The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [109]
What will you bring your Queen from over there? I know, I know: the tomb will be filled with jewelry a million years old. And it’s true that Egyptian stuff is very fashionable right now, so that will be nice. But won’t that stuff be musty and used? A girl doesn’t really like wearing a museum piece around her neck, you know, Ralphie.
No, he’s nothing to look at, the snoop. Carrot-topped and all bumpy. He’s shy, though, around me, can’t look me in the eye. That’s a sure sign they’re getting weak in the knees. You were the exception to that, my Hero, looking at me bold as anything, reciting your dirty poems. But this one, he takes me to JP’s when I feel like it, when I’m bored and need a night out, and he’s like a little puppy dog. But I can tell you something, he says he’s looking for the poor Australian kid, but he’s real curious about you. I think part of it is he wants to know if I have room in my heart for a new fellow. Oh, don’t you worry, Ralphie, just come home soon! I’m teasing you terribly, aren’t I? But see it from my place. You’re having the adventures. I’m treated like a convict all because I’m a little tiny bit unwell right now.
Have you found the treasure yet, I wonder? What do you suppose the walls of Atum-hadu’s tomb look like? When I think about his poetry, boy oh boy, you have to think that his tomb is going to be quite a show. Don’t get any ideas, mister, or at least nothing you can’t hold on to until you get back. I am waiting, you know, pure as snow for you, Hero.
Of course, you’re an awfully long way away, aren’t you? And I haven’t heard a peep out of you since you jumped on that boat, waving your hat at me. I keep your book next to my bed, and your picture, too, the one of you in your explorer’s duds. I fall asleep imagining you reading me your wicked, hungry king’s poems. Sometimes I wake up and see Inge reading your book. No surprise there.
How much longer do you think you’ll be? It’s a bore here and I blame you. I was never ever bored with you, even when we were doing boring things like staring at another pharaoh’s old, broken chair in a museum. But now do let’s get on with it, Ralphie. I want to be married. I deserve better than this, don’t I? I deserve what you promised me. I don’t like being here anymore, I don’t like Inge or even Daddy right now.
So there!
m.
Wednesday, 15 November, 1922,Villa Trilipush
Rise before dawn.
Back at the site just after sunrise, bringing food, water, two more electric torches. Roused with gentle kicks my men huddled in the Empty Chamber.
And again, into the breach! Placing wedges, using crowbars, attempting to drive hooks, straining backs, kicking stronger cylinders back into place, while the men in increasing volume voice complaints of palms blistering on slipping ropes (forgot to buy them gloves), pushing on the left, pulling on the right.
Lunch. Need heavy equipment which I cannot yet afford or openly bring to my site. It is a question of overcoming this difficult angle, which makes the door seem even heavier. Or, I need to behave with less responsibility to my find and simply smash my door to pieces. That I will not do, despite the excitement. We dig to preserve.
Our progress is excruciating, almost imperceptible in our aches and bruises and sticky, fiery burst blisters. At dusk I send the men home and I collapse on a cot in the odd draughts and patchy warmth of the Empty Chamber.
Thursday, 16 November, 1922
Margaret: 3.30 in the morning and I write by lamp, sleep prematurely finished with my aching body. I can no longer sleep for more than four hours a night, and fitfully at that. I think of you, horribly far just now, my sweet and trusting thing, despite