Читать книгу The Deceit - Tom Knox - Страница 10

It took Sassoon two days to find a taxi driver who was willing to make the journey. The driver who finally agreed was fifty, and shifty, and hungry, and desperate, and he said he would charge Sassoon five hundred dollars for the job. He spoke a slangy Arabic so accented it sounded like a different language, but Sassoon certainly understood the figure ‘500’ when the man wrote it with a stubby pencil on his tattered map of Egypt.

They left at dawn to avoid the rush hour but got caught in traffic anyway. It took two hours for them to crawl out of the final dreary suburbs of Cairo, past the last shuttered Coptic grocer, with its defaced sign advertising Stella beer; and then they headed into the grey austerity of the Eastern Desert, the rolling dunes and stony flats, stretched out beneath an overcast sky.

The driver played loud quartertoned Arab music all the way, music that sent Sassoon half crazy. It felt like the music of delirium. But he was also glad that he didn’t have to talk to the driver. Talking would be pointless anyway: they couldn’t understand each other.

Six hours later they attained the outskirts of Suez, and the driver made an extensive detour, avoiding the centre of the city entirely. Sassoon guessed why: the Al Jazeera English news had told him last night. Central Suez was in uproar. Riots were wracking the city, several youths had died and, even worse somehow, several people had been blinded by plastic bullets aimed deliberately at their eyes. The televised image of one protestor, his sockets empty yet filled with blood, had stayed with Sassoon for half the night.

The hours droned past. The wailing music droned on. The desert became emptier and dustier. It was now clear they weren’t going to make it in a day, so the driver pulled into a scruffy truckstop with a village attached.

What looked from the distance like a public lavatory turned out to be their designated resting place. A ‘hotel’ with cracked windows, five rusting beds, and one shared and fetid bathroom. Sassoon drank whisky, alone, in his bare cement room, to force himself to sleep. The mosquitoes danced around his face, drunkenly, as he nodded out.

Morning cracked blue. The sun of the desert had won. And Sassoon’s spirits rose as the driver slowed, and turned the music down, and Sassoon caught his first glimpse of the Monastery of St Anthony, lost in the fathomless depths of the desert.

It looked enchanting: a complex of spires and tiled arches and archaic chapels, tucked into a fold of red desert rocks. This was it, the oldest monastery in the world, founded by St Anthony in 250 AD.

The car stopped; Victor disembarked. ‘Shukran,’ he said, handing over the dollars.

The driver took the cash, shrugged, gave Victor a faint smile of pity; then he turned on the hollering music, and sped away.

Hoisting his heavy bags, Victor stumbled across the road and under the arch. At once he was engulfed by the silence, the silence of silent worship, of punitive adoration, the silence of the endless Red Sea sun.

And then a monk came out from a darkened chamber, squinting at this sweating old man in his ludicrous blazer with his walking stick, and the young monk smiled quietly and said, in accented English, ‘Hi, I am Brother Basili. Andrew Basili. This way please. You are a pilgrim? You can stay here, no worries. There are no other visitors, they’re all too scared of the troubles. You must be pretty brave. This way. Over here. Guess you’ll want some refreshment? You are in time for breakfast.’

Breakfast turned out to be austere plates of olives and flatbread, and carafes of water, consumed at a long table in the refectory in almost total silence, apart from a monk intoning the psalms.

During the morning Victor was left to do as he pleased. In the central courtyard, the sun blazed. The monastery was mute. One youthful monk was hurrying about his business, keeping to the shade of the stumpy colonnades.

Victor approached. ‘Salaam—’

But the monk shook his head. When Victor tried again, the young monk blushed and fled.

Victor sat on a stone bench, rubbed his aching chest and read his guidebook.

‘The body of St Justus the monk is kept in a passage by the Church of the Apostles …’

In the afternoon he located the monastery library, domed and white, and delicately frescoed with images. A reverential hush pervaded the eight-hundred-year-old room: it felt wrong to talk. But Victor had to try, and Brother Andrew Basili was at the other end of the library, immersed in at least three open books.

‘Hello,’ said Victor.

Basili’s smile was brief and a little cold. He evidently didn’t want to be interrupted. But Victor had to try.

‘This is a fine library.’

Basili’s nod was terse. ‘Used to be better. Then the Bedouins raided it, in the eighteenth century. They burned many of our volumes as cooking fuel.’

Victor listened, finally placing the accent. Australian. This was not unexpected; Sassoon knew that many young men from the Coptic Diaspora – in Australia, Canada, America – were returning to Egypt to renew their church, in defiance of the troubles and the hostilities. Many Coptic monasteries were, paradoxically, flourishing for the first time in centuries.

‘You’re from Sydney?’

‘Nah. Brissie.’ Basili sighed. ‘Now, sorry, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my studies.’

Supper was the same as breakfast, apart from a single beaker of vinegary wine.

The next day it became apparent that no one was going to speak to Victor, not properly, not ever. Most of the monks shrank at his approach. The few who did linger were so shy and kind and virginal it was emotionally impossible to ask about the Sokar Hoard. The only time he did mention the terrible phrase, to an elderly, English-speaking monk from Port Said, the man scowled and stalked away.

As the days passed and shortened in their repetitiveness, their mesmerizing and beautiful dullness, Victor found himself giving up. Wandering out of the monastery gate, into the sunburned desert, he sat under the thorn trees, and stared at his absurd leather shoes and his absurd twill trousers and he felt like a fraud, just a dying and childless narcissist. Maybe he was seeking mere glory, and he deserved to fail. Maybe it was all just spiritual vanity.

On the fifth day Victor was woken as usual by a softly tolling bell, even before the darkness had dispelled. Opening the thin cotton curtain, he gazed at the first tinge of the sun, still hiding behind Sinai, just a roseate rumour at the dark edge of heaven.

‘The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth His handiwork.’

Crossing the silent square at the centre of the monastery, Victor creaked open the door to the church and joined the thrumming tranquil hubbub of the monks in their daily Matins: the Agbeia.

‘Khen efran em-efiout, nem Epshiri, nem Piepnevma ethowab ounouti en-owoat.’

The pew was painful to sit in for so long. Victor shifted and listened. The hour of prayer passed slowly, and hypnotically. And then the last of the prayer was intoned.

‘Doxa Patri, ke Eyo kai Agio epnevmati ounouti en-owoat. Amin.’

The words were bewildering, and lovely, in their strangeness, their syncretism. You could hear all of religious history in these Coptic words: maybe a touch of Aramaic, more than a hint of Greek, and certainly the very syllables of ancient Egyptian – it was like a Pharaoh sitting up in his tomb, and turning, in a nightmare, and talking to Victor. Blood seeping from his decaying mouth.

A sudden coldness swept up his limbs, and into his heart, and Victor fell to the floor.

Darkness. Darkness.

And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

The next thing he realized, he was in some kind of kitchen staring at the kindly young faces of half a dozen monks. They were daubing his forehead with water.

‘I … What happened?’

‘You fainted.’ It was Andrew Basili. ‘Are ya OK? We can get a doctor … in a day or so.’

‘I am so very sorry,’ Victor said. He was acutely embarrassed, as if he had publicly soiled himself. ‘I am an old fool. I shouldn’t have come. I am so sorry.’

The other monks dispersed, black cloaks whispering, leaving him alone with Brother Andrew. The sun was up now.

‘So, why did you come?’

‘I came to find out something. Something very important to me. I want to know about Brother Wasef Qulta. A monk murdered in Cairo. He came here, about two weeks ago. And I want to know why.’

Andrew Basili said nothing. For a long, long time. Then he nodded. ‘Look, I don’t really know anything about that stuff. Sorry. If you are feeling better, maybe you should go back to Cairo?’

Once more, silence filled the sparse monastic kitchen.

In his desperation, Victor Sassoon decided to do something quite terrible. Something he had never done before in his life.

‘Brother Basili, the reason I ask all this is that I believe Brother Qulta was carrying documents which relate to the history of my Jewish faith. I am a scholar of this area. The texts may be written in a language few can understand. I may be one of those few.’

Brother Andrew said nothing. Victor went on,

‘The history of my faith is very important to me. Because … you see …’ Very slowly, Victor Sassoon pulled up the cuff of his blazer, unbuttoned his shirt and revealed the markings to the Australian.

The monk’s eyes widened. He gazed at the small, faded tattoo on Victor’s left arm. ‘You were in the camps?’

Victor nodded, suppressing the fierce rush of shame. How could he use this as blackmail, as emotional bribery? It was the worst of sins: the Shoah as a bargaining device.

But he didn’t care.

‘Auschwitz. I was a tiny boy, one of the last, from Holland, we were taken there in 1944, but the Russians saved us. Then … well, we had a British side to the family, they took me in after the war. My mother and father died in the … in the camp. All my Dutch family. They died. That’s when I resolved to keep my faith alive, my Jewishness.’

The ensuing silence was different. Brother Basili sighed, rubbed his face, shook his handsome young head. Then he pulled up his own wooden chair and sat next to Victor. For a moment, Basili stared at the wall.

Victor could see the confusion in his profile. Finally, Basili spoke. ‘I guess there is no harm in telling you what I know. ’Cause I don’t know much.’ He made a weary gesture. ‘Brother Qulta visited his mentor. Brother Kelada. A scholar, an anchorite. Qulta had documents on him, I have no idea what they said, I know they were old and valuable.’

‘How valuable?’

Basili turned, and his young face flushed with a tiny hint of pride.

‘Priceless! The Coptic church is the source of everything. We are the original church! The church founded by St Mark the Evangelist. The church of the gospel of St John.’ He shook his head, then continued, with real passion. ‘Even the very oldest copy of the Bible in the world is Coptic – the Codex Sinaiticus!’

Victor nodded.

‘I know the story. Stolen by a German from St Katherine’s in Sinai. Then given by Stalin to the British, yes?’

‘Yes!’ Basili said. ‘The Brits keep it in London, but it’s ours. We won’t let that happen again. Whatever these documents are, I am pretty sure we shall keep them. God has entrusted us to be the curators of the Christian faith, of the original church.’

‘So where are the documents now?’

Basili frowned. ‘Sohag, I think? Does it matter? Brother Kelada didn’t want them here, I don’t know why. So he told Qulta to take them back where they came from, where they were found – some cave in the desert. That’s what I heard. That’s all I know.’

Again, the frustration returned, but also the excitement. Sohag, Middle Egypt. The Red Monastery, or the White, or the Monastery of the Martyrs, the Monastery of the Seven Mountains. Which? But it made sense. Sohag was not far from Nag Hammadi, where the Gnostic gospels were found.

‘Where in Sohag? There are many monasteries. Please let me speak to Brother Kelada. He can tell me.’

The Australian monk shook his head. ‘Impossible.’

‘What?’

‘He died three days ago.’

‘But how?’

Basili looked faintly contemptuous.

‘We had to bury him outside, near the trees. Suicide is the worst of sins.’