The Egyptologist

by Arthur Phillips

  7.30—An hour of backbreaking pulling before the first motion of the door is achieved and I am able to lower a small candle inside the tomb and press my eye to the space. At first my vision cannot adjust to the dark, to the haloed, wick-speared cone of the light, unstirred by any moving air, nor can I yet see what I hope to see (shadows, winking metals), and for a long moment for all of us, there is only breathless anticipation. “What do you see, curse you?” mutters Ahmed in English. “Immortality!” I say (change the epigraph from Abdullah to Ahmed, though the bugger hardly deserves his name mentioned at all).

  Finally, a space clarifies itself, walls of a dusty white, a section of a similar floor, but little else. By nightfall we have succeeded only in clearing the door far enough from its frame that we will be able tomorrow, with fresh muscles and a night’s sleep, to succeed in lowering it. I authorise Ahmed to return with extra hands and I send the men home.

  Monday, 13 November, 1922

  11.00 A.M.—Ahmed, late but with six men today, arrived at 8.30. Paid five salaries to date, and the two new men for today only. We have just now lowered the door onto its padded transport, crushing flat the transport cylinders almost at once. It must weigh, we agree, nearly 2000 pounds, and the men strained to lower it safely, and the two new men hobbled off doubled over, clutching their backs, but the job is done and I was immediately down a single step and into my chamber with an electric torch. The air—hot, thick, immobile for 3500 years—was delicious. The door had stood at the centre of one wall of a square chamber, approximately fifteen feet to a side, perhaps seven feet tall. Every surface was a uniform, smooth, yellow-white stone. Of objects, wall decoration, statuary, footprints, guardian gods, wall inscriptions, a later inventory will perhaps be able to reveal what I have been unable to see so far, alone and with my one torch. But I would say, tentatively, that of these, for the time being, I would have to say it appears probably that there is very little and conceivably none at all to speak of so far.

  I stand and write in what I am for now forced to call “the Empty Chamber” of the tomb of Atum-hadu. A map would appear thus:

  (FIG. C: THE EMPTY CHAMBER)

  Despite my explicit orders, I found Ahmed stepping into the Empty Chamber. “Out!” I cried. “This space cannot tolerate amateurs.” He did not move or acknowledge me, just swept his torch around the walls, and I watched misinterpretations infect his tiny mind. He sighed and stalked out. What difference can it make to him? He is paid for his time, surely the slower the better for salaried men. “Send the men home for the day,” I called after him. “You and four men at first light tomorrow.” For I needed the rest of today to consider and to perform careful analysis of this room.

  Now it is nightfall. I do not judge Ahmed’s reaction with harshness. I, too, might despair and write the word disappointment rather than success here, were I not better informed. Now, observe: it is precisely Ahmed’s ignorance and childishly predictable frustration that are the key issues here, the best defence that the architect of Atum-hadu’s tomb could conceive. By the flickering lamplight here in the Empty Chamber, I lay on my cot and I understand precisely what such a room means. Imagine a tomb-robber in ancient days. Though we know now that there never were robbers in this tomb, definitively none, the architects did have to plan for them. So, imagine the architect preparing for the thief. For the thief, imagine a man like Ahmed, who has with some scoundrelly mates exerted vast effort to get past the massive door they found by chance or guile. At last, skulking around so as not to be seen by whatever authorities took an interest at the time, they stumble into the transit point of the final Lord of the Nile and they find in the form of this empty room a smiling apology: “Nothing to be found here, old chum, off you go to plunder elsewhere.” For none but a keen-eyed soul mate will notice the faint outline at the back wall, nothing less than another door, nearly invisible by clear intention but indubitably there. And even R. M. Trilipush, the king’s rightful discoverer, did not notice it until nearly 8.00 P.M., his men having gone, and his own spirits a little troubled.

  (FIG. D: THE EMPTY CHAMBER, CORRECTED)

  A gentle chiselling and dusting, a few hammered wedges, and there is no question about it at all. Tomorrow we proceed deeper into this remarkable labyrinth laid out for us by our lord Atum-hadu, this puzzle which is also in its turn a solution to the different puzzle presented to the king himself, the most brilliant solution to the most horrifically complex Tomb Paradox in the history of this extraordinary land.

  Consider Quatrain 78 (ABC, from Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt, Harvard University Press, 1923):

  No falcon will spy on us, no saluki hound renowned for sight

  Will see as I take Isis roughly, her mouth and her rear.

  When Ma’at’s wet kiss is to my left and Sekhmet’s breast to my right

  Mortal enemies, thieves, traitors will all wander above us, blind in a desert sere.

  As pretty a synopsis of both the Tomb Paradox and the delights of the underworld as one could hope to find. And for any ancient lucky enough to find Atum-hadu’s entry, inside it there was only a discouraging room, apparently already plundered. Let us form an hypothesis as to how the Tomb Paradox could be honoured here: we can imagine that Atum-hadu arranged that the man who would seal the second, inside door (Door B) would be killed by the man who later sealed Door A, who in turn was marked for subsequent murder by a third man, who knew nothing of the tomb location at all, or of the purpose behind his lethal contract. Atum-hadu’s death is followed by two others, unrelated, inexplicable even to their perpetrators and hardly noticed at all in the permanent nightfall which had overtaken Egypt by the end.

  Tomorrow, we penetrate our king’s tomb, interrupt his avid intercourse with his eternal bedmates. Tonight, sleeping in his Empty Chamber, I can almost hear him, breathing steadily, sated, knowing that his camouflaging murders have been carried out to his instructions, that his women will pleasure him forever, that he was more clever than our resentful mother, Time herself.

  Tuesday, 14 November, 1922

  Ahmed returns, shamefaced, delighted with Door B. “Milord Trilipush, your falcon’s eye and bloodhound’s nose and unfailing heart are a model to us all and a symbol of all the gifts the Englishman offers Egypt.”

  We begin the same painstaking process again, but now in flickering torchlight and shirt-drenching heat, as we outline the placement of the second door. We double-check and triple-check it for seals, inscriptions, markings of any sort, and I am pleased to find none, confirming beyond any question my hypothesis as to the function of the Empty Chamber. I give each of the men a turn with the magnifying glass, and the six of us agree: blank.

  Now, two of them stand guard outside, two serve as runners to fetch water and tools as requested, while I chisel with care and precision, and Ahmed holds the torch, mostly to stop him pacing like an old woman.

  The outline of the door deepened and clarified itself quickly, as if the white-yellow wall was a very superficial camouflage and we were now into the darker dirt of complicity with our waiting king. It is clear that several crowbars will be necessary, and as there is a slight incline to the Empty Chamber—descending from the cliff path down to the second door—it will likely require a wheeled stretcher and a strong one at that to move the second door out of the tomb, and it will have to be secured on such a transport precariously on its side to fit through the space left by Door A, unless the Antiquities Service decides to leave Door B ajar, in situ, for a purist frisson in tourist season.

  Given all these complexities and the impossibility of thieves making any headway with such a barrier, I left the men to stand guard and sleep in the Empty Chamber under their vulture-cobra-sphinx-Horus-consumes bedsheets, and I returned to town. I wonder what family lives the men have that they are not expected home and can sleep in the desert on a moment’s notice.

  At the post, there is a letter from my fiancée, dated twenty-four days ago (a lifetime ago, before our find), and there is a cable from my
Master of Largesse, proving himself the worthy equal of any who ever held that title: WELL DONE! SEND DETAILS. CREDIT COMING. Purchase crowbars, food, et cetera.

  And now, from this distance, dusk on my terrace at Villa Trilipush, an anti-malarial cocktail in hand, Maggie purring on my lap, the gramophone singing, I imagine what awaits me behind Door B, the shadows cast against the white walls by the torchlight, the door behind us, the crowbars dropped in wonder. Tomorrow.

  Oct. 21

  Hey-ho, Ralphie!

  While you’re off chasing black girls around the casbah (oh, yes, sir, I went to the moving pictures the other night and now I 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 couple 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, reciting 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 I? 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 suppose 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’t you? 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, 15 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, attempting 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 prematurely 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 medications, 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, practically 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 incredible 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 scientific 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 realised 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 behind my e
yes.

  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 science. 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 afternoon on the 16th, I was finally able to hobble about and place lanterns in the new second chamber. Unfortunate Door B is a particularly terrible loss considering its inscription, which read in excellent hieroglyphs: