The Cairo Codex Read Online Free Page A

in line while a few women fully covered in black burqas milled around with small children in tow. Male family members steered them toward passport windows.
    Justine offered her passport to the customs officer and smiled as he cheerfully said, “Welcome to Egypt . . .Welcome back to Egypt, Miss,” noting the earlier Egyptian stamps that she had retained in her passport despite having obtaining a new one.
    “
Shukran
, thank you,” she replied, surprised that her Arabic returned quickly, as though she had put on an old record, one her mother had played for her as a child. She eased back into the crowd, surveying the people ahead, looking for her host. As she scanned the group of greeters just beyond the rope, she spotted the sign— DR. JUSTINE JENNER written in large block print. A middle-aged woman with a head of wild, graying hair held the sign with both hands, a bulky leather purse dangling over her right shoulder. Wide-set black eyes and shaggy brows crowned a deeply tan face with small lips. Sensible black shoes protruded from under a dark blue skirt.
Just as I had imagined her.
    “Nadia. Nadia Mansour,” Justine cried out, waving her free hand. The two women had been in touch by e-mail and by phone on several occasions after Justine applied for the position with UNESCO, but this was the first time they’d met in person. Nadia was the Director of the Community Schools for Girls project and a part-time professor at the American University of Cairo. She would be Justine’s supervisor. Her gregarious personality had seeped through their earlier communications.
    “
Inshallah
, you’re still in one piece,” Nadia observed.
    Justine laughed as she reached for Nadia’s outstretched hand. “Dr. Mansour, I’m delighted to finally meet you!” she said, struggling to keep her carryons from sliding off her shoulder.
    Nadia gripped her arm, steering her toward the luggage area. “You have a reservation at the Shepheard and your Garden City apartment will be ready when Allah sees fit,” she said. “But first, we’ll tackle the luggage.”
    They stood and watched as an avalanche of motley bags tumbled out from behind a black leather curtain, some tied with ropes, others merely taped-up boxes filled with T-shirts, baby clothes, and plastic shoes intended for sale in the street markets of Cairo.
    “See those bags?” Nadia pointed to the ragged assortment of containers. “A metaphor for modern Egypt: tied together haphazardly, containing Western goods brought in by eager entrepreneurs, products for all ages, all sneaking out from behind a black curtain. Our primitive economy.”
    Justine laughed at the honest observation. She attempted to respond over the cacophony of voices, but when she realized she couldn’t be heard without shouting, she simply stepped forward and pulled her new luggage and cardboard boxes from the carousel.
    Nadia picked up one of the suitcases and handed it to a waiting porter in old sandals and a flowing kaftan. “My car is just across the street!” she shouted, leading the way. The porter followed them across two lanes of traffic, pushing a squealing cart that carried Justine’s luggage and two boxes of books wrapped and tied neatly with dark green cords. “Taxis are no longer allowed directly into the airport, so traffic here has improved,” Nadia said, pointing toward her car. “My air conditioning doesn’t work. Sorry.”
    Justine attempted to open the car door. The handle swung loose in her hand. “I’ll get that,” Nadia grinned, reaching across the passenger seat and opening the door from inside. “Better take off that cute jacket.”
    Justine obediently removed her blue linen jacket and laid it neatly in the backseat. “How long into town?” she asked.
I hope I can survive this heat. I didn’t realize it would be quite so smoldering in April.
    “Everything you remember about Cairo . . . traffic, size, pollution . . . just double it,” said Nadia, settling into her