Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [83]
Tetisheri’s tomb is not in the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens. The royals and nobles of her dynasty had been buried on the slopes of a hill called the Dira’ Abu’l-Naga. She was one of the last of her line to be buried in that cemetery; her predecessors had taken the choicer and more accessible sites in the flanks of the hill. The fact that hers was higher, at the back of a narrow cleft, had probably contributed to its survival.
We climbed the modern stairs that had made access to the tomb easier for the men who had worked on it for over three years. Naturally there were more speeches. Larry handed over a huge key to the minister, who unlocked the iron gates that had been built over the entrance. Everybody clapped, and Larry led the first party inside. All were government dignitaries. The rest of us commoners had to cool our heels.
While we were awaiting our turn I chatted with Paul Whitney. Only a few archaeologists had been invited, and according to Paul, plenty of noses were out of joint. ‘We all complain about the damage done to the tombs by visitors,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But we except ourselves.’
‘So are you going to decline the invitation?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I am.’
I wasn’t even worried about my claustrophobia. Compared to the more elaborate later tombs, this one was small and simple – a single flight of stairs, a short corridor, and two rooms. Only ten people were allowed in at a time, but the rooms seemed very crowded because we huddled together, elbows tight against our sides. We had been warned not to touch the paintings.
Carefully I edged up to one of the walls and squinted at close range. The ancient artists had covered the rock walls with a layer of plaster before applying the paint, and by the time Larry’s people got to work, moisture and the formation of salt crystals had separated large sections of plaster from the rock behind it. The loose sections had been carefully removed and placed onto padded supports; then the rock wall had been cleaned before the plaster was replaced, using modern adhesives that wouldn’t flake or dry or shrink as older types had often done. Not until that process was complete could the actual restoration begin – cleaning off the accumulated grime of decades, replacing tiny flakes of paint that had fallen to the floor or between the rock and the facing. The patience and skill required had been extraordinary.
After we emerged I found a convenient boulder and sat down, tipping my hat over my eyes. I must be getting used to the climate. The hot, dry air felt good. Yes, by God, I would do as jolly old Achmet had suggested – forget distractions and enjoy myself.
I could probably talk Schmidt into going to Aswan. It would be pleasant to cruise, without distractions. We could come back to Luxor later, after . . .
They’d be watching every move he made from now on, poised like cats by a mouse hole, waiting for him to commit the act that would condemn him to prison, or to a narrower and more permanent resting place. People have been shot while resisting arrest
A pair of booted feet came into view and I looked up to see Jean-Louis. I wasn’t sorry to have my train of thought interrupted.
‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Jean-Louis asked brusquely.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’ Then I remembered that I did. Reaching into my bag, I dredged out my cigarettes. The pack was almost full, but it was rather squashed. ‘Keep it,’ I added generously.
‘That is most kind.’
It wasn’t, but I didn’t say so. He must be a chain-smoker. The ground where he had been standing was littered with butts.
‘So, did you enjoy the paintings?’ he asked.
‘I’m still dazzled. You’ve done a magnificent job. Mes hommages.’
Between the mop of bushy hair and the beard I couldn’t see much of his face,