The Last Watchman of Old Cairo

When God first created the universe," he said, "it was a universe built on the idea of infinite justice. Each act of dishonesty or violence was accorded an equal punishment. A man stole his neighbor's goat, and his own livestock were stricken with illness. A woman beat her child, and her stew was spoiled. In a short time, however, this universe collapsed under the weight of so much justice. So, when God set out to create the universe a second time, it was built on the idea of infinite loving-kindness. In this universe, each act of dishonesty or violence was accorded equal forgiveness.

Whatever comes of these pages, I have found satisfaction in writing them. In my research and in the shape of my days, in the wheat-starch paste the the acid-free thread, in the long hours hunched over ancient paper and my walks home along the River Cam, I have found myself, in more ways that one. I wouldn't call myself religious, not in the conventional sense—that would require me to actually choose one—but there's a spark there that wasn't before. And who am I to say what that is? Or isn't? Like my father and his father before him, I am but a watcher, a guardian, protecting the geniza documents, and content to persist in their mystery.

The future was bright for Dr. Schechter. He would be invited to deliver lectures to learned societies. He would be asked to dine with peers of the realm and, after a few drinks, he would be convinced to tell his story, the famous story of how Dr. Schechter had discovered the geniza. Being Jewish, of course, he could not be a full professor at Cambridge. Still, he would have an illustrious career. One day, the name Solomon Schechter would brush the lips of schoolchildren around the world.

Uncle Rashid,” Ali said finally, “I have come here to ask you a question.” “Then ask.” “I have come,” he continued, “to ask for the hand of my cousin Fawziyah.” The moment he said her name, Fawziyah came out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee. “Did you hear that?” her father asked, grinning a brown-speckled handful of teeth. “You and Ali are going to be married.” She flushed and looked down at her feet to hide the size of her smile. Then she ran back into the kitchen to tell her mother. “You have made her very happy,” Uncle Rashid said. “We were beginning to lose faith in the power of our prayers.” It was, Ali realized, exactly what they had all been waiting for. It wasn’t a foolish idea at all. Uncle Rashid raised a glass and together they drank, to grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and so on down the line.

With time, Ali came to understand many things about the community that employed him. As much as he learned, however, many aspects of Jewish life remained mysterious to him. He knew the Jews sprinkled their prayers throughout the day, and he often observed them pause to mumble a benediction over tea or a piece of bread, but he had only the vaguest grasp of when and why they were obliged to pray. He did not fully understand the purpose of the Sefer Torah, or why it was kept locked away in an ark, and any questions he asked about the ritual baths were met with laughs and bawdy insinuation. The Jews’ most perplexing ritual, however, was their practice of discarding papers in the attic storeroom next to the women’s section.