But his son did not rise, nor vacate his place for him. Instead, he said to him, with the majesty of authority, “What have you come to do here? You—the man to whom the gods gave a vast kingdom—but who disdained his right, and went to dally in the land of Punt?”
The son’s speech settled on his father like a sentence. His eyes widened and his amazement grew to madness; his stupefied face kept turning back and forth between his haughty son and his gloating men. Losing his tolerance, Sahura burst out cruelly.
“I am now entitled to sever your head from your body. But I have not forgotten that you are my father. I would prefer to avoid this crime that our traditions condemn. Therefore—having opened my breast for you patiently—I grant you a day to prepare yourself. You will then go to the land of Nubia. ”
His retinue extolled the charitable act of the king, their tongues ceaselessly showering him with prayers of praise. As for Userkaf, his sense of tribulation intensified until his own tongue was tied and his limbs were paralyzed. Meanwhile, his dog Zay sensed his pain; he kept on barking and tugging on his cloak that was covered with dust from his wanderings.
The king then roused himself against his weakness, and spoke to his son, “And Queen Tey?”
“She is now the queen of contented Egypt.”
The king sighed and asked, “May I be so bold as to ask that Zay might accompany me?”
“That I grant you—his barking annoys us.”
So the king left the land of Egypt in guilt and sadness, humiliated by his misfortune. As he headed into exile, his faithful dog followed him. He arrived in the land of Nubia, where he lived among its mountains in fearful isolation, speaking to no one. But as his cares and angst pressed down upon him, the solitary creature that showed him love and devotion, bearing the pangs of deprivation patiently for his sake, gave voice to his complaints.
The governor of Nubia did not leave him alone for long. He visited him and invited him to visit as well, withholding from him neither warmth nor welcome. He wasted no time in revealing his hidden self. Userkaf found him a grumbler who saw his station in Nubia as an offense against his person, which showed a lack of appreciation for his services and qualifications. And therefrom glimmered in the heart of the king a gleam of hope. He exploited the governor’s discontent, indulging his delusions, until the disgruntled man consented to dispatch Nubian and Egyptian troops northward, with Pharaoh at their lead. Sahura readied his own army to rebuke them: the two armies met in a decisive battle—in which Userkaf triumphed. He entered his capital as a conquering king, arrested his son and his friends of yore, and threw them into the dungeon.
When Queen Tey learned of the victory of her former husband’s army she succumbed to terror, and took her own life—thus robbing Userkaf of the opportunity to avenge himself upon her. But, in reality, the king was not ready to make any decisions, nor to decree the fate of any of his prisoners until his anger had cooled and the intoxication of his victory had subsided. He took the time to review, to contemplate, and to consider. He stayed up a long evening thinking and reflecting, until, finally, he was guided to an opinion.
In the morning, he commanded his son and his companions to come to him upon his throne. They all prostrated themselves, averting their glances, debased and vanquished by their own obsequiousness. The king regarded them for a long time, an ambiguous smile upon his lips. Then he addressed them, with a shocking serenity.
“I have forgiven you—all of you.”
Bafflement swept over them—they could not believe their ears. They stared in awe at the king seated upon his throne, exchanging looks of confounded incredulity. Pharaoh spoke to them again in his wondrous calm, “I know what I am saying—I have indeed pardoned you all. Return to your posts and direct yourselves to your tasks with the purpose and sincerity with which I have charged you.”
The governor of Nubia was unable to restrain himself. “You would pardon, my lord,” he said, “those who usurped your throne, and drove you from your kingdom without mercy? You would forgive them, my lord, whose robes are still splotched with the blood of those that they slew in fighting you?”
The king said, still smiling, “Who would be my new heir apparent? And who would be a more pious priest than Samun, or a more able vizier than Horurra, or a more skillful commander than Samunra? If only Queen Tey had not hastened to put an end to herself—for I would love that she were seated next to me on this throne once more. As for sincerity, my dear governor, I have come to the point of thinking the worst of all men. I hold no more trust in you than in these others—for all people seek refuge in the shade of the leafy tree, but when winter strips it bare they forsake it without regret. Therefore it would gain me nothing to put these people to death. On the contrary—for I would find no one better to take their places.”
And so King Userkaf lived the rest of his life at an emotional remove from the world. He knew no intimates in his palace at Aswan—not from the teeming masses of his people, nor from his covetous royal courtiers. There was only his loyal friend, Zay.
The Mummy Awakens
I am deeply embarrassed to tell this tale—for some of its events violate the laws of reason and of nature altogether. If this were merely fiction, then it would not cause me to feel such embarrassment. Yet it happened in the realm of reality—and its victim was one of the most renowned and extraordinary men of Egypt’s political and aristocratic circles. Moreover, I am relating it as recorded by a great professor in the national university. There is no room for doubt of his sentience or his character, nor is he known for any tendency toward delusions or wild stories. Still, it may truly be said, I do not know how to believe it myself, nor to persuade others to do so. This is not due to the want of miracles and wonders in our time. Yet rational people of our day do not accept matters without good cause—just as they do not oppose putting faith in something if there is a logical explanation for it. Though the strange account that I now transmit has claims of authenticity, a coherent narrative, and tangible attestations, the scientific basis for it is still much in doubt. Would I not, then, express my hesitation in presenting it?
Whatever one makes of the matter, here it is as portrayed by Dr. Dorian, professor of Ancient Egyptian Archaeology at Fuad I University:
On that painful day, when the heart of Egypt shook with anguish and sorrow, I went to visit the late Mahmoud Pasha al-Arna’uti at his grand country palace in Upper Egypt. I remember that I found the Pasha with a group of friends that flocked around him when circumstances permitted. Among them was M. Saroux, headmaster at the school of fine arts, and Dr. Pierre, the expert on mental diseases. We all gathered in his elegant, sophisticated salon, filled with the choicest examples of contemporary art—both paintings and sculpture. It was as though they were marshaled in that place in order to convey the salute of the genius of modernity to the memory of the immortal Pharaonic spark. Buried in the ruins of the Nile Valley, its light nonetheless burned through the darkness of the years like the points of the harmonious stars in the sky, a voyager through the void of the jet-black night.
The deceased was among the richest, most cultured people in Egypt, and the noblest in disposition. His friend Professor Lampere once said of him that he was “three persons in one”—for he was Turkish in race, Egyptian in nationality, and French in his heart and mind. To achieve his acquaintance was the height of accomplishment.
In fact, the Pasha was France’s greatest friend in the East—he thought of her as his second country. His happiest days were those that he spent beneath her skies. All of his companions were drawn from her children, whether they lived on the banks of the Nile or the Seine. I myself used to imagine, when I was in his salon, that I had suddenly been transported to Paris—the French furniture, the French people present, the French language spoken, and the French cuisine. Many French intellectuals did not know him except as a singular fancier of French art, or as a composer of passionate verse in the fine Gallic tongue. As for me, I knew him only this way—as a lover of F
rance, a fanatic for her culture, and a preacher of her policies.
On that fateful day, I was sitting at the Pasha’s side when M. Saroux said, while scrutinizing a two-inch bronze bust with his crossed and bulging eyes, “You fortunate man, your palace needs but a trifling change to turn it into a complete museum.”
“I certainly agree,” the doctor ventured, tugging at his beard contemplatively, “for it is a permanent exhibit of all the schools of genius combined, with an obvious Francophile tendency.”
The Pasha chimed in, “Its greatest virtue is in my balanced taste, which moves equally between the various trends, treating the rigid views of the differing schools all the same. And which strives for the enjoyment of beauty—whether its creator be Praxiteles or Raphael or Cézanne—with the exception of radical modern contrivances.”
As I spoke, I glanced covertly at M. Saroux, teasing whom always delighted me, and said, “If the Ministry of Education could move this salon to the Higher College of Fine Arts, then they wouldn’t waste money sending study missions to France and Italy.”
M. Saroux laughed, swiveling to address me, “Then maybe they could save on the French headmaster, as well!”
But the Pasha said seriously, “Be assured, my dear Saroux, that if it were possible for this museum to leave Upper Egypt, then it would be heading straight for Paris.”
We stared at him with surprise, as if we did not believe our ears. In truth, the Pasha’s art collection was worth hundreds of thousands of Egyptian pounds—all of which had flowed into French pockets. It was stunning that he would think of donating it to France. While we were entitled to rejoice and be glad at this idea, nonetheless I could not restrain myself from asking:
“Excellence, is what you are saying true?”
The Pasha answered calmly, “Yes, my friend Dorian— and why not?”
M. Saroux broke in, “How deservedly happy and jubilant we French should be! But I must tell your Excellency sincerely that I fear this may bring you a great many troubles.”
When I seconded M. Saroux’s view, the Pasha shifted his blue eyes back and forth between us with a sarcastic expression, and asked in feigned ignorance, “But why?”
Without hesitation, I said, “The press would find that quite a subject!”
“There is no doubt that the nationalist press is your old enemy,” said Dr. Pierre. “Have you forgotten, Your Excellency, their biased attacks against you, and their accusations that you squander the money of the Egyptian peasants in France without any accountability?”
The Pasha sighed in dismissal, “The money of the peasants!”
Apologetically, the doctor hastened to add, “Please forgive me, Pasha—this is what they say.”
Pursing his lips, His Excellency shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, as he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles over his eyes, saying, “I pay no heed to these vulgar voices of denunciation. And so long as my artistic conscience is ill at ease with leaving these miracles amidst this bestial people, then I will not permit them to be entombed here forever.”
I knew my friend the Pasha’s opinion of the Egyptians and his contempt for them. It is said in this regard that the year before, a gifted Egyptian physician, who had attained the title of “Bey,” came to him, asking for the hand of his daughter. The Pasha threw him out brutally, calling him “the peasant son of a peasant.” Despite my concordance with many of the Pasha’s charges against his countrymen, I could not follow his thinking to its end.
“Your Excellency is a very harsh critic,” I told him.
The Pasha giggled, “You, my dear Dorian, are a man who has given his entire, precious life to the past. Perhaps in its gloom you caught the flash of the genius that inspired the ancients, and it has inflamed your sympathy and affection for their descendants. You must not forget, my friend, that the Egyptians are the people who eat broad beans. ”
Laughing too, I bantered back, “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but do you not know that Sir Mackenzie, professor of English language at the Faculty of Arts, has recently declared that he has come to prefer broad beans to pudding?”
The Pasha laughed again, and so did we all with him. Then His Excellency said, “You know what I mean, but you like to jest. The Egyptians are genial animals, submissive in nature, of an obedient disposition. They have lived as slaves on the crumbs from their rulers’ banquets for thousands of years. The likes of these have no right to be upset if I donate this museum to Paris.”
“We are not speaking about what is right or not right, but about reality—and the reality is that they would be upset about it,” said Saroux. “And their newspapers will be upset about it along with them,” he added, in a meaningful tone.
Yet the Pasha displayed not the slightest concern. He was by nature scornful of the outcry of the masses, and the deceitful screams of the press. Perhaps due to his Turkish origins, he had the great defect of clinging to his own conceptions, his pertinacity, and his condescension toward Egyptians. He did not want to prolong the discussion, but closed the door upon it with his rare sense of subtlety. He kept us occupied for an hour sipping his delicious French coffee—there was none better in Egypt. Then the Pasha peered at me with interest, “Are you not aware, M. Dorian, that I have begun to compete with you in the discovery of hidden treasures?”
I looked at him quizzically and asked, “What are you saying, Excellence?”
The Pasha, laughing, pointed outdoors through the salon’s window, “Just a short distance from us, in my palace garden, there is a magnificent excavation in progress.”
Our interest was immediately obvious. I expected to hear a momentous announcement, for the word “excavation” prompts a special stimulus in me. I have spent an enormous part of my life—before I took up my post at the university—digging and sifting through the rich, magical earth of Egypt.
Still smiling, the Pasha continued, “I hope that you will not all make fun of me, my dear sirs, for I have done what the ancient kings used to do with sorcerers and masters of legerdemain. I don’t know how I yielded to it, but there is no cause for regret, for a bit of superstition relieves the mind of the weight of facts and rigorous science. The gist of the story is this. Two days ago, a man well known in this area, named Shaykh Jadallah— whom the people here respect and revere as a saint (and how many such saints do we have in Egypt!)—came to me, to insist on a peculiar request. And I acceded to it, amazing as it was.
“The man hailed me, in his own manner, and informed me that he had located—by means of his spiritual knowledge and through ancient books—a priceless treasure in the heart of my garden. He beseeched me to let him uncover it, under my supervision, tempting me with gold and pearls, if I would but gratify his wish. He was so annoying that I considered tossing him out. But he begged and pleaded with me until he wept, saying: ‘Do not mock the science of God, and do not insult his favored believers!’ I laughed a long time—until I had a sudden thought, and said to myself, ‘Why don’t I humor the man in his fantasy and go along with him in his belief? I wouldn’t lose anything, and I would gain a certain type of amusement.’ And so I did, my friends, and gave the man my permission.
“And now, in all seriousness I show him to you—he who is digging in my garden, with two of my faithful servants assisting in his arduous labor. What do you think?”
The Pasha said all this with considerable mirth: we all laughed again with him. But as for myself, I recalled an incident similar to this one: “Naturally, you don’t believe in the science of Shaykh Jadallah. Nor can I believe in it, either—more’s the pity. But I also cannot forget that I discovered the tomb of the High Priest Kameni because of this same superstition!”
The amazement was plain on the faces of those present, and the Pasha queried me, “Professor, is what you are saying true?”
“Yes, Pasha, one day a shaykh like Shaykh Jadallah came to me in a place near the Valley of the Kings. He said that he had found, by means of his books and knowledge, the whereabouts of a treasure there. W
e kept pounding away in that spot, and—before the day was out—we found Kameni’s tomb. This was, without a doubt, one of the most brilliant of coincidences.”
Dr. Pierre laughed ironically, “Why do you credit that to coincidence, and deny the ancient science? Isn’t it conceivable that the pharaohs bequeathed to their descendants their hidden secrets, just as they passed on to them their appearance and their customs?”
We kept on distracting ourselves with this sort of chatter, flitting from one topic to another, passing the time in great pleasure. And just before sunset, the guests took their leave. But I announced my wish to observe the excavation that Shaykh Jadallah was conducting in the garden. So we all left the salon, walking through the rear door to bid our good-byes. We had gone but a few steps when we could hear the sounds of a great uproar— and a group of the servants cut across our path. We saw that they were holding a Sa‘idi man, an Upper Egyptian, by his collar, giving him a sound beating with their fists. They dragged him roughly up to the Pasha, and one of them said, “Your Excellency, we caught this thief stealing Beamish’s food.”
I knew Beamish quite well—he was the Pasha’s beloved dog, the most precious creature of God to his heart after his wife and children. He lived a spoiled and honored life in the Pasha’s palace—attended by the staff and servants, and visited by a veterinarian once every month. Each day he was presented with meat, bones, milk, and broth—this wasn’t the first time that the Sa‘idis had pounced on Beamish’s lunch.
The thief was an unmixed Upper Egyptian, marked by the looks of the ancients themselves. It was clear from his dress that he was wretchedly poor. The Pasha fixed him with a vicious stare, interrogating him gruffly, “Whatever induced you to violate the sanctity of my home?”
The man replied in fervent entreaty, panting from his efforts to fight off the servants, “I was starving, Your Excellency, when I saw the cooked meat scattered on the grass. My resistance failed me—I haven’t tasted meat since the Feast of the Sacrifice!”
Voices From the Other World Page 3
