“Tell me about the women of Bulaq,” Justine asked as soon as they had placed their order with the young boy. The tables were crowded; the whirling smoke formed an eerie mesh through which they spoke. “The comments you made a few days ago about women and the Brotherhood were chilling. Why don’t women fight back now, demand more rights, get enraged? Would women actually vote for the Brotherhood? Support them?”
Nadia stared at the cigarette burns on the table. Justine waited.
“Did you know that the U.N. estimates that 90 percent of women in Egypt have been circumcised?”
“The clitorectomy? The cutting of female genitals, often involving the removal of the clitoris? I know it’s a common Islamic practice in much of Africa, but I find that nearly impossible to believe.” Justine nodded at the boy for their tea as a second, even younger, boy appeared with a tray of rice-stuffed vegetables called mahshy, two grilled pigeons, and labna.
“Genital mutilation steals intense sexual and psychic energy from women. Makes them more passive. It takes education and support for women to develop a self-directing consciousness. To find some fire in their bellies. We . . .”
Justine’s eyes narrowed. “We . . . You, Nadia? No.”
“Yes.” Tears formed in both women’s eyes. “When I was five my grandmother, my beloved grandmother, and my mother held me down and robbed me of my clitoris. It took me years to come to terms with that betrayal—that women I loved would diminish my capacity to love.”
Justine was shocked, not only at the vast numbers of women involved, but that Nadia, the woman she cared for, worked for, was telling her this traumatic story. Justine spooned the mahshy onto her plate, topped it with a bit of labna, and set the pigeon to the side. “You are telling me that the fire of resistance has been stolen from most Egyptian women.”
Nadia nodded, turning to grasp her pigeon like an ice cream cone. “But not all. Not the middle and upper classes. Educated women have found a way to overcome this physical handicap. Women are still the future of Egypt, Justine, but they must be legitimately empowered. There is legislation in Parliament to outlaw female circumcision, and I expect it to pass. And real empowerment is what our schools are about.”
“Empowerment comes from within, both within the individual and within the culture. We can only help create the conditions in which this can happen. And that’s what we’ll do,” Justine said with revolutionary resolve. She wrapped her small napkin around her roasted pigeon and began to eat it as Nadia did. “I hear you can eat these whole things, bones and all.”
“Do you recognize the man at the table to your far left?” whispered Nadia. “No, no . . . don’t turn around. He’s wearing a green plaid shirt and smoking one of those new cigarettes. His face scares the daylights out of me. I noticed him a couple of times while we were shopping.”
Justine shifted her position so she could see him. “He’s familiar. I have seen him. Perhaps it is just a coincidence.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve noticed him watching you closely. He’s too serious for my taste. I think he may be following you.”
Justine shivered. Was this what she’s been warned about? Was she in real danger? Could word of the codex have leaked already? “Let’s find out,” she said, laying down her unfinished pigeon. “I’m going to finish my shopping and I’ll meet you at the entrance in an hour.”
Nadia was silent for several moments, then she picked up the bill and placed ten pounds on the table. Justine followed suit. “Don’t try to be brave, Justine. That could be dangerous. I have no idea what this could be about, but be cautious. Promise?”
“I promise,” Justine said, patting Nadia’s hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t confront him.” She picked up her purse and shopping bags, walked out of the restaurant, and stepped back into the alley, careful to avoid the sewer water standing in front of the Khan El Khalili restaurant, then wove through numerous leather shops and turned right toward the spice market, an alley brimming with burlap bags of saffron, cumin, cardamom, ginger, cloves, and hibiscus. She turned back toward the main part of the Khan, entered and exited an antique shop, and re-entered one of the leather shops. While eyeing a small bag, she caught a glimpse of a green shirt across the narrow alleyway and saw the man watching her reflection in the window. Her heart beat rapidly, her hands clammy with perspiration.
“Masa a nur, good evening,” she said, walking directly toward the man in question. “Haven’t we met before?” She smiled disarmingly, feeling a fine burst of adrenaline.
“La, la. We do not know each other,” he stammered in street Arabic. “I just shop. If you will excuse me.” He quickly walked on. The face was memorable: small scars along his upper lip told of a lisp awkwardly corrected in childhood, and his black eyes, too close together, gave him a look of permanent exclamation.
She followed him. He walked faster. What am I doing? But she couldn’t seem to help herself; it was as though she was chasing a piece to a puzzle. What puzzle? she asked herself, not for the first time.
The scarred man was walking faster. Justine began to run, splashing some sewer drainage on her linen slacks. Damn. As she turned the corner between two leather shops, she slammed into a tall, striking man dressed informally in a sweatshirt and jeans.
“Amir!”
“Oh, hello Justine,” he said averting his eyes, his shoulders stiff.
“What brings you here?” she asked, instantly deciding not to tell him about the stranger she was chasing.
“Nothing important. A few things to pick up. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.” And he was gone, disappearing among the crowd of shoppers and hawkers.
Justine turned into a less busy alley and pressed herself against the cement wall. What is Amir doing here? He was so evasive . . . Can I trust him? Is there a connection between him and the man with the scarred face?
In the middle of her thought, the man in the green shirt appeared in front of her, his ugly face only a few inches from hers. Justine shrieked. He braced one hand on the wall behind her and pressed a brass Arabian dagger flat against her chest with the other.
“Don’t follow me.” He glared at her, his eyes so penetrating she felt as though they could bore right through her.
Justine started to shiver. Terrified, she managed to ask, “Why are you following me?”
A crooked grin revealed deteriorating yellow teeth. He shoved her hard against the wall and walked away.
Justine felt dizzy, nauseated; she stood there several more minutes to get her bearings. She was still shaking and fighting tears when she met up with Nadia.
“Are you crazy?” Nadia demanded. “I saw you talking to that man. He might have pulled a knife and killed you right there!”
Justine looked sheepish. “He did pull a knife, one of those daggers right out of some dumb movie. He doubled back and confronted me. All he said was ‘don’t follow me’ and then he pushed me hard.”
“You’re in danger. Perhaps it has something to do with your father. Or just that you’re an American . . . but that doesn’t make sense . . .” She paused and stared at Justine.
“Did you see Amir? I bumped into him and he was so cagey, elusive. What would bring him here? Could he be hunting for Zachariah?”
“Amir? No, I didn’t see him. I didn’t think Zachariah was back in Cairo. They’re not close, you know, although Amir carries his family’s anguish. Zachariah is actually Ibrahim’s favorite, the old man would do anything for the boy. But Amir has just about washed his hands of his younger brother.”
There’s that disconnect again. Who is close to whom? “Amir is a responsible man. Wouldn’t he help the family find his brother?”
Nadia stared off into the market. “Yes. Amir is a responsible man,” she declared flatly.
When Justine walked into her apartment, the house phone was ringing.
“Nasser? I’m so glad you called!” she said, and without a pause, she continued: “I was followed tonight in the Khan.” She had seriously considered call
ing Amir, but after tonight she just wasn’t sure . . .
“Are you sure?” he exclaimed.
“I’m positive. We—Nadia and I were shopping and she noticed him, then I spoke to him and he threatened me.”
“Threatened you? How?”
“He confronted me with a dagger to my chest, then pushed me against the wall. All he said was ‘don’t follow me.’” Justine could hardly believe what she’d just said. This sounds like a third-rate movie.
“This is serious, Justine. No accident. Do you know any reason why you might be followed?” asked Nasser, tension mounting in his voice.
A moment of silence followed.
“Justine?”
“No, no, I can’t . . .” Her mind raced. “I found something special in Old Cairo during the quake. I . . .”
“Don’t say another word. I’m coming over.” He hung up before she could respond.
Within the hour, Nasser was at the door. Justine had busied herself by changing into a cotton kaftan and making tea. Can I trust Nasser? Should I tell him about the codex? By the time he arrived, she had made her decision.
Nasser held her for a few moments, then settled into the overstuffed chair across from her. “You must have been very frightened.”
She nodded and explained what had happened during the evening and the events surrounding the codex, although she wasn’t entirely forthcoming. She didn’t reveal any of her conversations with Ibrahim. Andrea. Amir. Or any of their primitive speculations. Although she did say that the codex was in safekeeping with Ibrahim.
Nasser had let her talk without interruption. “You’ve found an ancient codex in the crypt where the Holy Family lived, and your colleagues speculate that it might be important?” He sat forward, gazing at her intently.
“I—I’m not sure yet,” she said, beginning to have second thoughts about her careless revelation. “We may have to hand it over to Omar Mostafa at the Ministry of Antiquities.”
“Has Ibrahim shown it to Mostafa yet?”
“I don’t think so. No, I’m sure not. What do you know of Mostafa?”
“Everyone knows the Great Mostafa and understands that he likes to be in on things from the beginning. He’ll take credit for whatever comes of it.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.” Justine smiled for the first time this evening. “But Ibrahim has assured me that I’ll be part of the decisions regarding the findings. That is, if anyone can make such assurances.”
“Don’t be surprised if that agreement doesn’t hold. You said you were going to Alexandria? I can drive you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but Andrea is driving. We leave at the end of the week.” Justine kicked off her shoes and folded her feet under her.
“Be careful,” said Nasser. “After what happened tonight, don’t take any chances. I want you to call me before you leave.”
“I’ll call you. And thanks, Nasser. For everything.” She felt tears welling up. Now what is this? Relief, gratitude . . . some other emotion?
He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Would you like for me to stay tonight?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, staring into his deep blue eyes. “I need to think, and I have a deadbolt lock on the door. I feel better now. Thank you so much.”
As they said goodnight, Nasser kissed her hands, then moved his lips from cheek to cheek, brushing her mouth lightly. She felt a warm current of desire.
It was after midnight, but she was unable to sleep, so chose to sit in the living room attempting to read. So much had happened tonight, she couldn’t sort it all out. Exhilaration followed by waning confidence, fear and desire, anticipation and relief. A roller coaster of emotions.
The ancient wrought iron elevator came to a stop on Justine’s floor. Her heart quickened, for she had heard the only other occupants on this floor come home an hour earlier. As she listened, heavy feet stepped from the elevator and moved toward her door. She waited for the knock that didn’t come. The footsteps and elevator remained quiet. She sat watching, frozen in place, mesmerized by the shadows of large shoes flush to the front door. After what seemed like an eternity, a piece of paper was pushed under the door. When the waiting elevator descended several floors, carrying the man in large shoes, she walked to her door and picked up the note.
In large block letters it read: IF YOUR RIGHT EYE OFFENDS YOU, PLUCK IT OUT.
CHAPTER 12
THE MORNING LIGHT AND PERSISTENT COO of pigeons soaked through the tall French doors and awakened Justine once again. Not having slept until the early hours of the morning, she felt groggy and disoriented. Her stomach tightened as memories of the previous evening began to crowd into her muddled mind. Being followed in the Khan, the cryptic note slipped under her door . . . combined with the earthquake and deaths of the week before, it was more than she felt ready to handle. Talking with Nadia and Nasser had been comforting, but she needed someone who might be able to help figure out what was going on. She reached for the phone and called Ibrahim and Andrea.
She arrived at Groppi’s around nine and found a back table in the stillquiet coffeehouse. Two veiled women stood in the candy shop; two young men in Western dress claimed a table on the opposite side of the room. The radiant morning sun made dark silhouettes of Andrea, Ibrahim, and Amir as they walked toward her. She hadn’t called Amir, nor was she expecting him. After the encounter with him in the Khan, she felt uncertain of his motives.
The three of them sat quietly while Justine explained the events of the night before. She omitted her brief encounter with Amir as well as her conversation with Nasser. Amir appeared appreciative of the omission, yet uncomfortable in her presence. Justine handed the note to Ibrahim, which he read and passed on to Andrea and Amir. The waitress came to their table twice, but couldn’t attract their attention.
“What could it mean?” Justine quietly demanded, hoping that someone would understand. She waited for her answer while the demure waitress reappeared and took their order. Andrea ordered tea all around, three croissants, and her favorite miniature chocolate cookies. Nothing ruffles her, mused Justine. “Even for breakfast?” she said to Andrea.
“The quote is from the Gospel of Matthew, 5:29,” said Ibrahim gravely. “It’s a teaching in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. If I remember correctly, the entire section goes like this:
‘If your right eye is a hindrance to you,
Pluck it out and throw it away;
Better for you to lose one of your members than to have
All your body thrown into Gehenna.
If your right hand is a hindrance to you,
Cut it off and throw it away;
Better for you to lose one of your members
Than to have all your body thrown into Gehenna.’
“Of course, most of us understand it allegorically, as a metaphor,” he concluded. His voice was hoarse.
“Gehenna?” asked Justine.
“Hell,” said Amir, without making eye contact.
“Your ‘right eye’ may refer to the codex. It would need to be something that could offend you or others, violate beliefs. The codex could do that—eventually,” Andrea said. “Is there anything else it might refer to?”
“Seems like a bit of a stretch, but I can’t think of anything else,” admitted Justine. “My actions in Cairo should not be offensive to anyone . . . I wouldn’t think.” She remembered the humiliating morning when she went for a run in skintight Lycra. “And the incident with my father and you, Ibrahim, was such a long time ago.”
Ibrahim pursed his lips and waved it off.
“If the note does refer to the codex, someone thinks its contents are dangerous,” offered Andrea, devouring her second cookie. “But how would they know? We don’t even know.”
“What do we know?” asked Amir, still avoiding direct communication with Justine. “Let’s enumerate. First, we know it is an ancient codex and where it was found.”
“And that it lacks provenance,” Ibrahim added.
&
nbsp; “That it appears to be written in the hand of the Dead Sea Scrolls and in first person,” Andrea interjected with pride.
“That is a great deal,” Justine realized. “Have any of you sat around together and wondered aloud . . . speculated on its source, meaning?”
Ibrahim looked sheepish. “A little fun, my dear, no certainty at all. Andrea and I brainstormed possible sources. But we don’t know the dates as yet and there are no dates in the codex.”
“A little fun? Like the Holy Family? After all, where it was found . . .” Why does no one look surprised? They’re not keeping me in the loop.
“Not impossible,” confessed Ibrahim. “Although hundreds of people could have lived in that cave over the generations. We won’t really know anything until we have the material dated.”
“What else do you recall about the Sermon, Ibrahim?” said Andrea, diverting the conversation. She placed both hands around her teacup as though to heat them, even though the morning was already becoming quite warm.
“The Sermon suggests how to live, how to relate to others. In that day, some of Jesus’ suggestions were quite radical, even contradictory,” Ibrahim said admiringly. “He said blessed are the poor, the persecuted, the peacemakers . . . He explicitly challenged the Old Testament admonition of ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ by suggesting that his followers turn the other cheek and love their neighbors––and their enemies. The Sermon tells us to be humble, to forego public praise, to give alms, and to pray in private. What puzzles me is that some of his teachings in the Sermon are hallmarks of tolerance and love, while others are harsh and judgmental. The same dual nature is revealed by the teachings of Mohammed in the Koran. I’m convinced that many of the teachings attributed to both men were never spoken by them. Whoever chose the phrase in the note did not intend to represent Jesus’ more gentle and loving nature—of that we can be sure.”
“It’s a warning,” Amir murmured coldly. “The person who followed you in the Khan probably left the note.” The others turned to him; his tone and demeanor implied that, more than a warning, the note was an omen of evil.
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