The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [128]
At last the reporter, all bowing and scraping to an English peer—no more put-on air of doubt for Carnarvon, oh no—rambles off to misunderstand or exaggerate something else.
“Lord Carnarvon, if I might still have a word. I have a small token of my esteem.” I presented him with one of the rare 1920 first editions of Desire and Deceit, inscribed, “To the Earl of Carnarvon—Patron, Explorer, Friend of Egypt, a true Master of Largesse, from his admiring colleague R. M. Trilipush.”
“Lovely gift, very kind,” says the gawky millionaire.
“Well, Your Lordship—”
“Please, call me Porchy.”
“Very well. Porchy, you may not know, but I am quite close to an—”
“Where are you from, old boy?”
“Kent, Your Lordship. Military and explorer family, small family holdings there, modest manor house.”
“Really? Must stop and see the place. Adore that part of the country.”
“Well, Porchy, we should be delighted to host you. Now, as Carter may have told you, I am quite, quite close to an astounding find, the tomb of King Atum-hadu, a discovery which, with all due respect, might well outshine whatever Howard is dusting off underground just now. With your support, and my reputation—well, I am not talking about six years here. I would be able to give our friend Carter a run for his money—by which I mean your money, of course. I am talking about perhaps a month from start to finish, and I see us achieving—”
“My God, man, what have you done to that peg of yours?”
“Oh nothing at all. Hardly aches.”
“Better watch something like that in this climate.” (Very solicitous, the Earl, but almost pathologically distractible.)
“Thanks, but Atum-hadu, you see, was likely the last Theban king of the XIIIth Dynasty, when Hyksos invaders were rampaging throughout the—”
“Real king, was he? Historical? Carter says he was a fantasy figure, apocryphal, bit of a King Arthur imagined by de Sade. Product of later poets, or some such, the old Egyptian nostalgia, artistic mischief.”
“Arthur and de Sade? Very droll, our Carter.”
“Am I?” And sure enough the jealous man had snuck up on our private conversation, had somewhere learnt to approach in total silence like an assassin. And before I could say another word, he led Carnarvon off to inspect some Tutty relic or other. “We should speak again soon, Porchy,” I called, assuming the poor man could untangle himself from his clinging nursemaid. In fact, Carter seemed conspiratorially intent on keeping me away from Lord Cashbags, even as he glided with that usual Carter superciliousness, effortlessly exclusive, but now rather exposed for what it is: an act covering fear and envy. I stood in the dust and heat in my hat and jacket and tie, my trimmed moustache and walking stick, and off padded Carter, dressed like me but still clutching my next patron, as if Carter had never gone and asked for money himself, as if he merely nodded when the Earl came to him on bended knee and pleaded for permission to stuff Carter’s pockets with cash. Perhaps that is how it happened.
Interesting, too, how assiduously Carter had sought to belittle my work behind my back, not just my work, but history itself. How quickly he would lie to Porchy that Atum-hadu was not. Restrained, silent, nasty, and now dishonest.
His type, how they make you feel, like you are incapable of counting the fingers in front of your face, or even being certain that they are fingers. Even now, as I sit here on the bluff noting the day’s events, it is as if I am not holding a pen. As if I did not publish a work of Egyptology. As if all I have accomplished was accomplished in a darkened room, alone. As if Carter and Carnarvon and ter Breuggen know something they do not speak aloud but know that I do not know and never will. As if theirs is a silent, expressionless laughter transmitted invisibly from one to another and only for an instant, before they turn away to focus on their celestial tasks, tasks I only believe I understand. As I only believe this to be a pen making notes on a Lett’s #46. As I only believe I exist and do my relevant