“But how would anyone know about the codex at all?” asked Justine. “We haven’t told anyone.” Except.
“There’s no explanation that’s not sinister,” said Andrea. “I’m as puzzled as you, chérie. And if they knew anything, why wouldn’t they make the warning more direct?” She paused. “Amir, what are you thinking?”
“Egyptians are given to mystery. We believe that the more mystical and obscure a warning is, the more frightening and effective it is. That is undoubtedly true. I don’t know why you were given the warning, but I intend to find out. But be careful, very careful.”
Justine examined his face, his flashing black eyes. Why is he so angry? Because of me—or some plan gone awry? Be careful, Justine. I do need to be very careful. But of whom? Out of all of them, Amir was the one who’d initially been reluctant to keep the codex. Her eyes moved from person to person, then caught something through the window. “I see Nadia’s car outside,” she said, picking up her purse and briefcase.
As she stepped around the table, Andrea said quietly, “I’ll come to your apartment around three o’clock tomorrow and we’ll drive to Alexandria. I’ll have the codex with me.”
Justine nodded and silently vowed to put the codex out of her mind for the rest of the day. But as she and Nadia drove away from the café, a black Mercedes sedan pulled away from the curb and followed at some distance.
CHAPTER 13
“FOR ME, ALEXANDRIA IS ONE OF THE TRULY great cities.” It was Thursday afternoon, and Andrea continued her enthusiastic travelogue as they drove past the Masr train station and turned right, heading north toward Alexandria’s newly remodeled Corniche. “Alexandrians invented the notion of the ‘mouseion’—the museum—nearly 2,400 years ago. If you listen, Alexandrians whisper poetic words from their terraces.”
“So far, I’m not impressed.” Justine’s last visit to this city was when she was fourteen, but the beaches had consumed her then. Adolescents had different priorities. Boys and beaches; beaches and boys.
“Ah, you’re not far from wrong.” Andrea smiled with the charm perfected by the French. “The glory days of Alexandria are history. Lawrence Durrell called her the ‘Capital of Memory,’ for she lives in memory, not in reality. But when E.M. Forster was fresh from Howard’s End and still working on Passage to India, he took the time to write a little guide about Alexandria—my point being that he was so captivated with the romance of Alexandria that he couldn’t keep her out of his mind. The new mayor seems to have jolted the city back into history with the new Bibliotheca and a Corniche worthy of its legend. The city may be coming back to its glory days,” said Andrea. “We’ll see.”
“Durrell and his perspective on Alexandria have been something of a family legend. My mother gave me The Alexandria Quartet when I was nine. I recently reread it and understood it a little differently this time.” Justine smiled wryly at the gross understatement.
“I would imagine. The Quartet is a sensual and confusing experience. Yet to find Alexandria’s true greatness, we must go back to before the Islamic invasion. When the Muslims invaded, they decided that Cairo was the only city of merit in Egypt. But once upon a time, as they say, Alexandria was the center of learning for the entire world. I know you know the history, Justine, but I enjoy telling the story of Alexander, the precocious and daring young student of Aristotle’s and son of the King of Macedonia, who came to Egypt and found a pristine shoreline that he claimed as Alexandria. He must have been a fascinating man.” She paused and looked at Justine, inviting her to continue with another part of the story.
Justine grinned and took her cue. “I understand that the ancient library had the largest collection of scrolls in the world. It’s here that the Jewish scrolls of the Old Testament were translated into Greek. And it was here that St. Mark founded the Christian church.” The streets were wider than in Cairo now, opening up to the coastline beyond. As they drove over a rise in the avenue, an immense fort on a small, protruding peninsula came into view.
“And then the scourges of man and God began to attack the City,” Andrea continued. “The library was burned in three fires and an earthquake swallowed the great lighthouse. By the fourth century, Romans were firmly ensconced in Christianity and no longer adored all that was Greek.”
“Most people seem to think that Julius Caesar burned the library in its most final destruction. But I have a different theory,” Justine said. “I think the Patriarch Theophilus is the culprit. The same Theophilus who had the vision of the Virgin Mary and asked her where the Holy Family had journeyed in Egypt.”
“Well, he was intent on getting rid of pagan documents, and the library was full of them: the papers of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, as well as the teachings of the great Eastern scholars,” Andrea agreed. “During the heyday of the library, scrolls were confiscated from ships entering the harbor. Thousands of scrolls could be found there.”
“The desire to destroy pagan documents may not be over,” observed Justine.
Andrea nodded as she turned onto Saad Zaghloul Street. “We’re staying at the Metropole just ahead. At one time we might have stayed at the historic Cecil, across the square, but it’s now overpriced by the Sofitel Corporation and has lost some of its character.”
Although grandly situated on the square in the Eastern Harbor, the entrance of the Metropole faced south, away from the square. A doorman in a smart red palace guard uniform carried their luggage into a high-ceilinged lobby with sumptuous Italian décor.
“You are now standing on the very spot where Cleopatra lived in her grand villa,” the enthusiastic clerk explained. “The Cleopatra obelisk, found beside the villa, is now in Central Park in New York.” While he was correct about the obelisk, Andrea later explained that the ruins of the villa had actually been found farther out in the bay. “But why spoil a good story?”
A flamboyant winding staircase encircled an ornamental wrought iron elevator of black and gold. Past the elevator, an intimate tearoom boasted red velvet chairs and small ebony tables standing near draped windows. An elderly man no more than four feet tall opened the elevator door. Justine thought him to be about a hundred years old.
As they turned toward their individual rooms, Andrea suggested dinner around 8:00 p.m. “I want to introduce you to my favorite restaurant,” she said. “I have another story to tell.”
Justine’s tall, narrow room had been part of a grand ballroom at one time; sliced off like a piece of wedding cake, it retained the decorative frosting around the ceiling. An Italian period desk and chair snuggled close to the large bed, which nearly filled the room. A small balcony overlooked the narrow alley below. Compared to the room, the black and white–tiled bathroom was surprisingly spacious. Justine sat on the edge of the bed and peered straight across the alley and into an open window, where a young man painted papyrus. She leaned back on a mound of pillows and opened a copy of Mahfouz’s Miramar. John Fowles’ introduction was an eloquent critique of the city Mahfouz had loved, describing her as “languorous, subtle, perverse, eternally fin de siècle; failure haunts it, yet a failure of such richness that it is a kind of victory . . .”
Fin de siècle . . . Eternally in the nineteenth century . . . couldn’t this describe most of Egypt? What is its appeal for me? Perhaps it’s in my genes or my desire to romanticize decadence. Is Alex more perverse than Cairo? I doubt it, but I do seem to be in the midst of a perversity I don’t quite understand. Laying the open book across her chest, she watched the changing cloud formations through her window until it was time to get ready to meet Andrea.
“San Giovanni is an Alexandrian tradition,” said Andrea as they left the car with the valet. Situated on the Corniche about five kilometers east of the hotel, the towering alabaster restaurant and lodge had none of the external elegance Justine had expected. “When they were rebuilding the Corniche and erecting the short bridge across this arm of the bay, they built around rather than through this property. The bridge looks as though they took the top
off the pink and white Montazah palace nearby and made it into a series of hats, doesn’t it? Such an unnecessary shortcut across the bay. But it is pretty.”
“It certainly is,” agreed Justine, enchanted by the small bridge highlighted with torches. The restaurant matched the formality of the doorman and maître d’—old world class, ivory linen tablecloths, and a grand piano. The two women were seated at a window overlooking the bridge and the roiling water below. A world gone by . . . all but forgotten, she thought as she noted the presence of only one other couple in the room. “I know so little about you, Andrea. Tell me about the significance of this restaurant, this city.”
“I will tell you the story of my lost love,” replied Andrea, turning to the waiter to order her favorite French burgundy, Clos Vougeot.
“Perhaps you’d rather not talk about it.” Justine noticed sadness seeping into her eyes.
“I want you to know. It is an important part of who I am. My first—and my last—dinner here was with Francois. We were to be married. That was more than twenty years ago.”
“Did you marry?”
“We didn’t get the chance. He was killed in Algeria a month later. You are too young to remember the Algerian uprising.”
Justine nodded.
“He was in the French Foreign Legion. Their barracks near Algiers were raided in the early morning, four of the Legion soldiers kidnapped. Francois was among them. He was found a few days later—bound, tortured, and shot execution-style. His mother called me that night.” Andrea’s voice was raspy as she focused on the reflections of the bridge lamps in the sea below, light illuminating the moisture in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Andrea.” Unsure of how to give comfort in the face of such profound tragedy, Justine sat quietly, smoothing her napkin and watching her.
“It was a grand passion, chérie. You know what a romantic I am. The idea of the French Foreign Legion intrigued me. And I thought, ‘The colonial wars are over . . . he will be safe.’ I was wrong.”
“How did you meet?”
“We met through a family friend when Francois was on leave from India. He had that certain savoir-faire that swept me off my feet—an American expression, I think. Physically he resembled Amir, but he was more transparent, more accessible. He would notice the things that escaped others . . . a child about to lose her strawberry ice cream cone, an elderly man watching a beautiful girl. The world was full of wonders for Francois. And through him, for me. That was 1982. Since then, I’ve had lovers, but I’ve never found another grand passion.” She drew back from the window and met Justine’s eyes, searching her face for signs of the understanding two women can find in each other.
“I would imagine that such a man comes along only once in a lifetime,” said Justine. Will I ever find such a grand passion? Will I recognize it if it comes my way?
“If at all. Shall we order?” Andrea turned to the elderly waiter and asked for the house specialty for both of them: a mound of rice stuffed with seafood and a salad with a slightly sweetened vinaigrette. “I’m sure I recognize that waiter. This restaurant is exceedingly loyal—they keep their staff for life.” She watched as he walked slowly away, a slight limp on his right side. “Have you found your grand passion, Justine?”
“Not yet—at least, I don’t think so. No, not yet. I dated a few men in graduate school, but none I couldn’t leave when I came to Cairo.”
“Ah, I hear a secret.” Andrea’s slight smile betrayed the relish every French woman cultivates for details of les affaires de coeur.
“I’ve met an attractive man here in Cairo,” Justine admitted. “Turns out he was a student of my father’s. I hardly know him, but I’m intrigued.”
“What intrigues you?”
“He’s definitely attractive, with a Harrison Ford grin. Yet that’s not what intrigues me . . . no, it’s his empathy, the way he can cut through to the meaning of things—or the danger, like what it means to live life intensely.”
“He does sound exceptional. How will you know if he’s the one for you?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve never been in love. Not actually. I guess I think something inside will signal me. Mother used to say, ‘You’ll know it when it happens.’”
Andrea laughed. “Like a bell going off?”
Justine grinned. “Something like that.” She paused and concentrated on her rice. “We do have a great deal in common. He’s an archaeologist, but teaching part-time at Cairo University. Unhappily, I think. When I called him about being followed the other night, he came right over.” She put down her fork and stared at Andrea, suddenly aware that she had revealed something she’d intended to keep private.
Andrea was silent for a moment, her expression changing almost imperceptibly. “Did you tell him about the codex?”
“Not much. I’m sure I can trust him,” she hastened to say, but Andrea’s sense of disquiet invaded her.
“I’m just cautious. I’m sure it’s all right, but my policy is to hold such finds close to my chest. And, of course, we know there’s been a leak already. I’ll not worry about it. I would love to meet this charming man.” Andrea sighed as though releasing tension.
“Can I trust you with this charming man?” Justine teased.
“Ah, with a French woman, in matters of the heart, you can never know for sure,” Andrea smiled. “Would you like to talk about tomorrow?”
“I would. What can we expect from the director?”
“Amal Al Rasul is a scholar and professor emeritus from Cairo University. A powerful man, from what I understand. Opinionated and well connected. Skeptical. Friends in high places. Ibrahim asked him to take a look at an old book we were bringing. Just that,” explained Andrea. “He’ll make a decision as to whether the Centre might get involved.”
“Will he be able to tell anything in just a couple of days?”
“Certainly. He’ll examine a random number of phrases in as many pages. Just a preliminary assessment, but he’ll be able to get a sense of its importance. Still, I wouldn’t expect a final verdict yet. About the Centre’s involvement, I mean.”
That night, Justine’s dreams were peopled by shadowy villains, unsolved mysteries, and impossible choices. Such images had haunted her since she’d arrived in Cairo, then intensified after the night in the Khan. She awoke at three in the morning in a cold sweat. Was it the mystery or the danger that bothered her the most?
By nine on Friday morning, Andrea and Justine were driving the short distance to the Bibliotheca. They parked on the street in front of the University of Alexandria. A modern incarnation of the ancient center of learning, the new Alexandria Bibliotheca was designed to revive Egyptian science and scholarship.
As they walked toward the back of the commanding structure, Justine saw that it was shaped like a giant, low-slung disc that sloped toward the Corniche, although the perspective from the ground was quite different than her view from the plane had been when she’d arrived in Egypt. From the air it looked flatter. A reflecting pool accompanied the library, buttressed by a running wall embossed with hieroglyphs. The building sat to the north of an enormous courtyard decorated discerningly with sculptures. To the southwest, a theater and planetarium faced the Corniche beyond. The complex formed a horseshoe enclosure finished with a tall building of classrooms and meeting halls directly across the courtyard to the west. On the exterior second floor, a long walkway connected the Bibliotheca with the planetarium, creating the illusion that it emptied into the sea beyond. Another second-floor walkway ran south across the street, joining the university to the library complex.
They had been told to enter through the second door to the right of the main entrance of the Bibliotheca. As they walked into a lobby of glass, tile, and steel not unlike the new De Young Museum in San Francisco, Dr. Al Rasul came toward them with a jaunty gait. “Dr. Andrea, I presume.” He bowed, shook her hand, and turned toward Justine. “And you must be Dr. Justine. I knew your father. A great man. How is Dr. Jenner?”
Before she could respond, Al Rasul led them into his office and introduced Mahmoud Hassan, a Jordanian paleographer. “Please forgive me,” the director said. “You were going to tell me about your father.” He waved the two women toward chairs near the desk.
“Yes. My father is in Peru at the moment, working just below Machu Picchu. He has reason to believe that there were developments—like suburbs—surrounding the main complex, which might contain a library.”
“A library! That old dog. Into the most fascinating ventures. As always, I envy him,” said Al Rasul resoundingly.
Justine laughed. “He does have a nose for intriguing finds. How do you know my father?”
The director turned to draw the others into the conversation. “Justine’s father has an uncanny way of discovering significant artifacts. A sixth sense. We worked together in the Valley of the Kings, and he uncovered a woman’s jaw that revealed evidence of early dental surgery. We also worked together for a short time at Saqqara. This was about ten years ago. Ah, but I’ve been remiss. Let me introduce my colleague properly. Dr. Mahmoud Hassan, renowned paleographer, will be with us for a year.” The young Jordanian sat quietly while the director continued to describe his credentials.
Hassan’s appearance was as unimpressive as his credentials were impressive. Of medium height and build, he wore a conservative suit of dark gray with a gray tie. His eyes were gray also, yet with an intense, searching expression that demanded a second glance. Unremarkable, yet intriguing, Justine thought. I wonder why he would bury such inviting intensity in a mass of gray tones?
“We’ll order tea,” said Al Rasul as they took their places at the elegant ebony table.
“I’ve been here three months,” Dr. Hassan began by way of explaining himself. “Dr. Al Rasul has generously asked me to serve in residence. It may surprise you, but there are still a few fragments from the Nag Hammadi find that have defied identification. It is a joint project with Claremont College in California and the Coptic Museum. Being a part of this magnificent bibliotheca is an honor.”
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