The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [123]
Of course with a Lord Carnarvon bankrolling you, rather than the idiot prince of American shopkeepers, events oil themselves, but as an unhappy fellow I once knew used to say ad nauseam, “The rich will always make it easy for the rich; the working man who wants to do it on his own has to fight.”
By the time I found Carter in this carnival, he was locking a wooden grille at the base of his stairs and he was escorting his guests—rich and malleable father and daughter—up the sixteen sacred steps. His tie and jacket, his moustaches trimmed—always dapper, our Carter. Look how he carries himself at this moment, as he closes and locks the tomb which has so far—so far—outshone my own. Look at his style as he guides his dim-witted patrons up and away from what they scarcely comprehend. He lets them glimpse their winnings, but not muck up the works. Look at his trouble-free, effortless mastery of his site, his men, his patrons, even his own excitement. Surely he has discovered more than most men do in a career, and even as he greets me, he neither gloats nor hides, seems not to imply anything at all. “Ah, Trilipush,” he says as he steps to the top of the staircase. “Trilipush, yes, of course.”
“Carter! What news, old boy?”
“Lord Carnarvon, Lady Evelyn, allow me to present Professor Trilipush. He is the translator of the putative [sic] king Atum-hadu, something of an Egyptian scholar, and currently visiting the country, seeing the sights of Thebes.”
Two soggy handshakes follow. The Earl is a fop of the lanky, good-natured, imbecilic variety, too big to be a lapdog, too stupid to be a garden ornament. He walks and talks with a limp and a lisp, products of a motoring accident. “Excellent, excellent,” he says, “must read up on your work. Fascinating, those apocryphal ones.”
“Not quite suitable for Lady Evelyn,” interjects Carter.
Carter wears a homburg and carries a walking stick, not unlike my own. The moustaches must take effort: trimming, wax, whatnot. “So, great marvels underground?” I ask. “Might one get a professional look-see?”
“Oh, you are a colleague. You can well imagine how unstable things are down there right now.”
“Curse talk,” mutters His Gimpiness, out of the blue, as Carter marches us to the perimeter of the site. “The natives are all buzzing with rumours of spells and curses, wonderful stuff. All agog with talk of Tut protected by evil magic. Marvellous, don’t you agree, to live with such potent belief? Makes one think we lack something—” But by then someone was calling for Carter and he was unable to chat, which I well understood, a fellow in that first moment of excitement, far be it from me to get in his way.
The bank is not yet aware of a new letter of credit.
Poste restante is overflowing with letters. Rent due on Villa Trilipush 1 December. Invoices from the Hotel of the Sphinx for suite during November as well as for the sheets, towels, robes that they lent me.
I returned to the villa for tedious but necessary task of examining the accounts books and budgets, perhaps cutting some expenses. Strange, but Finneran’s fumbling of a simple task (and Margaret’s failure to apply pressure to him) have resulted in me resembling him, obsessed with money, which the gentleman of course knows to ignore as an element of life’s background, like plumbing. But this, as my father used to say, is invariably what results when good blood marries bad: a counteraction.
Rent, men’s salaries for last week that Ahmed was so eloquent about. I will need also to hire a new team. I work late, planning, rechecking the accounts, redrafting budgets. The money is not there. It is extraordinary that Carter has had such luck now, after all those years wandering about.
He comes to my villa just before I go to sleep. He apologises for intruding, all smiles and excuses, seems a bit embarrassed, declines a drink. “Simply came to tell you how much I admire your work,” he says. “Your brilliant translations, analysis. Couldn’t be prouder than to call you