The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [108]
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.