The Egyptologist

by Arthur Phillips

  “What’s the book, CCF?”

  “Milking mother of Christ, I will roast him alive,” he mumbled, rocking it madly back and forth.

  “Hello, Daddy. Is your meeting over?” She had appeared unheard behind us. “Hello, Ralphie. How’d you make out with Boston’s plutocrats?”

  “My lovely darling,” I say. “You are a sight of unimaginable beauty.”

  “We’re busy. Scram,” snarls the ever-engaging master of the house, crouching now and rounding his gorilla rear for our delectation, for when I turned back from her I found CCF on his knees, tipping his head, browsing a lower shelf, well below the book he had been massaging when she interrupted.

  “A rose of the finest colour,” I continued, “the walking fragrance of springtime.” And she was that day, damn everything, and healthy, too. I should have turned on my heel, ignored my monstrous patron and his driving urges, and simply swept her up there and then. I could have taken her off right then, ended all this right where it mattered most, forgotten all the rest of this and just won her as my wife. No, no, she would never have had me, not then, not without a victory. But she was clean and clear that day. She will be still, if I can somehow win the chance to be back with her, successful somehow.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, Perfesser,” says Finneran and summons Inge to pull Margaret out of the room and haul her around the Garden for some fresh air. The moment the oak door shut on his den he was back on his feet, furiously tipping that first book up and down again. An instant later there was a scratching at the locked door that provoked in Finneran a sort of spasm in his back and cheek. “Christ’s kidneys and spleen!” he shouted, or some such Celto-Catholic nonsense, and vaulted past me to open the door, but it was only one of Margaret’s spaniels, who paid dearly for the interruption.

  “Finally!” he bellowed, after returning to his hypnotic task, as the bookshelf emitted an audible click and moved a fraction of an inch, dislodged by some spring mechanism under that sluggish book. Finneran put his shoulder to one edge of the bookcase and turned the whole six-shelf structure on its centre axis, opening it enough for him to squeeze his girth through. He beckoned me to follow. With the portal closed again behind us (apparently relying on that same untrustworthy spring to release us someday), he switched on a row of electric lights.

  “Perfesser, the Finneran Collection of Fine Art,” he intoned, waving grandly at the glass cases and racks of portfolios in the brick-lined enclosure in which we stood. “Perfesser, great civilisations have, as I’m sure yer aware . . .” And on and on wheezed the justifying drone, the text of which I need not write here, since it varies so little from one to another member of his pitiful community. Finneran’s loot was not bad, of type, and quite varied, though he had miscalculated embarrassingly when he assumed my work with Atum-hadu had any relationship to this hodgepodge. He adjusted the focus of the small electric lamps that lit from above the six or eight glass cases, each holding eight or ten pieces: stone Incan crocodiles grinning as they unfurled themselves over Guatemalan virgins; Ming dynasty urns, blue on white, the unrobed emperor squatting on concubines, ortolans performing nonculinary stuffing functions; multi-limbed bronze Hindu goddesses engorged, engaged, entwined; a slab of what appeared to be ivory or bleached wood crowded every which way with carved pictures of huskie dogs, seal flippers, fur-ringed faces grinning in closed-eye rapture. “Inuit. The Eskimo people of Greenland,” commented the mad curator. “On whalebone.” And then we were examining the leather portfolios, each embossed, bless his knotted heart, with the words THE FINNERAN COLLECTION. “Works on paper,” he declared as he delicately revealed his treasures: first a series of Georgian engravings of roast-beef-cheeked, periwigged scowlers examining the scullery staff for personal ailments; then: “Japanese. Woodcuts,” and his inkspot eyes examined me as he flipped slowly through a series of ornate prints that told the story of a samurai and the village women who served him, much sheathing and unsheathing of swords, grasping of topknots, et 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 uncommon, 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 performances 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 compositions, 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 specialisation and my artistic and cultural tastes intersect here.” Another one of these sad men who cannot see the distinction (vast, elemental) between 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 daughter. “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 fiancé 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 investors’ meeting. Kovacs with his perpetually wet eyes, as if his conscience 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 marvels 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 Valley 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 nodded, 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 interested in w
orking on an excavation of one of the most famous of the ancient kings. He declined: “I am very sorry, Mr. Carter, sir.” A laughable 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 pottery. 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 journalists 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 conversation 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 expedition. I had confirmation of my plan’s premises. I shall haul my expedition’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 little 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 natives.”

  “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 misunderstand 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, Explorer, 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 country.”

  “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 talking 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 private conversation, had somewhere learnt to approach in total silence like an assassin. And before I could say another word, he led Carnarvon 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 intent 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 counting 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 Egyptology. As if all I have accomplished was accomplished in a darkened room, alone. As if Carter and Carnarvon and ter Breuggen know something 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-Thürm’s smug critique of Desire and Deceit, right here in my wallet: “Trilipush digs, but I will not call him an archaeologist. 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.”

  Reader, Reader, the point of my discussion with Porchy is only this: this is all a necessary application of psychology and human emotion to the problem. I know that CCF is susceptible to pressure because he uses pressure in his daily dealings, and he understands, as a businessman, that value clarifies in the heat of competition. I will tell him the truth, not because I wish to replace him with Carnarvon (I certainly do not want any such thing; I prefer a financier far off in Boston to one stumbling about the site), but because he should know that I do not need to scrounge American pennies when I could be tossing Milord’s pounds all about. Especially now, when my work is halted for my reorganisation of men and money. Finneran forced me to accept his money, which I did as a gesture to my fiancée, so I will do him the kindness of continuing to accept it before accepting Carnarvon’s instead. These are human complications, which, Reader, invariably intrude on what should be pure science. I cable CCF accordingly, and return to Villa Trilipush.