Free The Cairo Codex by Linda Lambert

“Do you believe there is a land beyond the sun?” my son asks as he bends down to smell the bread baking in a public oven. Smells of the freshly baked bread, jasmine and mint, and human waste escaping from the alleyways blend into their own odor, neither repugnant nor fragrant.
    “I would be grateful if God prepares a place for us to be with Him after we die. But our people do not savor the idea as others do . . .” I let my words trail off as my son is distracted by a small child of about three who runs in front of us, almost knocking into me. The beautiful child has the face of an angel—curly golden hair, long lashes, and a mouth the color of pomegranate. She throws herself into the lap of a woman sitting among a few prayer cloths offered for sale. The woman’s black, uncovered hair glistens, and her unusual eyes are black with golden flecks.
    I cannot comprehend whether her eyes tell of contentment or resignation. Her tunic is old and frayed with broken threads, as though the garment has been washed with a rough stone. As the child cuddles deeply into her lap, the fabric draws back to reveal rough, uneven stubs ending just below her knees. With an air of dignity, she quickly shifts her position and lowers her tunic.
    “Good morning, my lady.” She addresses me with a confident air as my son clasps my hand and holds tight.
    “Good morning, my friend.” I return her smile. “These are beautiful prayer cloths. Did you make them?” I kneel to examine the fine needlework.
    “The Goddess has given me the gift of needlework. This is how I spend my days.” She beams with the pleasure of pride.
    “And how much do you want for such beautiful work?” I inquire.
    “Mother,” whispers my son, gently pulling on my sleeve, “don’t we have enough prayer cloths? Will we have enough dinars left?”
    “One can never have too many prayer cloths,” I assure him, keeping my eyes on the woman and handing her enough dinars for two cloths. My son and I exchange glances, and his furrowed brow changes to an expression of understanding. I realize I have not witnessed this gaze of wisdom from him before. He is beginning to comprehend. I am pleased.
    As we walk away, I say to my son, “The woman has great pride and dignity. It is better to be charitable by buying her needlework than to give her alms. The giving of alms will only bring her shame.”
    He nods as if sharing an important secret with me. “Perhaps the men from the East will exchange some saffron for garlic.”
    “And the olive oil can wait for another day, although Noha will not be happy.” We both grin at the thought.
    The golden saffron glows among the more subdued spices of coriander, cumin, pepper, mint, dark paprika, and teas. Copper jewelry glistens beside ornate vests. The merchant, or rather the son of the merchant, must be about my son’s age, perhaps a few summers older. We stop in front of the colorful array of treasures.
    “Welcome, my Egyptian friends, how can I take your dinars today?” asks the young man in Aramaic. With his black curly hair and fetching smile, he could be Samir’s son.
    “We have something better than money,” my son quickly replies. “We bring you jewels of garlic.”
    “Ah, so. I have met my match! Next, you will offer me some rounded stones. What is your name?” His baggy pants, sash, and adorned vest give him the air of a youthful sultan.
    My son introduces both of us.
    “I am glad to meet you,” he replies, bowing from the waist and moving his right arm in a flowing movement up over his head. “My name is Ravi. I am here with my father. We have traveled from India. A long way from here.”
    “We live nearby,” offers my son. “I was born in Palestine and we traveled here to Egypt when I was a baby in my mother’s arms.” The two boys recognize something familiar in each other. A radiant curiosity?
    “We can always use some garlic, my father and I. I can offer you a small pinch of saffron for one stew, my