The Egyptologist (43 page)

cetera. "And contemporary artworks, too, of course," he whispered,
picking up speed and confidence. "I'm not, you know, a stick-in-the-
mud conservative, not a, not a . . ." But he could not think of the thing
that he was not, too eager to untie the portfolios of photography:
nothing so surprising, nothing you could not see in the Army or in
backroom bazaars the world over, even in Boston. Nothing so uncom•
mon, but for the predominance of his daughter's nurse as a model.
"Inge has a rare understanding of the art of the human form."

"Very impressive, Chester."

"Thank you, Ralph. I knew that you would understand, as a
scholar. As you can see, though, I lack, sadly, anything of Egyptian
providence. And, from what I read and hear from other collectors,
there are items kept in the basement of the Louvre and your own
British Museum that make the case for your ancient Egypt as a very
mature artistic society." Finneran peeped through a hole into his office,
then pushed open the door and guided me quickly back through his
bookshelf. He sat at his desk, mopped his head with a kerchief, crossed
his arms, and arrived at the predictable point. "It seems to me, Ralph,
that—" And all at once a perfect symphony of church bells and chiming
clocks started to cascade, beginning from his desk to his wall clock, to
pendulums all over the house, and then to the twelve o'clock perfor•
mances of steeples from one side of Boston Common to the other. It must
have been some sort of feast day for the locals, because at least two
minutes passed while drunken belfry men and savant hunchbacks up
and down the city vied for our ears with tinkling and crashing composi•
tions, each ending with twelve booming cannon shots, but staggered

(as if each church was just slightly in its own time zone) so that at least
sixty closely spaced explosions thundered by before Finneran could
muster the nerve to whisper his conclusion. " —your particular speciali•
sation and my artistic and cultural tastes intersect here." Another one
of these sad men who cannot see the distinction (vast, elemental) be•
tween what I study and respect, and what they consume, thirst for,
consume, thirst for. "And so, if you were to find, as you certainly will,
any examples of ... " I wondered if his secret was known to his daugh-

ter. "Of course," he interrupted himself to answer my unspoken
thought, "a single word of this side transaction to anyone would mean
an instant end to our little financial arrangements, make no mistake."

This is the man who for mysterious reasons—for
no
reason—has
abandoned me in midexpedition. That he would do this to me, leave me
in this fix, fall under the sway of some itinerant liar. A
nouveau riche
pornographer who would have made of his daughter's fiance a smut
procurer. He and his hoodlum chums. Silent O'Toole, the kleptomaniac
who pocketed one of CCF's silver coasters in front of him at the in•
vestors' meeting. Kovacs with his perpetually wet eyes, as if his con•
science is so sodden with his crimes that he weeps the tears of his
victims on their behalf.

The whole town is jabbering of Carter's find. The rumours were
deliriously implausible, and rightly so, since only the imagination of the
underemployed,
chicha
-puffing Egyptian could conceive of such mar•
vels as the fairy stories I heard today. And the rumours moved with
great velocity. For example, I mentioned in passing to a fruit vendor
that if I were Carnarvon, I should simply land a small 'plane in the Val•
ley and fly my loot back to the British Museum, not give the Egyptians
one bit of it. Sure enough, by the time I was in another district, where I
finally found a haberdasher with a homburg my size, a finely coifed,
trim-bearded Egyptian customer was telling
me
that Lord Carnarvon
had last night landed three aeroplanes in the Valley and was running a
series of flights every night, carrying Egyptian treasure out of the
country to his estate in England, where (I informed the bearded ass)
His Lordship kept slaves, a perquisite of the British peerage. He nod•
ded, unsurprised.

Finally find a moustache trimmer. I purchased this last item from a
barber, a muscleman-Mussulman of such massive strength, it is by
Allah's grace that he has not yet inadvertently crushed the heads of any
of his clientele. I asked him, considering his strength, if he would be in•
terested in working on an excavation of one of the most famous of the
ancient kings. He declined: "I am very sorry, Mr. Carter, sir." A laugh•
able and not entirely complimentary error. He continued: "But I have

heard of the marvels you have found and if I might send to you my
cousin?" Agreed, address given, and I can begin at last rebuilding my
team.

I headed back to Carter's site, as I was now prepared to execute a
rather brilliant plan to settle my expedition's financial crisis. There in
the sand I found the Earl of Carnarvon and two natives standing over
Lady Evelyn, who was having a go with a brush and a small, ladylike
shovel. With a titter of surprise, she stood up holding a shard of pot•
tery. Honestly, you just have to bend over and kick at the dirt around
there to find something.

I left them to their fun. Carter's command tent was an interesting, if
gaudy, sight, a nice effect, I suppose, if you have confused yourself with
Caesar. The handsome Lett's #46 diary seems to be his calendar/log of
choice, and tomorrow seems to be the official opening of Tut's tomb.

Quite a guest list, including me, of course.

Back outside, I fell into conversation with one of the many journal•
ists lingering about the site, confused. I stood with him at the
balustrade directly above the pit (such vanities! Tourist-restraining
balustrades!), and I was helping him understand what he was seeing,
the procedures, and helping him place Carter's discovery in historical
context for his newspaper article—those excavations that outshone it in
the past, those that were still expected, Tut's relative obscurity and
unimportance in Egyptian history. His affected manner of journalistic
integrity was to treat everything he was told as if it were a lie. Helping
the illiterate with his spelling, I overheard directly below me a conver•
sation between Carter, Carnarvon, and some other Englishman. Carter
was saying: "In light of the discovery and its magnitude, and in light of
His Lordship's selfless commitment and that of his family over the

years, I believe the Government should consider recompensing His
Lordship for—"

"Tut's a minor king? Why all the gold and treasure then?" demands
the infantile journalist, snatching at my attention.

But the gist was clear: repaid for his six years' wager on Carter's
slow work, His Lordship will be looking to reinvest in a new expedi-

tion. I had confirmation of my plan's premises. I shall haul my expedi•
tion's finances out of their dreary state, and at the same time—not
wishing to burn any bridges with my father-in-law-to-be—push CCF
to see the value of the work he is endangering with his jackal-hearted
miserdom.

On the necessity of human emotion in scientific research:
This is a
simple story, and if I choose to include it in the finished book, it will be
with Lord Carnarvon's kind, condescending approval and CCF's
sheepish, after-the-fact amusement, no question. Everyone will look
good, except perhaps Carter, who is becoming insufferable since his lit•
tle stroke of luck.

When Carnarvon was left with a cup of tea trying to look involved
or educated, vacantly examining the lintel at the bottom of the stairs, I
made my excuses to the ink-stained pressboy and called His Lordship's
name. He climbed up to the viewers' gallery in his halting fashion. "I
really shouldn't grant interviews, this is Mr. Carter's accomplishment,
pure and simple," he began amiably, mugging like a circus clown.

I reminded His Daffiness that we had met yesterday. He is really a
marvellous example of the English peerage.

"Of course, of course, the fellow with the dirty king. Well, I do like
the hat, sir," he says. "Rather more casual in my day, when I did a spot
of this. All you digging chaps do dress to the nines nowadays."

"Yes, the old homburg. Sets an example of composure for the na•
tives."

"Are you the banker, sir?" interrupts the journalist I had left behind,
jabbing his pen at Carnarvon.

"Well that's a new one, I must say," laughs the jolly lord, and after
he repeats his little caveat that it is all Carter's show, he nevertheless
gives a lengthy interview while I wait as patiently as I can.

At last the reporter, all bowing and scraping to an English peer — no
more put-on air of doubt for Carnarvon, oh no—rambles off to misun•
derstand or exaggerate something else.

"Lord Carnarvon, if I might still have a word. I have a small token
of my esteem." I presented him with one of the rare 1920 first editions

of Desire and Deceit,
inscribed, "To the Earl of Carnarvon — Patron, Ex•
plorer, Friend of Egypt, a true Master of Largesse, from his admiring
colleague R. M. Trilipush."

"Lovely gift, very kind," says the gawky millionaire.
"Well, Your Lordship — "

"Please, call me Porchy."

"Very well. Porchy, you may not know, but I am quite close to an — "
"Where are you from, old boy? "

"Kent, Your Lordship. Military and explorer family, small family
holdings there, modest manor house."

"Really? Must stop and see the place. Adore that part of the coun•
try."

"Well, Porchy, we should be delighted to host you. Now, as Carter
may have told you, I am quite, quite close to an astounding find, the
tomb of King Atum-hadu, a discovery which, with all due respect,
might well outshine whatever Howard is dusting off underground

just now. With your support, and my reputation—well, I am not talk•
ing about six years here. I would be able to give our friend Carter a
run for his money — by which I mean your money, of course. I am
talking about perhaps a month from start to finish, and I see us
achieving — "

"My God, man, what have you done to that peg of yours?"
"Oh nothing at all. Hardly aches."

"Better watch something like that in this climate." (Very solicitous,
the Earl, but almost pathologically distractible.)

"Thanks, but Atum-hadu, you see, was likely the last Theban king
of the XIIIth Dynasty, when Hyksos invaders were rampaging
throughout the — "

"Real king, was he? Historical? Carter says he was a fantasy figure,
apocryphal, bit of a King Arthur imagined by de Sade. Product of later
poets, or some such, the old Egyptian nostalgia, artistic mischief."

"Arthur and de Sade? Very droll, our Carter."

"Am I?" And sure enough the jealous man had snuck up on our pri•
vate conversation, had somewhere learnt to approach in total silence

like an assassin. And before I could say another word, he led Carnar•
von off to inspect some Tutty relic or other. "We should speak again
soon, Porchy," I called, assuming the poor man could untangle himself
from his clinging nursemaid. In fact, Carter seemed conspiratorially in•
tent on keeping me away from Lord Cashbags, even as he glided with
that usual Carter superciliousness, effortlessly exclusive, but now
rather exposed for what it is: an act covering fear and envy. I stood in
the dust and heat in my hat and jacket and tie, my trimmed moustache
and walking stick, and off padded Carter, dressed like me but still
clutching my next patron, as if Carter had never gone and asked for
money himself, as if he merely nodded when the Earl came to him on
bended knee and pleaded for permission to stuff Carter's pockets with
cash. Perhaps that is how it happened.

Interesting, too, how assiduously Carter had sought to belittle my
work behind my back, not just my work, but history itself. How
quickly he would lie to Porchy that Atum-hadu was not. Restrained,
silent, nasty, and now dishonest.

His type, how they make you feel, like you are incapable of count•
ing the fingers in front of your face, or even being certain that they are
fingers. Even now, as I sit here on the bluff noting the day's events, it is
as if I am not holding a pen. As if I did not publish a work of Egyptol•
ogy. As if all I have accomplished was accomplished in a darkened
room, alone. As if Carter and Carnarvon and ter Breuggen know some•
thing they do not speak aloud but know that I do not know and never
will. As if theirs is a silent, expressionless laughter transmitted invisibly
from one to another and only for an instant, before they turn away to
focus on their celestial tasks, tasks I only
believe
I understand. As I only
believe
this to be a pen making notes on a Lett's #-46. As I only believe I
exist and do my relevant work. As I only believe I can judge what goes
on around me or in me. "But no." They smile without moving their lips.
"You cannot." Lars Philip-Thurm's smug critique of
Desire and Deceit,
right here in my wallet: "Trilipush digs, but I will not call him an ar•
chaeologist. He writes, but I cannot call it scholarship. I do not know
what to call this, but it is not of the field I serve."