me that building codes here are either not known or not followed. It’s not as though you neglected to follow good practice.”
“I understand that, but my guilt is hungry. I feed it with what I have before me.”
Justine grew quiet as she considered Nadia’s confession. She hadn’t thought of guilt as hungry, but understood that it could be. She could feel the dampness of tears on her own cheeks, and she turned to gaze at Nadia’s tearful eyes. How awful to think of three young girls lying in homemade coffins and the grief of family members who had sent them to school so that they might have better lives. How will Allah’s actions be interpreted here? Will it feed old doubts about Allah’s plans for girls?
“Do you know where Layla lives?” Justine knew how difficult it was to find teachers for rural schools. They needed to find this one.
“In Shoubra, one of the oldest and most fragile parts of Cairo. I doubt if much is still standing. But it’s so far from Birqash. Surely she couldn’t be home.”
“Let’s give it a try,” Justine pressed.
“At least her family might know where she is.”
As they approached the Nile north of the city, Nadia turned onto the damaged bridge leading into Shoubra. She had predicted accurately. The destruction here was much more pronounced than in downtown Cairo. They wove their way through the debris to a small apartment behind a closed butcher shop. People were inside, even though one wall of the building was leaning inward. Justine and Nadia stepped through the rubble to the front of the apartment.
“Layla! Layla!” Nadia called from the street. “Are you there?”
An older man came out of a second-floor opening. “She’s here, Miss Nadia, but terribly upset. Do you need to see her now?”
“We just came from Birqash and want to offer our condolences and prayers for the loss of her students and her school.”
A slight young woman in her early twenties appeared at the opening and stood near her father. She was disheveled and distraught; dried blood was caked on her forehead and right forearm. “Miss Nadia,” Layla said timidly.
“We are so glad you’re okay. Please, let us talk to you,” Nadia persisted. The young woman reluctantly made her way down the slanted stairwell and into the alleyway. Her plastic shoes and the sash of her cotton dress were ripped. Nadia held her while she sobbed.
“How did you get back?” Nadia finally asked.
“I walked most of the night, then got a ride.” Between sobs she continued, “I should have helped the children. I didn’t save them. I couldn’t save them.” She collapsed into Nadia’s arms again.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Justine said. “The building was old and in poor condition.” She emphasized her words with an expression that she hoped was calm, tender.
“Layla, this is Dr. Justine. She will be working with us. None of us had any warning that the quake was coming. An act of Allah.”
Layla stopped shaking and nodded toward Justine, her eyes traveling to the purple edges of the gash visible on her forehead. She turned back to Nadia. “I feel so sorry for their families. I should have stayed and helped out, but I was so afraid for my father. He’s been sick and his legs are crippled.” Her father remained on the balcony, an eagle protecting its young.
Justine wondered if Nadia’s relationships with all the teachers were so caring and maternal. She had already been the subject of Nadia’s care and concern herself. We need each other; we all need each other.
“Don’t give it another thought. I understand that you needed to get home. Please, help your family and take care of yourself. I’ll come back soon, Inshallah, and we can talk about how to put the school back together.”
Justine held Layla’s hand and spoke gently. “Like you and the children, I was caught in the earthquake and was very frightened. It is okay to be afraid. All we can do now is make the future of your students better—give them a life to be proud of.”
CHAPTER 6
SUNLIGHT STREAMED ACROSS JUSTINE’S pillow, waking her up. It was Tuesday and she had slept for nearly twelve hours. When she’d returned to the room the night before, much was unchanged—the broken window gaped open, her bed was unmade, and dirty towels lay on the bathroom floor—though, thankfully, the shattered glass had been swept up. This morning she was feeling refreshed, yet shaken, as she lay in bed and recalled the days leading up to this moment—the earthquake, her injuries, the school.
She shuddered and squeezed her eyes tight, forcing the images to go away. But they didn’t; her mind refused to let go. She also had unfinished business: the little book wrapped in her silk blouse in the drawer across the room. What is it?
She propped her head on her folded arm and stared at the dresser as though she expected it to speak. Then she picked up her cell phone.
“Amir?” she asked. “This is Justine.”
“Justine. How are you? I’ve been busy . . . the Museum isn’t open, it needs a lot of cleanup . . . not sure we have everyone out as yet . . . but then you called . . .”
In the background, she could hear hammering and what she thought might be a small bulldozer. “I’m so sorry to bother you. How terrible that there may still be bodies under the rubble.”
“I’m joining another team around noon. What can I do for you?”
“I assume your grandfather’s still with you in Heliopolis . . . and I think I’ve found something that might be of interest to both of you.” She paused.
“Of interest? What?”
“A little book, a codex, really, that I found in the crypt during the earthquake. I think it’s very old, at least hundreds of years.”
Amir was quiet for a surprisingly long time. “I’m coming right over,” he said and hung up.
“You’re right on two counts,” observed Amir just a few minutes after he arrived. “This is a codex rather than a book, and it is very old. No one could have dropped it. It’s not the sort of thing you carry around.” He held the codex in both hands like it was a newborn.
The sky was nearly white, interrupted only by two white cranes flying parallel to the river. In the light, the codex looked even more battered, more enticing, and Justine felt again as though there was some reason she had found it. “I’d like to show it to your grandfather—he’s still at your home, right?”
He raised a brow. “You know you won’t be able keep it. Our laws are very clear in that regard, requiring that any such find be taken directly to the Supreme Council of Antiquities office. In fact, any antiquity must be left in place, in situ.”
“I know that provenance is a major issue, but it’s a little late for that, don’t you think? I didn’t know what I had.” Her voice grew impatient.
Amir smiled. “You’re right, of course. If it had been directly uncovered during an approved search by a certified archaeologist, it would be more credible. Unprovenance
d artifacts are more subject to claims of forgery. But it is a little late to worry about that now.”
Justine allowed herself to relax. “I do know archaeology is quite ruthless when it comes to discoveries—my father taught me that. Archaeologists want to know about the world and what’s in it, but they don’t want it found by anyone else. A malady suffered by most scientists, I’m afraid.” She took the small book from Amir, wrapped it in a towel, and placed it in her canvas bag. Swinging her purse over her shoulder and carrying the bag level in both hands, she headed for the door. “Shall we go?”
They drove most of the way to Heliopolis in companionable silence. “My father told me that when an artifact is turned over to the Supreme Council, it might not be seen for years. Do you find that to be true?” she asked. “I’d just like to know the possibilities here before giving it up.” She watched Amir’s profile, sketched darkly against the morning sunlight, noticing barely discernable fine, tight muscles near his mouth and eyes.
“There’s a lot of truth there. The Ministry—and my renowned boss, Omar Mostafa—are notorious for burying finds that don’t fit with their narrative. That is, unless political pressure or a great deal of money is involved, which could be one and the same.” He continued to pay close attention to the traffic, his features almost lost in the shadows of the car.
She smiled wryly. “Ah, it hadn’t occurred to me that the Great Mostafa was your supervisor. I should have known.”
“You know him?”
“Everyone knows him. I’ve seen him several times on National Geographic and the Discovery channel. Once on Charlie Rose.”
“And . . .”
“He’s certainly blustery, full of himself. I’m not that certain of his expertise.”
Amir laughed fully. He had a fine laugh, genuine, engaging, and Justine found herself glad that she’d called him.
In the old section of Heliopolis, they found a narrow parking space in front of an apartment building topped with Doric crowns, one section of a full block of indistinguishable structures built by the British. “My parents will be at work, but grandfather will be here. I’ll warn you—he’s irritable. I didn’t give him much choice about leaving his apartment. He’s a puzzling man: he savors new discoveries and ideas but abhors personal change.” Amir turned off the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition.
“My father’s like that. Perhaps that’s why they got along so well. An ‘adventurous conservative,’ I call him. The contradiction was even more confusing to my mother, who expected an American archaeologist to provide her with a daring life.”
“And that’s not what she found?”
“Not at all. He may have been daring in his professional life, but as a husband and father, he was quite protective.”
Amir nodded. “We men shield women too much. I’m not sure what we’re afraid of, but I suppose it’s the ancient fear that wild women bring shame on the family. You probably know that tribal families that were shamed or humiliated were cast out into the desert to die?” He leaned across her lap to open the door from the inside, close enough that she could smell his musky warmth. “The handle doesn’t work from the outside,” he explained.
A common malady with Egyptian cars, Justine mused, feeling her heart quicken.
“Where have you been, Amir? I thought you were going to take me to work today,” demanded his grandfather, appearing quite small in an overstuffed divan surrounded by large, ornate chests. Photos of Cairo in its glory days adorned the walls. A walnut coffee table held glass candy dishes and several copies of Cairo Today—a typical middle-class Egyptian family’s living room.
“You needed a little rest. You remember Justine?”
“Oh, yes. Hello, my dear.” Ibrahim’s voice softened as he noticed her. “You look like you’ve been in a fight with a camel driver.”
Justine laughed. “I was beaten up by a collapsing church. The St. Sergius, to be exact. I didn’t take it personally.”
A grin expanded Ibrahim’s sagging jaw, but was quickly overtaken by the concern in his eyes. “The St. Sergius? Collapsed? The home of the Holy Family?” He seemed to sink further into the couch.
Justine glanced at Amir, quickly realizing that to a devout Copt, such destruction would be devastating. “I overstated it, Dr. Ibrahim. A column and a few two-by-fours fell on my head—the church will be fine. Really.”
“I was hoping to return to my office today,” he said. “I work better there.”
“I can understand needing your own space, sir. If you could just take a moment. I found a little book in the crypt at St. Sergius.” Amir nodded at her to continue, then left to fetch tea while Justine described Sunday’s experiences. She folded back the towel and laid the little book in Ibrahim’s frail, veined hands.
For a long time, he cradled the volume as though it were his first grandchild. “St. Sergius,” he said, delicately lifting the cover to examine the first page. “Could the book have survived from the days of the Romans? The Turks? The Syrians? The Arab invasion? Surely no earlier than the days of the Syrian Islamic leaders . . . when was that? About nine hundred years into the current era?” He was talking aloud, but to himself.
Several minutes passed as Ibrahim ruminated on the endless possibilities. He ignored Amir’s return and the tea. Justine tried to read the professor: his expression, his movements, his mind. The elderly man revealed little except for a flushed face and small patches of white around his temples.
What does that mean? Exasperation? Excitement? Fatigue?
Amir remained respectfully silent, allowing his grandfather his private thoughts. Finally, he spoke: “Most of the writing appears to be Aramaic. Astounding. Grandfather, you realize that this codex is very ancient.”
Ibrahim turned to Justine as though he hadn’t heard. “You must write everything down. Exactly where you found it, when, what time. Who else was with you. The information must be exact. Unfortunately, this is now an unprovenanced find, which complicates matters.”
Justine and Amir glanced at each other.
“You will write everything down?” Ibrahim persisted.
“Of course, I will write everything in great detail.” She paused. “What do you think it is, sir?” She kept her voice steady. Patient.
“What you have here is an ancient codex, the ancestor of the book. Think of the evolution of writing as the scroll, the codex, and then the book. You see how the codex opens naturally in the middle?”
Amir added, “Each sheet is a whole piece of papyrus, with a spine created by tying the pages together. You can see that these pages have been forcibly folded for a very long time, causing them to crumble finely along the spine. This cover must be made of sheep or calf leather reinforced by glued layers of papyrus.”
Ibrahim looked up from the codex. “As to who may have written it . . . there are many tests to run and people to consult. Be careful whom you trust,” he warned. “May I keep it for a while?”
“I was hoping that you would want to spend more time with the book—the codex,” Justine said. She forced herself to tamp down her excitement. “But why do you say to be careful whom I trust? Surely I’m not in danger.”
Ibrahim’s expression darkened. “Many of the major finds of the last decades have religious implications. Dangerous territory,” he said.
“Grandfather’s right,” Amir acknowledged.
“Understandable, I guess,” she said, shrugging slightly, though she wasn’t sure she did understand. “What are our next steps?”
Her shrug had not escaped the now-alert professor. “My dear, don’t dismiss the possibility of danger once you’re in possession of a provocative artifact. As to the next steps, we will need to hand it over to the Supreme Council of Antiquities at some point. That’s why I have asked you to carefully document the find. These notes will accompany the artifact when we formally make the transfer. Fortunately, I have enough credibility with the Council that they may not question my decision to do some initial tests. In f
act, it will be helpful to them.” He stared down at the codex again, his glasses slipping to the end of his long nose.
Amir glanced at Justine, his eyes revealing a flicker of disappointment at his grandfather’s willingness to delay the transfer to the Supreme Council. She hoped his respect for his grandfather would trump his feeling of obligation to his boss. “What kinds of tests are you referring to, sir?” she asked. “Of course, I’m aware of carbon-14 dating. What others do you have in mind?” She reached for the teapot and refilled each cup.
“Carbon-14 dating of the leather and papyrus is the starting point,” offered Amir. “Translation by experts in Aramaic script, the primary language of the book, will help to identify the language patterns and forms used during the period in question. The contents will provide us with context clues—who wrote it, his habits, behaviors. As you can see, a patina or chemical buildup has formed on the cover.” Justine could see that Amir was becoming equally intrigued by the mystery.
Ibrahim nodded at his grandson, his right hand trembling as he laid it lightly on the ancient codex, his crippled fingers pointing to the glossy part of the surface. “And if you can find the place from which the codex came, the patina on the crypt’s sandstone can be tested as well.”
“Then neither of you think someone might have dropped it in the crypt before I arrived?” Justine asked.
“Unlikely,” said Ibrahim, rubbing his nose underneath his glasses. “An old codex like this, not something to be carrying around.”
Justine nodded and, noting Ibrahim’s exhaustion, reminded herself that he, too, had been through a harrowing experience in the last couple of days. “Perhaps we should be going,” she suggested. Amir quickly agreed. She picked up her purse and canvas bag.
As Amir reached for the doorknob, Ibrahim added, “Andrea LeMartin, the prominent Aramaic script translator from the Sorbonne, is a visiting professor this semester at AUC. We may be able to consult with her.”
As Justine turned back around, she noticed that Ibrahim’s eyes now beamed with the playfulness of a young boy. “Will you take me to my office tomorrow, my boy?” he asked.
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