The Egyptologist

by Arthur Phillips

  ATUM-HADU, LORD OF THE NILE, SPITS UPON HIS PURSUERS,

  WHO TOO LATE DISTURB HIM, AND WHO 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 Service 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 bedsheet 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 Chamber. 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 frustration, 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:

  (FIG. E: MAP OF ATUM-HADU’S TOMB AS OF 17 NOV., ’22)

  Were it not for the (lost) inscription on Door B and the seductress’s song of Door C, my own confusion and despair might at this point have matched those of the hypothetical ancient robber.

  It was late in the morning of the 17th before my man was back with bandages, water, food, and a cane, curved at the top like a royal sceptre and crafted of a strong, dark wood. “Do you know he smashed a foot on the dig and then, cool as you like, merely sent for a cane while he carried on? The cane’s on display at the Explorers’ in Cairo.”

  The cane was a help, as with every step my foot throbbed out a perpetual echo to the fallen door’s impact. I ate, drank, and finished my magnifying glass inspection of the Chamber of Confusion, confirming its brilliant “possum” design, but for the very faint but unmistakable outline of Door C, quite blank.

  With my one man’s help (Ahmed and the other three were late in returning), I commenced dusting and chiselling around Door C, the same slow work of chisel, brush, mallet, wedge, brush, chisel, brush, mallet, wedge, brush. I was feeling terribly weak, perhaps even a bit feverish, no doubt from excitement at what was behind this last remarkable door. And, two or three times, I hobbled back outside, where I was slightly ill. Twice also, at least, I was so exhausted that I slept uneasily on one of the cots in the Empty Chamber, trying to make up for many lost hours. Night fell on the 17th with me having slept most of the day away, and I awoke—as was my unfortunate habit, and Atum-hadu’s as well—in the earliest, dark hours. The 18th. I could hear but not see my one loyal man asleep in a dark corner, but the others had still not returned. I went outside to consider the stars above Deir el Bahari.

  I will not say I was cheerful in this night watch.

  Dawn of the 18th finally arrived, and the pale light revealed that I was alone; I had evidently misconstrued the echoes of my own breath as that of a loyal worker who was not there. I noted that Ahmed and the others were now eighteen hours late. The possibility of betrayal occurred to me, the cowardice and avarice of the local workforce a constant threat. With no immediate gratification to astound their eyes, abandonment was a likely explanation. So be it. I decided that I would continue alone to prepare Door C, despite my wound, thirst, hunger, and justifiable rage. Then I would cover up the front of the tomb with stacked rocks and mud, return to Luxor, present my discovery to the local Antiquities Service Inspector, and accept my scolding as well as the men and technical support they would issue me as a result of my discovery. In particular, wiring electric lights into the tomb would be of great assistance, ridding the space of torch and lantern smoke and greatly increasing the number of hours in a row that work can be conducted without being forced outside for fresh air.

  Late in the afternoon of the 18th, today, Ahmed returned with three of the men. Their apologies were profuse, and they were delighted to see the outline of Door C. The injured man had required care, Ahmed had stayed at the villa until the cats had arrived and taken nourishment, and then Ahmed and the men had obtained, on their own inspiration, tools they thought would be helpful in “our shared task.” To wit: two massive sledgehammers. I was touched by their efforts, but I could not help but laugh at their expressions when I asked them the elementary question: what would happen to the treasures just on the other side of Door C, if we were to use their door-smashing technique?

  And so I left Ahmed and one other man to stand watch for the night while I relied on the other two to help me back to Villa Trilipush, hoping, with every jarring, bone-shredding step of the cruel donkey, that I would soon travel to my site with easy candour in full daylight, blessed by the buffoons in charge, the Hyksos of modern times, who drive men to such necessary deception.

  Villa Trilipush, at least, did not disappoint: a hot bath, a drink or two, new bandages on a foot which is now far too large to fit into a boot, and I bring this journal up to date.

  Later now. My man has returned from the post, where a letter and cable awaited me. Cable: CCF congratulating me and alerting me that he has authorised credit transfer and requesting I send him immediately a catalogue of the finds, “esp. items of private, personal interest.” The letter was from the Luxor bank, confirming CCF’s cable: a credit to my account from the USA had been made two days ago, on Thursday the 16th—an amount only one-eighth, to the disastrous piastre, of the expected and painstakingly agreed-upon monthly payment under a Preliminary Team Budget, and twenty-five days late for good measure. After my recent expenses and extended promises, CCF’s octro-deposit registers as scarcely more than the faint aroma of funds.

  It is a staggering betrayal. I would like to credit him with some sort of logic, some reason, but of course he has none. Does he mean to make up the difference at the next scheduled wire, 22 November? I spend an anxious time trying to untangle his thoughts, which were perhaps—it must be at least considered—corrupted by the sinister Ferrell. CCF is obviously under the sway of a dark influence. I have means to force his cooperation, of course, but that is not at all how I would wish for this partnership to function. Why is he doing this to me? I search in vain for a reason to explain why my wretched, skinflint Master of Largesse has not lived up to his limited requirements, and has instead probably slithered off to some Boston gin palace to burn Atum-hadu’s necessary finances on bootleg alcohol and flappers in the company of his hoodlum chums and Scandinavian concubine.

  My loyal man is still outside waiting for my orders. I send him back to the post with my considered reply to CCF: HAVE OPENED SECOND GLORIOUS CHAMBER DESPITE SHAMEFUL PENURY. NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR PETTINESS, WITH YOUR SPECIALISED COLLECTION AT STAKE. Much needed rest. I will sleep like the dead, and tomorrow charge back into battle, with whatever weapons remain. I will not be deterred.

  Sunday, 19 November, 1922r />
  3.55 A.M.—Wrote too soon. No sleep, but the foot is positively numb, a welcome blessing.

  The night is black. Atum-hadu’s solution to the Tomb Paradox—the solution that has so far choked me with dust and claimed a foot—is so elegant and yet still out of my grasp. Hidden doors. False dead ends to throw off robbers. There is more, something I cannot see. What did he decide under these stars? One must put oneself in his place.

  He walks the illuminated, nearly abandoned halls of his Theban palace, throws himself in restless agitation from golden throne to carved couch. Does His Lordship wish to see acrobats? I do not. Does the incarnation of Osiris seek company? I do not. Does the celestial lover of Ma’at wish to ride a camel, feed a tiger, flay a prisoner, swing from the hanging bars, play on an elephant’s trunk, caress the giraffe? I do not. My royal concerns tonight overwhelm me and deny me my sleep. Tonight, after only a few minutes considering my predicament, Horus extracts his tribute with more cruelty than usual. It is an anagram in the language of my future friend: Horus demands hours, hours spent clutching my aching belly, burning in shame and fiery solitude, unapproachable, precious hours of my dwindling mortal span, for which my falcon-headed protector will repay me how? How can my final journey be made? It is coming soon, no question, seen off either by Hyksos arrows or by the poisoned blade of one of my crumbling court’s proliferating traitors or by this crocodile growing every day inside my belly, who will at last eat my stomach if I have not secured it in an underground jar in time.

  Now I have awoken to the setting sun; I have lost another whole day to my injury and exhaustion. My foot weighs one hundred pounds. My head is pinched between a giant’s fists. My stomach roars in fury, and several minutes doing its bidding do not suffice in placating its rage.

  It is dark before one of my loyal idiots thinks to check on me. They have spent the day sitting in the Empty Chamber gossiping. A day has passed, they were paid and did not find my absence strange. I send the man back to assure a guard is kept on Atum-hadu’s tomb all night, and to have the men ready at dawn tomorrow for a final push into the last chamber and our just reward. He also has a letter he collected from my poste restante. From my fiancée, dated 2 November. The crossing of letters in the post is a particularly cruel game.

  Nov. 2

  My dear Ralph,

  I will be brief. I need a letter from you very soon. I’m worried by things here, and I need to hear you telling me everything will be fine and explaining everything.

  The snoop is still here. For a while I thought he was harmless and even some fun. He’s not a bad dancer and he kept me company. And I know he’s taken a shine to me, and that’s some fun in this gray weather. I can manage fellows like him. But there’s a problem. He’s told Daddy things that I’ve heard, and he’s told me things. He makes it sound like he’s just talking, but I know he’s trying to tell me something about you. He asked me about Oxford, and I told him easily a hundred times that you were there with Marlowe and you left to go fight for Democracy after your M.A. but before your Ph.D., and Oxford said that was OK. Ferrell asked for a picture of you and Marlowe together, and I showed him the one you gave me, of you boys in your digging duds, with your arm around his shoulder, you grinning and Marlowe pretending to look all serious and above-it-all, but this Ferrell just says, “Of course.” He’s a little ratty, if you ask me. I hope you’re not cross about the picture.

  I don’t feel very well lately, Ralphie. I don’t want you to worry, it’s just that I don’t feel very well, like things are getting the better of me again. I always think of you as the one who makes me feel healthy, and that’s true, it’s just that you’ve been away a long time, so it’s hard. I miss you a lot, but some days you feel so far away, like you can’t help me, so I might as well be sick. So don’t worry, it’s nothing, it’s just that, that’s all, that I miss you.

  Ferrell’s gone in to talk to Daddy in Daddy’s study once or twice, and I try to listen for you but I’m not much of a snoop. And when I’ve asked Daddy what it was all about, all he said was “We’ll see.” And when we go to JP’s, Ferrell doesn’t drink much so he doesn’t talk, and then I get bored being your girl detective because after all that’s not fair to make me do, is it? It’s a bore.

  Can you tell Daddy again that you went to Oxford? And this snoop, Harry, keeps looking at me with a wolf-face, and saying things like “Well you never know” and “Things ain’t always what they seem, especially with poms.” Poms he calls the English. He’s jealous. I hate him for not respecting you like I do. I love you, Ralph, because everything about you is real even though it’s exciting, and everything about him is a lie even though it’s boring, and that’s why he hates you and makes out to Daddy like there are things about you that aren’t true.

  Don’t worry. Inge is going to cure me of my little things and I’m getting better every day and it will be just as I promised by our wedding day, all cured. But I need you around to help me do that, OK? You’re my best doctor. I can get better with you around to keep me busy and happy, so come home now, please. Bored is bad for me, really bad for me.

  If there’s something you want to tell me, I would listen, you know. Anything you told me would be OK. Just like you’d still love me no matter what you learned about me, right? I don’t want to know anything more about it, just put everything back the way it was. As soon as you can.

  I’ll be healthy and so very good to you, just for you. But you have to come home now.

  Your girl.

  m.

  (Sunday, 19 November, 1922, continued)

  What is all this? Did I already know of all this? Did my cable telling you he was a liar and a stranger reassure you after this? If this is nothing but misunderstandings exacerbated by crossed letters, then more letters will only distort things further, each one passing the next, curdling it into nonsense as they float blindly past each other. What is going on there now, right this moment? I am reading of events of long ago, of extinguished stars. I cannot understand who Ferrell is, or how he has crept into my family’s bosom.

  You will be well, you will be well, you will be well. I will it. I have never doubted it, never worried. Once, only. At the museum that rainy day in June, I worried. I have never told you.

  I escorted you to the Museum of Fine Arts, Inge still a silent, hovering valkyrie, though by now I had noticed in her face the expressions of an incurable debauchery, particularly as we passed the magnificent Maiherpri loincloth (and I tried in vain to interest you in how Carter had stumbled upon it way back in ’02).

  As we gazed at the statue of the ram-headed god Herishef, I told you how as a boy I had dreamt of opening tombs even before I knew what the dreams meant, even before I knew the word tomb or had ever read of excavations. Before I even had the vocabulary to explain it, my imagination produced the most wonderful things in my sleep: comforting caves filled with lights and warmth and sleeping bodies in soft beds, animals and friends and food and happiness, always in a safe, enclosed place, far from danger. I was probably three or four at the most, and my claustrophilia had begun.

  And I explained to you the displays we were passing, even as I noticed you were needing to rest more often. I described Harvard and its conservative faith in old excavators using old methods. As recently as 1915, I was telling you, Lyman Story still wanted to use TNT for his expedition for this very museum! “Harvard is not ready for Atum-hadu or for me,” I said, “but they will be.” I turned to you, and you were shaking: out of sympathy for my trials, or from the beauty of the relics? “Nothing to worry, sir,” says businesslike Inge, already leading you off to the ladies’ lounge. Twenty minutes limped by, but then out you came, fresh as anything, lovely, ready for a day of shopping and eating. You had never looked so lovely and fresh, but you did not seem to recall anything of the last hour, including the stories of my childhood. Oh, my love, your father told me you will be well. The doctors have told him you will be well. I know you will be well. You must have faith in that, and you must ha
ve faith in me. At night, alone, it is difficult to have faith, I know. But you must. Ferrell is smoke.

  And I will make what you so endearingly call my “Find,” no matter the obstacles, no matter the misunderstandings or outright treachery, the yellow fog of crisscrossed letters. Your father is confused about me, or he was, but this will pass, if it has not already, and not another word need be spoken. On 19 November, your Ralph was thinking about you with love, no matter your father’s passing worries, no matter the curse of Ferrell you are suffering on my account. You will read this when I come home, and we will compare notes, and laugh at the distortions of time and distance and postage.

  Since Trilipush’s find, I found Boston suddenly chilly. There was neither money nor love here. I had only that tongue-lashing I took from Finneran and Margaret’s refreshed insistence that Trilipush and only Trilipush was everything to her. Days passed and I didn’t hear from Margaret and I no longer went to their home. I was ready to wash my hands of the cursed Finnerans. If Trilipush had found his dirty gold, either he’d come home or he wouldn’t, and you know what my bet was. It made no difference to me, because if he’d killed Paul Caldwell, I’d go to Egypt to prove it, to shout it loud enough for even the stubborn Finnerans to hear round the world.

  I spent slow, empty days checking my transcripts, redrafting notes, submitting my reports and expenses to London, interviewing another of Trilipush’s students, or explaining to HQ why my pursuit of Paul Davies had required so much time in Boston. I hardly think they cared. I wrote my other clients, telling Tommy Caldwell, Emma Hoyt, Ronald Barry, and the Marlowes of my progress.

  I would sit in my hotel, doing this busywork, waiting for the day to head to New York, hoping Margaret would come looking for me one last time, or if, in some anger, I finally saw that that was unlikely, I was just waiting for news, for anything. I felt that something clear and clarifying would happen; there’d come a moment when it would be obvious that the time had come for me to move on to Egypt or, instead, to stay close to Margaret’s side, to protect her, to catch her in the storm that was sure to come. I was a young man, Macy. Something could’ve changed with her. Life could’ve taken any number of turns, you know. And so if I sometimes stood outside her home, raging in the dark, I know you can understand that, as a man of the world.