The Cairo Codex

by Linda Lambert

  Amir motioned to the others that the time had come to adjourn the meeting. None of these questions would be answered quickly.

  As they prepared to leave, conversations sparked and passions varied. For Isaac, unearthing the Messiah mythology and confirming a portrait of Jesus as a practicing Jew was not a displeasing idea. Andrea was captivated by the myth-shattering significance of this find—and its implications for her career. She, and Justine as well, gladly embraced Mary’s independence and strength. Ibrahim and Amir, on the other hand, were experiencing a more difficult struggle: the pull of professionalism against a lifetime of Coptic indoctrination. Amir seemed more open to evidence than his grandfather and more able to reconstruct some of his most basic assumptions. Ibrahim now seemed fatigued and reticent, growing more silent, yet Justine knew how deeply moved he must be by touching a book that had been handled by the Mother of God.

  Justine rose and moved closer to Andrea. “What was that business with Isaac?” she asked. “Your remorse? Your apology?”

  Andrea swallowed and looked down. “Certain topics are beyond the pale, Justine. Too painful to broach. Isaac’s parents and two sisters were exterminated at Dachau. But he was caught in a protective bubble of air between the bodies of his parents and rescued by a girl of nine—a girl who would eventually become his wife. A woman he loved, but whose face reminded him daily of his slain family.”

  Andrea left quickly to teach a class across campus; Isaac moved more slowly, taking each step in turn as he aimed for a bench in the garden where he would await his friend. Justine stopped at the garden’s edge and stood still for several moments. Amir waited. Justine pivoted and asked him to return to the conference room with her. “I want to talk with your grandfather.”

  Amir’s eyes narrowed, but he turned around without comment and followed her back upstairs.

  They found Ibrahim still sitting at the table. Head down. Justine pulled up a chair beside him. She spoke gently. “You took the pages, didn’t you, Ibrahim?” Such a confrontation of an elder was not in her nature; in fact, she could not remember ever having done it before. None of her grandparents had ever witnessed an indignant granddaughter.

  Amir cringed, but remained quietly standing.

  Ibrahim glanced up with watery eyes and nodded. “I’ve disappointed you. My grandson. Myself.” His eyes implored her. “When I read those first few pages, the gravity, the burden of my beliefs, weighed down on me with such force that I felt alone in the desert. Perhaps I thought I had misinterpreted them, that further examination would change their meaning, I’m not sure . . . but in that moment, I couldn’t let those pages out of my possession.”

  “What gravity? What burden? What information startled you so much that it caused you to act irrationally?” Justine demanded, if softly, her voice falling. “What do those pages say to you, sir?”

  Ibrahim stalled, rubbing his knees yet again, staring at the bulging floorboards.

  She turned to Amir. “You knew all along.”

  Shadows filled the room, dimly lit by a single hanging bulb. She could feel his avoidance. “I didn’t know who else could have taken the pages, since it had to be someone who could read Aramaic and had access to the codex. The choices were limited.” His voice trailed off, as if in disappointment.

  She turned back to Ibrahim. “It doesn’t seem like the behavior of a man who pursues the Tao, who understands that there are many truths.”

  Ibrahim flinched. “I know, my child. It sounds more like the young boy who was a true believer, who became frightened by so great a challenge to his beliefs . . .” The evening glow against harsh artificial light carved his wrinkles into a macabre mask. “That young boy has come back to visit me recently. He deeply believed the story about the Mother of God being a virgin—Jesus’ avoidance of the human struggle for breath, of the birthing process. I found myself confronting the lingering question, the haunting question: Does the revelation that Mary was not a virgin mean that Jesus was not the Son of God?” Ibrahim paused breathlessly, sagging further into himself, into the small upright chair.

  Justine gasped. “So that’s what’s in those few pages—that Mary was not a virgin?” That’s what Zachariah meant by Mary’s purity.

  Ibrahim nodded. “I know the legend of the ancients about immaculate conception isn’t essential. God works His wonders in many ways, and yet . . .” He murmured this almost inaudibly.

  “Who sits here before us now?” Justine asked more gently.

  He grinned weakly. “Professor Ibrahim El Shabry, a man in his eighties who has put away his younger self.” He paused, and his next words surprised her. “It may help to talk to your mother.”

  “To my mother? Why?” Justine was taken aback.

  “Lucrezia’s a wise woman. I’ve watched her negotiate difficult situations over the years. She may have some helpful insights about the codex.”

  The codex? What does she know about the codex? As she watched the resignation in Ibrahim’s eyes, Justine felt something that she’d hoped never to feel for someone she admired: pity. With this realization, her anger began to dissipate. Without further comment, she patted Ibrahim on the hand, picked up her belongings, and headed for the door.

  Amir walked her to the top of the stairs. “Justine, wait . . . I’m the one who placed the missing pages on Andrea’s desk this morning.” Without saying more, he turned back toward the conference room and his grandfather.

  CHAPTER 19

  “DAD? IS THAT YOU? WHERE ARE YOU?” Justine asked into her mobile phone. Curled up in her bed since 5 a.m., she’d been sporadically watching the early edition of BBC news and thinking about the team meeting set for this morning. How would they react to the findings in Mary’s diary? She was apprehensive.

  “I’m in Cuzco,” Morgan Jenner said. “First time in months I’ve been near a reliable phone. I’ve taken a warm shower, poured a scotch over real ice, and settled in for a talk with my favorite daughter.”

  Her father’s warmth and good humor inevitably made her laugh. “Your only daughter, I assume.” She could imagine her ruggedly handsome father slung carelessly into a large armchair, staring at the Cuzco lights framing the night skyline. How much I’ve missed him.

  “Still sassy, I see.”

  “Learned it from the best of teachers. Any earth-shaking news from the Peruvian front?”

  “Too early to tell, but some interesting clues. We’re digging near Chinchero, an important population center during Inca times. What at first looked like large niches for holding bodies, much like a crypt, may turn out to be scroll niches, an essential feature of a library.” Whenever Morgan Jenner was desperately trying to be casual, his voice revealed an unmistakable, suppressed excitement.

  “That’s what you were hoping to find, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. You know I like to be careful.”

  Justine’s mind raced back to comments made by Nadia, Ibrahim, and even Zachariah about her father and his finds here in Egypt. Had he concealed something for political or religious reasons, or refused to bring it to light due to lack of evidence? “Dad, there are a few persistent rumors here about a possible find made by you and Ibrahim years ago. At Darshur. About the Passover and whether it happened at all.”

  A long pause. “That old dog? I’m amazed the rumors are still alive. Nothing to it, honey. We found something of interest suggesting a bargain of sorts.”

  “I’m surprised that you weren’t more careful. Didn’t take any photos . . .”

  His voice was edgy now. “Didn’t think of it at the time. Just made a few notes. Why is this so important to you?”

  That question was hard to handle. Why is it so important? “It seems to go to credibility. My credibility now. I don’t like defending you without all the facts.”

  “Defending me? Forget about it—it was a long time ago. I made some mistakes . . .”

  She could tell by his voice that the topic had come to a close, but she had little dou
bt that he had been careless, perhaps even complicit. Justine felt a gripping pain in her chest. “How long will you be there?” she decided to ask.

  “I’ll need to stay in the area for quite awhile, but may try to meet you somewhere in Europe for a short visit around Christmas.”

  “I would like that. How soon will you know?” she asked, attempting to sound enthusiastic. She needed time to process what she now knew: the rumors held a lot of truth.

  “Within the month. As soon as our team firms up the work schedule. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s so much to tell. A few days ago I presented my first UNESCO report to the Minister of Education. The young women in the schools are doing amazing work, and I think my report was well accepted.”

  “Congratulations, honey! Your first work product on your first professional job since graduation. Presented to the Minister, no less. I’m so proud of you.”

  Justine felt that her father’s admiration was real. “Thanks, Dad. And something else is happening that Mom may have told you about.”

  “The codex? Your mother told me something about it. But she was rather vague.” Although separated, Morgan and Lucrezia spoke when they could. Mostly about Justine. She called it long-distance chaperoning.

  “Yes. The codex. I think you already know that it fell in front of me during the earthquake. During these past several weeks, a team of specialists has been working with Ibrahim and Andrea LeMartin to date and analyze the findings. Later this morning, we’re meeting to review the test results. Everyone will be there.” She decided not to tell him that Ibrahim had tried to suppress some of the pages. She wasn’t sure why.

  “A competent man, Ibrahim. I’ve heard about Andrea from your mother, but never met her. I assume Omar Mostafa is involved,” he said evenly, though she could sense reservations.

  “Uh huh. As you know, in Egypt, nothing happens without Mostafa’s involvement.”

  “An understatement, honey,” he said wryly. “And you’re aware that he will take credit for any find of importance? How important is this?”

  “Oh my god, it could just be the most important find in a century. Perhaps even among religious discoveries of all time. We now think it’s the diary of Mary, mother of Jesus. But we won’t have confirming physical data until later today.” Several moments passed. “Dad? Are you still there?” Justine tapped the phone.

  “I’m here, Justine. Are you safe?”

  “There’ve been a few incidents, but don’t worry; they’re resolved now. Ibrahim’s grandson, Amir, a friend of mine, Nasser, and the local police have been especially protective.” Perhaps too protective. “We have reason to believe that the men who were trying to prevent the codex from coming to light have fled the country. Or at least gone underground.”

  “That’s good to hear! As we know from the Nag Hammadi finds and the lost Gospel of Judas, once such information goes public, you will be safe. I know Amir—Ibrahim’s grandson, I believe—but who is this Nasser?”

  “You know him, Dad. Nasser Khalid. He was a student of yours at Berkeley. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.”

  “When was he at Berkeley?”

  “He was there from 2001 to 2003. Majored in archaeology. Handsome, medium height, crooked grin. You must remember him.”

  “No . . . no, I’m certain I don’t. Justine, you may have forgotten, but I wasn’t at Berkeley during most of that time—the Borneo dig was going on. I don’t know a Nasser Khalid.”

  “Are you sure, Dad? He’s got a smile that’s hard to forget. He’s Egyptian, but with sandy hair.”

  His voice turned sharp. “Justine, you know I remember the names of all of my students.”

  She froze, the phone turning cold in her hand. Her lungs failed to exhale. She felt lightheaded.

  “Justine . . . Justine, are you all right? This relationship is serious, isn’t it? Justine, answer me.”

  “I guess it is serious, Dad. Look, I have to think. I need a little time. Let’s talk again tomorrow. Okay?” Without waiting for a response, she hung up.

  Justine sat paralyzed, one foot hanging off the bed. Her mind was incoherent. Slowly she reached for her baggy running pants and big T-shirt, mechanically getting dressed. No socks. No mirrors. No thinking. No feeling. Oblivious to her frantically vibrating phone, she opened her door and ran down the six flights of stairs and onto the street below.

  Blind to her surroundings, she ran. A mile north on the Corniche, the tension in her body released and she began to cry uncontrollably. As the sobs came, Justine lowered herself onto a nearby bench sheltered by the bulging roots of a giant banyan tree. Her mind loosened and fragments oozed out in staccato hysteria . . . My father is wrong . . . his memory is going . . . he was right, Nasser lied to me . . . I’m wrong about the dates and his claims—but still, he didn’t know Nasser’s name. I’m not in love with Nasser, so it doesn’t really matter . . .

  As the sobs subsided, a new kind of tension, one with which she was more familiar, grasped her body: the tension of growing anger. Was Nasser’s mendacity more than a misleading introduction? Did he have anything to do with running our car off the desert road? With the kidnapping? With anger came energy. She placed both feet firmly on the cement walkway with a hand on each thigh, stretched her back, and shook her head to clear it.

  Turning left across the July 23rd Bridge, she ran onto the island of Zamalek, circled the Gheriza Club, turned again onto Azziz Osman Street, and headed to the old Mayflower Hotel, now an apartment building near Sunshine market. She ran up the four flights of stairs and pounded on the door.

  “Justine! You look like hell!” said Andrea, opening the door.

  “What in the hell happened to my intuition?” demanded Justine. “How could he expect to get away with it? Surely he knew I would talk with Dad sooner or later. What happened to the self I trusted so well? How could I have been so wrong?” Justine was incredulous. She paced back and forth in Andrea’s kitchen.

  Andrea hadn’t said a word since her opening greeting. She busied herself making strong coffee. At 7:30 in the morning, with tousled hair and a cleanly scrubbed face, she looked younger than her age.

  “You’re talking about Nasser, I assume. There is only one way to find the answers to those questions,” interrupted Andrea, placing her hands on Justine’s trembling shoulders. “You have to ask him.”

  “I never want to see him again as long as I live!”

  “A reasonable response,” said Andrea. “That is exactly what you should do.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Justine snapped.

  “Excuse me,” Andrea said as she walked toward the ringing phone in her bedroom.

  “Who was on the phone?” Justine asked when she returned to the kitchen with a hairbrush in hand.

  “Your mother. I told her you were on your way home.”

  “Thank you. I assume that Dad called her.” Andrea nodded. With a deep sigh, Justine relaxed her shoulders and folded them in toward her sunken chest. “I’ll call her from my apartment.”

  Thirty minutes later, Justine was on the phone to Italy. “Hi, Mom. Sorry to have missed your call. I didn’t realize you’d kept track of Andrea all these years.” She paused. “Dad called you?”

  “He did. And I’ve kept in touch with Andrea ever since our scintillating salons in Florence.” Justine could hear her mother take a deep breath. “Honey, are you in love with Nasser?”

  “I think I am—I was—in love with him. I don’t think I knew that before I talked with Dad. It felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Nasser lied to me, Mom, although I’m sure he’ll explain it away. ‘Just a small lie in service of a smooth introduction.’ Something like that. My heart wants to believe him, but something just doesn’t feel right.”

  “You don’t trust him,” her mother said frankly.

  “How can I?”

  “Truth has always been enormously important to you, even as a child. Remember when you told Su
san there was no Santa Claus? She didn’t talk with you for a year.”

  “Oh, Mom! That was so silly.” Justine paused, surprised by the statement. “Isn’t truth important to you?”

  “There are many kinds of truths. Sometimes I have edited out faults in those I love. I’m not sure how I actually do that, but I do know that if we expect others to change very much, we are chasing rainbows and unicorns. Only adolescents think they can change another person, that any of us have that much power.”

  “Were you an adolescent when you married Dad?” She snuggled the phone between her chin and shoulder while she laid out her clothes for the upcoming meeting, casually selecting chunky silver earrings that looked very much like something her mother would wear.

  “Of course I was!” Lucrezia laughed aloud. It was a delightful laugh . . . full and rolling, infectious. The laugh of someone who accepts herself. Right now I envy her so. “But you’re not an adolescent.”

  “Then how could I have been so deceived? I thought he was genuine, or at least truthful.” She felt her eyes well with tears. Does he mean this much to me?

  “You’re too hard on yourself. You’re a remarkably open women who can give your heart fully. At the same time, you’re an anthropologist who picks up sophisticated signals. This internal tension will probably always frame who you are.”

  “Why aren’t you haunted by the same dilemmas? You live such a buoyant, exotic life and seem to expect that things will turn out all right.”

  “I’ve made many mistakes in my life—plenty—as has your father. I’m not afraid to make them, is all. Terribly liberating. I try to find virtue in charity rather than moral certitude. And that means charity toward myself as well. But you know . . .”

  “Moral certitude? Is that how you see me?” Justine felt an unpleasant warmth rise up her chest.

  “I’m talking about myself, Justine, and when I was young. I was so sure then. So sure of what was right and wrong. The search for charity has been a desperate one, and it’s taken me decades,” said Lucrezia.