The Egyptologist (33 page)

Reconstructing the order of events with these slow letters is mad•
dening. Obviously, whatever poison ter Breuggen spilt into Finneran's
ear on the 19th would explain CCF's financial delays and enigmatic
cables. Whoever
Ferrell
is, he is on an incomprehensible quest to dis•
credit me. He succeeded in ter Breuggen's office, but the fear and in•
competence there made for fertile ground. CCF is of sterner stuff. Oh
God, M.

CABLE. LUXOR TO MARGARET FINNERAN,
BOSTON, 2 NOV. 1922, 5.47 P.M.

MY DARLING. HAVE LEARNT A LIAR LURKS, A STRANGER CALLED
FERRELL. DO NOT KNOW HIM, DO NOT BELIEVE HIM. IGNORE AT
ALL COSTS. YOUR CONQUERING LOVE. RMT.

CABLE. LUXOR TO C. C. FINNERAN,
BOSTON, 2 NOV. 1922, 5.49 P.M.

MASTER OF LARGESSE. HAVE LEARNT MORE OF FERRELL, A LIAR
OF MYSTERIOUS MOTIVATION. YOU MAY SAFELY DISREGARD HIM
AND INSTEAD COMFORTABLY AND QUICKLY PROCEED
ACCORDING TO OUR ORIGINAL PLANS. RMT.

Margaret:
I just sprinted back into town and cabled you to ignore
this Ferrell. I am sure you will if you have not already. He is a mythical
nemesis dispatched to harass me, by I cannot imagine what forces for I
cannot imagine what reason. Even so, he is a clownish, flabby nemesis.
And yet, also necessary! Great men, my darling, are often troubled by
just such petty thugs and anaemic ill-wishers. These troubled, rodential
men are driven by a need to tear down because they cannot create, they
have been denied Atum's spark, the bit of godness that great men de•
sire—the power to create. And, sulphur-veined, they cling instead with
ragged claws, driven by the satanic urge to destroy.

If you have heard his nonsense already—and I suppose you must
have, since it appears he was in your home two weeks ago—then my

heart breaks for you, because his hissing words no doubt sizzled away
at the very idea you have of me. What must you have thought to hear
the mad, impossible notion that Ralph was not at Oxford? If you be•
lieved for even a single, shocking moment, then I am so very sorry.

I know, Margaret—I am not such a fool as all that — I know that
what first drew you to me was my manner and my history: an English
explorer, sculpted from old gentry, Oxford education, War heroism. I
know these were our foundation stones. But now, my love, Ferrell pro•
vides us an opportunity to grow stronger, to forge a deeper love and
understanding. We both know that my
curriculum vitae
is not the best of
me, nor the most of me. And if Oxford were not real—as Ferrell would
have it—what would that change between us? Nothing. My accom•
plishments were the means to bring us together, not the sustenance off
of which our love will last forever. If foiled Ferrell has helped us to see
that, then our magnanimous thanks to him!

After a ghastly evening, I am finally feeling myself again. Is this
what "court intrigue" actually felt like, when it was a daily reality and
not an historian's dry phrase? When Atum-hadu's courtiers could not
be trusted, when conspirators crept and pretenders to his throne bribed
the cooks in the heat of the palace kitchen and priests whispered ob•
scene lies and promises in the shadows of torchlights, did his stomach
churn as mine does? Did he grapple with slippery destroyers when he
would rather have honoured his name and patron-god by creating?

Friday, 3 November, 1922

Journal:
Extend the men's wall searches nearly half a mile into the
desert. Clear another four clefts, the most promising of which shows
some evidence of human contact, but nothing definitive. Twice the men
find something in the wall face worth my hurried descent from the path
above, but both times it is a false alarm. I must soon face the possibility
that ground will have to be cleared, earth moved. If all of the clefts
prove valueless, and the cliff face reveals nothing, then we are left with

the inescapable conclusion that Atum-hadu's tomb is in the flat valley
basin, which will mean trenching operations, similar to Carter's
antworks on the other side of the cliff wall. Efficiency will demand sev•
eral score men if not more. An impossibility without a complete and un•
equivocal concession from the Antiquities Service.

Saturday, 4 November, 1922

Journal:
Clear five more clefts, and have the men begin physically
scraping the cliff face to a height of seven feet, 250 yards in either di•
rection from the Fragment C site. It is a necessary next step, and I
hope it will reward us, but I fear that the vast, flat desert floor now
seems a more likely hiding place for Atum-hadu. This possibility
stretches out our likely time commitment significantly. Will the Part•
nership's nerve hold for another year if necessary? Perhaps I should in•

troduce myself to Professor Winlock, discuss with him man-to-man a
partition of the Metropolitan Museum's land. He has no interest or ex•
pertise in Atum-hadu, and can cover only so much land in a season,
even with his museum's obscene resources. And he may welcome some
complimentary shares in Hand-of-Atum, Ltd., considering his ltd. suc•
cess in recent months.

Late afternoon: I descend to find I am missing Ahmed and one of
the men. They return an hour later with this tale: while I was above,
one of my workmen's cousins came to visit him at our site and bore in•
teresting news (gossip-bearing cousins being this country's chief indus•
try): Carter had found something, and my men's afternoon absence
(much s
alaammg
and "thousand pardons, Lord Trilipush") was due to
their infiltration of Carter's site, where it appears that Carter had

found .. . a stair. Good Lord, a cause for jubilation to the poor old-
timer, I am quite sure. Six years later and a stair! Ah well, he deserved
to find something, and the Earl of Carnarvon can now feel his money
was not entirely wasted.

Home to relax with the cats, some music.

The Nordquists stop for a cheering visit and we share supper. I re•
count my days, and they detail their touristic adventures. Their kind
questions and interest in my every word warm me, a welcome surprise
and marvellous tonic for my confidence.

Sunday, 5
November, 1922

Journal:
Visit bazaar, dressed in native garb (it wins me better
prices). Buy a few souvenirs — scarabs done by an excellent forger,
aged brilliantly. The merchant gamely claims they are authentic
Thothmes III. Nonsense, but it should amuse Carter, a congratulatory
token from a sand-spitting brother.

Venture on donkey out to the Valley to see Carter's stair. I feel
queer, hot and cold in turns. How wonderful for him if he has made a
find, of course.

His encampment is a ludicrously large presence squatting practi•
cally on top of Rameses VI. Finding Carter himself was rather tricky,
as he moves in the centre of a crowd of' workmen. Only calling his
name loudly caught his attention. He emerged from his throng to greet
me, dusting off his hands and usual frosty manner, an easy affectation
to maintain with Carnarvon's cash and a supporting cast of hundreds.
He should try surviving on charm alone.

"Yes, Trilipush," he says, pocketing my proffered gift of one of the
rare first editions of
Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt.
"What brings you
round?"

"I hear you've tripped over a stair, Howard. Mind if I have a look,
professional courtesy, peer review, all that?"

"Word's already out, is it?"

"You know the native love of sharing a secret."
"Yes, well, I'd rather not have visitors at this point."

"Of course not, old man, too early for a bunch of tourists and
grandees to muck up the works." And he is right, the old professional:
the thought of civilians tramping away on a new find—unspeakable. I

set off towards the spot where his workmen -were kneeling, a row of a
dozen men with screens, sifting through all of the lifted sand, rebagging
the confirmed dirt, calling for a supervisor if any shard of anything
turned up. What a production! It was a factory, a capitalist's "sweat•
shop" more than a scientific expedition. Massive archaeological waste.
No wonder Carter has burnt years at this. I finally penetrated to the
centre of the fuss and found that his one stair had been hard at it,
a la
Atum, and had multiplied with showy fertility: now a whole staircase
burrowed down into the earth, ending with a wall of stones and rub•
bish. My God, what a sight, an incredible discovery, no question, of
what I cannot say.

"Cache of plundered junk?" I asked him when he caught up with
me. "Ancient storage facility? Granary?"

"Probably," he agreed. "Well, if you will excuse me, dearest Ralph,
we have days ahead of us to clear this rubbish and gently open any
doors we might find." As I rode off, I looked over my shoulder, and he
was all energy in all directions, a remarkable sight for an old fellow, es•
pecially if his bowels were in a state anything like mine. The expres•
sions on his workers' faces were quite unlike anything my discount
team can manufacture. Of course, even in his dotage, Carter has such
an ability to make one feel completely invisible, weightless. He does not
seem to know he does it; it is precisely as if he constantly, from birth,
had given off a blinding light from his face that made everyone he
spoke to cover their eyes—how would he ever know that people were
not dazzled when he was not looking at them? Even if someone told
him, he would likely disbelieve them. "What?" he would say, looking
incredulously at yet another squinting face. "What do you mean? How
am I different?"

I need to take some air, check
poste restante.

Letter from my fiancee, dated 13 October, twenty-three days ago.

What has happened since?

A long, vindictive session of enforced closet time. Gramophone not
helpful. Fever.

Oct. 13

My Ralphie—

Strange adventures to relate, my Egyptian Lord.

A snooping nosy parker named Harold Ferrell came to our
house today. He's looking for a friend of yours. Get a load of this,
Ralphie: he says your friend is a poor Australian boy named Paul
Caldwell, an amateur Egyptologist who has lived what sounds
like a positively dreary and horrible little life. "A friend of
Ralph's?" I asked in a tone to get the point across, and then, to be
quite sure he got it, I told him that even though you were forced to
mix with all sorts of odd types in the War, this Paul Caldwell
didn't sound like your sort of friend
at all. He's
Australian, too.

The snooper, I mean. He also spent time behind closed doors with
Daddy, and I tried to put my ear to the door for you, but it was
very tiring.

You've been gone forever, it seems like. It's hard to imagine
what you do all day there in the sand. It
's
hard
to remember
hav• ing you around. The weather is turning cold here, and Inge has
me under such careful watch it's an absolute bore. J. P. O'Toole
comes around with an invitation or a present from time to time.
He sends his best to you. Oh, yes: I nearly forgot to tell you, he
asked me a favor. He said I should ask you to send
him
"any and
all news" of the excavation too, don't just send reports to Daddy,
because JP doesn't want to feel left out. Isn't that sweet? He's a
very sweet man, you know, and so generous.

That reminds me: I hope you are having success and that it is
fast. I think you are a wonderful, heroic man, Ralphie, you know I
do, but I don't like having you gone all this long time. I don't like
it at all, and I think that if there are any more of these expeditions
after we are married, I will come with you, or I will wait only at

Trilipush Hall with crowds of friends and servants, or at a hotel in