The Deceit Read Online Free PDF

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