The Egyptologist (37 page)

know
exactly
what drew you to Egypt and Arabia, my wicked
Sheik), I won't just sit on my behind listening to Inge talk about
the hard winters of Iceland, mister.

I've been able to spend some very happy evenings at JP's place,
of which, I know, you
simply do not approve.
I wonder which it

is that you do not approve: JP's place, or me having happy
evenings. Honestly, you 'd think I was a convicted criminal or
something the way I'm treated around here.

It might interest you to know that JP introduced me to a friend
of his, now let's see, what was his name, tip of my tongue, yes,
now I have it: Cornelius Macy. Well, I'd say Cornelius has taken
quite a shine to me, and
quite
a dancer. Four nights in a row he's
been there, since he met me on Tuesday. JP was saying that this

Corny fellow is worth absolute barrels of cash. He certainly dresses
like a tycoon. I could do with barrels of cash, oh yes I could, Mister
Trilipush!

Settle down, Limey. He don't mean anything to me, you 're my
only true explorer Hero.

That snoop is being friendly to me too. I don't know what I
think of it. He's nothing to look at, I'll tell you that for free. A cou•
ple of days after we first met him, I was going out to a little party
I'd heard about with some girlfriends, just like the old days, but
when I left the house, there he was waiting, the snoop, and he
said, "Come on, I'll take you for a drink. "A girl doesn't need to
hear that twice.

What will you bring your Queen from over there ? I know, I
know: the tomb will be filled with jewelry a million years old. And
it's true that Egyptian stuff is very fashionable right now, so that
will be nice. But won't that stuff be musty and used? A girl doesn't
really like wearing a
museum
piece around her neck, you know,
Ralphie.

No, he's nothing to look at, the snoop. Carrot-topped and all
bumpy. He's shy, though, around me, can't look me in the eye.

That's a sure sign they're getting weak in the knees. You were the
exception to that, my Hero, looking at me bold as anything, recit•
ing your dirty poems. But this one, he takes me to JP's when I feel
like it, when I'm bored and need a night out, and he's like a little
puppy dog. But I can tell you something, he says he'
s
looking for
the poor Australian kid, but he's real curious about
you. I
think part of it is he wants to know if I have room in my heart for a new
fellow. Oh, don't you worry, Ralphie, just come home soon! I'm
teasing you terribly, aren't l? But see it from my place.
You' re
having the adventures. I'm treated like a convict all because I'm a
little tiny bit unwell right now.

Have you found the treasure yet, I wonder? What do you sup•
pose the walls of Atum-hadu's tomb look like? When I think about
his poetry, boy oh boy, you have to think that his tomb is going to
be quite a show. Don't get any ideas, mister, or at least nothing
you can't hold on to until you get back. I
am
waiting, you know,
pure as snow for you, Hero.

Of course, you 're an awfully long way away, aren'tyou ?And I
haven't heard a
peep
out of you since you jumped on that boat,
waving your hat at me. I keep your book next to my bed, and your
picture, too, the one of you in your explorer's duds. I fall asleep
imagining you reading me your wicked, hungry king's poems.

Sometimes I wake up and see Inge reading your book. No surprise
there.

How much longer do you think you'll be? It's a bore here and I
blame you. I was never ever bored with you, even when we were
doing boring things like staring at another pharaoh's old, broken
chair in a museum. But now do let's get on with it, Ralphie. I

want to be married. I deserve better than this, don't I? I deserve
what you promised me. I don't like being here anymore, I don't
like Inge or even Daddy right now.

So there!
m.

Wednesday, I5 November, 1922, Villa Trilipush

Rise before dawn.

Back at the site just after sunrise, bringing food, water, two more
electric torches. Roused with gentle kicks my men huddled in the
Empty Chamber.

And again, into the breach! Placing wedges, using crowbars, at•
tempting to drive hooks, straining backs, kicking stronger cylinders
back into place, while the men in increasing volume voice complaints of
palms blistering on slipping ropes (forgot to buy them gloves), pushing
on the left, pulling on the right.

Lunch. Need heavy equipment which I cannot yet afford or openly
bring to my site. It is a question of overcoming this difficult angle,
which makes the door seem even heavier. Or, I need to behave with
less responsibility to my find and simply smash my door to pieces. That
I will not do, despite the excitement. We dig to preserve.

Our progress is excruciating, almost imperceptible in our aches and
bruises and sticky, fiery burst blisters. At dusk I send the men home
and I collapse on a cot in the odd draughts and patchy warmth of the
Empty Chamber.

Thursday, 16 November, 1922

Margaret:
3.30 in the morning and I write by lamp, sleep prema•
turely finished with my aching body. I can no longer sleep for more
than four hours a night, and fitfully at that. I think of you, horribly far
just now, my sweet and trusting thing, despite all your hardships, the
odd world your father's money has built around you, the fog of medica•
tions, the troublesome mood swings, this odd duck Ferrell attempting
to yank you out of my affections, the tedious company of Inge, whom I
agree, it is possible, may have slid into your father's grasp.

Journal:
Afternoon. With more hours of labour, the door has slid
slightly out towards us, creeping a grain of sand at a time, and by early

afternoon, I am able to peer through a crack: gold, no question, practi•
cally my own startled eye reflected back at me. Give the men a short
rest to prepare for the final heave. "Why not a sledgehammer?" asks
Ahmed in English, and I am astounded to see he is serious. It is incredi•
ble to me how little these people understand what we are trying to do
for them. I begin to explain the foundations of archaeology, but I must
preserve my strength and I can see he is not terribly interested.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 16, 17, 18 November,

written Saturday, 18 November, 1922

Journal:
Victories and temporary, minor setbacks. Excruciating
pain.

On the 16th, another hour of heavy work with crowbars and ropes
resulted in a pyrrhic victory: we had achieved the position described
above, and Ahmed was a stern and helpful foreman; he saw a certain
sureness in my face, and I had his attention now. After the break, we
set to our work with a fury. I drove us too hard, I see now, my own
fault. Two men on each side of the door, throwing their full strength
against the bars, and Ahmed and I in the front with ropes, pulling until
our gloves were as hot as fire—and then, to my shame, it happened:
first it was a sound, a horrible sound, the rush of events overtaking sci•
entific control. To a superstitious ear (as some of those in the chamber
certainly were), a booming cry from the past accompanied by a rush of
hot air (perhaps they thought it was Atum-hadu's angry breath upon
us) and the shouts in English of my frustration, and then the shattering
of the massive door as it pitched forward and burst against the hard
floor, a million grey marbles skittering in all directions like shrapnel,
then the screaming—of one of the men, cut very slightly over the eye
by flung stone—and only then the pain, the excruciating pain as I re•
alised my own foot 'was inside the perimeter where the door had
crashed and exploded. Hobbling, bleeding, the toes crushed, the side of
my boot burst, so be it and no matter—I was into the next chamber in a
flash, my electric torch lighting a path here, there, up and down each

wall, invading each corner as the electric pain from my foot flashed be•
hind my eyes.

The curses in Arabic were extreme, those that I could understand,
and I thought at first they must be coming from the wounded man, but
they were falling from the mouth of Ahmed, cursing fate and the West
and Egypt (for in his blindness, he saw only another empty room). His
greed for gold feeds his frustrations; he lacks the temperament for sci•
ence. What Carter and Marlowe and I share is simply not an Egyptian
trait.

I ordered Ahmed and two others to take the injured man back to
town to see to his wound, and to return in twenty-four hours, and I
kept one man with me for the painstaking work ahead and to assist
with my own injuries.

My man pulled off my boot, and I nearly bit through my cheek at
the pain. Some of the hotel's sheets and the water were sacrificed to
washing and wrapping my hideous, bloodied foot. By late in the after•
noon on the 16th, I was finally able to hobble about and place lanterns
in the new second chamber. Unfortunate Door B is a particularly terri•
ble loss considering its inscription, which read in excellent hieroglyphs:

ATUM-HADU, LORD OF THE NILE, SPITS UPON HIS PURSUERS,
WH O TOO LATE DISTURB HIM, AND WH O WILL PAY A HORRIBLE
PRICE FOR THE INTRUSION.

The inscription was a splendid proof, should there remain anyone at
this late date who questions our premises or accomplishments. I hope
we will be able to reconstruct it from the pieces of the shattered door,
but I fear it is lost. I blame myself, and the fools at the Antiquities Ser•
vice who bound me in this position and have now extracted from my
foot their pound of flesh.

My fast-swelling foot forced me to put off exploration of the new
chamber and I spent the evening changing again and again the sopping
dressing—an ugly wound indeed, though of course, a small price for

our discovery. I sent the man away for his own rest, some more water,
and a cane, but I could not in good conscience return to my villa or see
a doctor until I had mapped the tomb's new chamber. Sleep was nearly
impossible.

17 November came, a flicker of light, and as my man was not yet
back, I again washed and wrapped my foot with another strip of bed-
sheet and the last of my drinking water. A fair problem I found in the
murky dawn light: the two outside toes were certainly broken, as were,
judging by the purple swelling, a bone or two or three in the foot itself.
The cuts were mostly superficial, my boot having served as armour, but
the skin was split in a few places and the sheet was brown. I finished
my nursing and stumbled off to explore what we will temporarily refer
to as the "Chamber of Confusion."

This second chamber is as superficially empty as the Empty Cham•
ber. And so one must conclude that Atum-hadu and his anonymous
tomb architect decided that any robber who breached the Empty
Chamber, discovered the ominous curse written on Door B, and yet
was strong enough to forge on could be dissuaded only by total frustra•
tion, as neither fear nor obstacles had so far stopped him, and so the
king and his builder likely decided not to bother with further curses or
obstruction but merely attempted to convince a potential burglar that
he was absolutely wasting his time. Thus, another bare room. Of
course, no observer ever made it so far, so while I admire Atum-hadu's
craftiness, it was, in retrospect, quite superfluous.

At any rate, my tomb is now laid out thus: