The Egyptologist (27 page)

I'd call on Finneran, tell him I was keeping an eye on Margaret (never talking
about our evenings at JP's, of course, that's why I never took a shilling from him
to look after her, wouldn't ve been right). I'd try to get him to see the situation
clearly without me having to spell it out, but he wasn't going to see or set things
straight on his own. Really I went to the house just hoping she'd be there. Some•
times she was, and the charming hostess offered me lemonades in the parlour
and patted her dogs, and we sat quietly, and she'd mock me because I didn't
know what to say anymore without disclosing some secret—hers to her father,
Trilipush's to her, her father's to her, or of course, mine, which was the most
painful for me to hold tight. And she'd look at me in my afternoon anguish and
say, "Harry, you're getting quieter and quieter. Do try to be fun, can't you? Didn't
you once promise not to bore me? I can't
bear
men who break promises." But still
she'd turn up at my hotel (where she'd be sure to find me waiting and hoping)
and lead me off to evenings at JP's.

Then one afternoon, Finneran called me at the hotel, invited me over for my
"advice, as a fellow who understands complex situations." He'd just had a cable
from Trilipush: the brave explorer was moving from Cairo to the digging site in
the southern desert, and he needed the investors' money wired to the bank in
Egypt immediately. It seems Finneran, while he considered the Oxford business,
had delayed sending the money they'd agreed upon, but now I could see the
shock of Oxford had worn off. No question: Finneran was softening. He plainly
wanted me to tell him that Trilipush was trustworthy after all. He hadn't wanted
my advice, not a bit of it. No, he wanted me to lie, plain as day, and hold his hand
while I did it. "Margaret really loves this fellow," he said, as if that, even if it were
true, argued for anything at all, other than adjusting her medication. "And the in•
vestors are counting on him. And on me." One minute he's chomping his cigar,
and he's all croc hide covering shark cartilage, proper captain of business issuing
orders, the next minute he's pathetically asking
me
(hardly a close mate or impar•
tial player) what he should do. He rages one minute, looks confused the next, ar•
gues with himself: "A lot is riding on this investment," he mutters. "Now's not the
best time for money to go the wrong way. But if you want the payoff, you can't
hesitate in the breach. If you commit, you can't tie a man's hands for want of a
few dollars." The thought crossed my mind: Trilipush had the entire Finneran
family in his pocket. There didn't even need to
be
a buried treasure!

The madness of this family (no offence there, Macy) made me feel like an old
clucking maid: I thought of his daughter out there in the parlour, her disgrace
when Trilipush never came back, when all of Boston society would learn she'd

been engaged to a confidence trickster and a murderer, and
he
had abandoned
her.
The longer Finneran paid Trilipush, the farther off that day of reckoning,
until finally Trilipush would simply vanish without a word, probably having
taken enough of Finneran's cash to refurbish the Trilipush estates back in Kent,
Finneran's new money coupling with Trilipush's old name nicely. And when that
day came, who'd have Margaret after something like that? I would, I saw, clear as
a bell. I would.

I was gentle with Finneran. I said I thought Trilipush
"might
not be a wise in•
vestment, the evidence was certainly mixed." He took that all right. So I tiptoed
forward: perhaps, if Finneran was truly concerned about Margaret's health and
happiness, there were other men who could care for her better than this English•
man. There were too many risks attendant to a man already shown to be of dubi•
ous character, considering the Oxford news. I said my background investigation
would take more time still, but perhaps better for him to find her a proven hon•
est man, even if he weren't an impoverished English toff. Finneran looked at me
close, calmer now, seemed, I thought, to understand me. He nodded, thanked me
for my time, said he would consider my words. But would she?

Her use of opium was a bit worrisome, I could see that. I wasn't as blinded by
her as all that, and I'm writing to you, as I said I would, Macy, without apology or
softening of the truth. I assume, by the time she wed your uncle, that she'd freed
herself of these youthful indulgences. But in October and November '22, she was
indulging. I don't know how she administered it, but she was procuring it from
the shady J. P. O'Toole up there on the catwalk. And when she'd come back down
to the couch where we sat side by side, her eyes wide and her pupils tiny, I knew
she'd gone far away. "Harry, darling, how queer you look. Why don't you ever
come with me? Would you, darling?" I never did. "I live a million years while you
live just this one night," she told me once as she drifted away, something she read
in a book, I think. "A million years, Harry. Don't you want to be interesting, and
join me for a million years? Can you imagine the two of us going into eternity to•
gether, man and woman, two bodies entwined for a million years?" I'm proud,
Macy, of what I used to do for your aunt in this condition. I protected her, just as
her father would ve wanted. The record should show who the gentleman was, be•
tween the poor Aussie working man and the toff Englishman. We'd stay in
O'Toole's establishment as long as necessary, and I'd wait for your aunt to return
from her million-year voyages, hold her hand as she fell asleep, or stroke her hair
and forehead. When she rejoined us mere mortals, I made sure she reached home
safely and secretly. Yes, I repeat, I was worried about the opium, but to me it was

only a part of her, and when she told me in her other, daytime, moods that it was
just a toy she played with at her whim, certainly not worth mentioning to her
overtaxed father, well, I had no strength to doubt her. And, looking back, obvi•
ously she was right. How else did she marry your uncle and live a happy life?

Wednesday,
25
October, 1922

Journal:
Today the bellboy delivers me a souvenir worthy of some
paste in my journal, a little programme note from our depraved era's
bureaucratic farce, in which we must all accept our roles, though we
are quite randomly cast.

Mr. Trilipush,

I wish to clarify that under the current circumstances, the en•
tirety of the Deir el Bahari area, as outlined on the enclosed map, is
to be considered as Professor Winlock and the Metropolitan Mu•
seum's exclusive concession. Your application has been duly noted
and reviewed. As soon as there is any change in the status of the
Metropolitan's concession, we will contact you. Should you move
from the Hotel of the Sphinx, please inform us where in the United
States you can be reached. Also, I regret to inform you that last
week I cabled Professor ter Breuggen at Harvard University to con•
firm his position as a co-applicant for your request and he has—
I am certain this is a misunderstanding—declined to attach his
or Harvard's name to your application, though he does ask that I
send you his "good wish"
[sic].
I am your humble correspondent,

P. Lacau, Director-General, Antiquities Service

As for Claes ter Breuggen, no surprise whatsoever from my dear
Chair. This merits "Sup with the Devil, but Use a Long Spoon" on the
Victrola XVII.

Ter Breuggen. Claes ter Breuggen, the Walloon Buffoon, the Bel•
gian Waffle, putting the phlegm in Flemish, catastrophically chairs (for

the time being, just for a few more months) Harvard's Department of
Egyptology, curating the University's teensy collection and miseducat¬
ing the sons of the Boston wealthy, which poor boys stumble out of ter
Breuggen's bumbling and often inaudible lectures to stagger into my
office for some much needed tutoring. "Say there, Pushy," began one
rosy-cheeked moron befuddled by a classic ter Breuggen lecture, all
damp throat clearing and nasal clatter in which the first row can cer•
tainly count on having their faces moistened if not their curiosity whet•
ted, "what's all this about Pharaonic seal-bearers? Surely it was hot and
sandy there, desert and everything, am I right? Not the right climate at
all, you'd think."

Ter Breuggen's last days as Harvard Egyptology's high priest have a
certain doomed, end-of-an-interlude, a-conquering-hero-is-coming-
soon feel to them, as he schemes by written message to thwart his rivals
in a period of instability. One will surely rise from within his court, win
great victories abroad, return to the troubled kingdom to restore order.

This greasepaint devil bared his rounded teeth at my most recent
appeal before Harvard's interdepartmental tenure review committee, in
which ter Breuggen fired his latest soggy charges at me and manned

his crumbling defences for the last time. Several of the committee mem•
bers— shocked by ter Breuggen's outrageous accusations and willing•
ness to forsake any semblance of personal dignity in his fearful
campaign against me—told me after the hearing that I had been the
committee's darling, but ter Breuggen had threatened, wheedled, and
outright sobbed to keep me in my lowly place. Even Dean Warren,

who chaired the raucous hearing, took me aside afterward to encourage
me, wishing me luck on my expedition, practically guaranteeing me
tenure should I make a find contributing to Harvard's eternal glory.

Ter Breuggen's loathsome manner can be explained simply: his re•
sentment that when I joined the faculty, I refused to hand over Frag•
ment C to any collection under his curatorship, even as he goggled and
drooled over my papyrus. No matter. Now, blackballed by the corrupt
priest, I bide my time, I do battle for the kingdom abroad, win renown,
and will return
.

Bank. Nothing.
Post. Nothing.
Bank. Nothing.

Thursday, 26 October, 1922

Journal:
Noon, final day of Phase One. Expedition HQ moves
south. A new start, and I can feel the strength and inspiration pour
back into me. I was going quite mad waiting in this hotel, my enthusi•
asm curdled by the city and luxury. And now, a busy day, improvisa•
tions necessary. Letter to Lacau at Antiquities, thanking him for his
correspondence, and giving my address at the villa where I will be va•
cationing and awaiting "any fortuitous change in Mr. Winlock's status
vis-a-vis
Deir el Bahari." Visit to bank to be under way at last in the
matter of the first payment.

No word there, however, which is professionally and personally dis•
appointing, but clearly there is a problem with the system, and these
are the rough obstacles that will bruise us on any travel. Confirm they
have the address and wiring information for my corresponding bank in
the south. Deliver also a sharp word to the little clerk who has made
me so uneasy these past weeks. There were, unfortunately, black-
painted iron bars between my flexing fist and his smug little face (no
doubt for this very reason, middle-class English bankers being not en•
tirely insensible to the effect they have on other people).

Go to collect my new suits of clothes, but find that, the international
money transfer system being the shambles it is, I can, after a damned
difficult selection, approve only two of them—an Egyptian twill and a
light gabardine. I reassured the poor tailor he would be paid for the re•
mainder when I send for them.

The portrait artist is not yet done with his work. In its current con•
dition, I am in full colour from the top of my head to my upper lip, at
which point I fade into sketched brown lines. He has me looking di•
rectly outward, but with my head turned slightly to one side. Hand•
somely done. However, he has imagined a certain sagging under my