The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [134]
I could reply, but to whom am I replying, the author of this “cable from Margaret”? The mind reels at his crimes and betrayal. He merits a punishment worthy of the great king’s imagination.
My cats lick the wounds administered by Ahmed and Finneran alike. Why does Fate insist on casting us in such unoriginal, flat roles, when so much more is possible? My own self-casting would have been—could be still—far more interesting, but no, I must be taken for whatever flinty Finneran can paint in stick figures and garish colours. He cannot afford to cover an Egyptian expedition that does not instantaneously produce treasures and barrels of smut for his needs, and so he must betray me and dream up stories about me to poison the love of his poor daughter, keeping her semiconscious and stupid while he pleasures himself with her Nordic warden. O judges of the Underworld, weigh my heart in your balance, read its every secret inscribed in scarlet fibres and swollen grey vessels, every hidden thought I ever had. Can you not read there that I loved her, love her, despite her father’s money? I am sure a cynical user of people like Finneran would say that Margaret did not produce for me what I expected of her, did not come equipped with a limitless fortune to place at my disposal. I suppose such people would say I should forsake her now, reveal that my love for her was all a sham. And it is true, from where I lie, that Margaret deserves a share of the blame for my predicament. She did not, as it turns out, lubricate the financial wheels of this great excavation, nor is one quite reassured that her fidelity has maintained its vigour through my absence.
Was I “slumming” when I swooned for her, or was she? I will not deny my first thought was of her wealth. No, I must deny it: that could not have been my first thought, since I did not know of the fortune to which she was heiress until much later. And so my first thought was of her beauty. No, that was not true either, for by many standards, Inge is more lovely. My first thought, knowing me, was one of pity—a young woman burdened with some sort of physical weakness, ashamed of her condition, at a public lecture on a notorious subject, failing to hide her infirmity, sidling to the stage to introduce herself and compliment the lecturer, claiming she was an amateur of Egypt and— No. No, I cannot say that I even noticed her infirmity. I did not desire her money, nor her beauty, nor her weakness. She made me laugh.
I would sail to her this very day, prove my feelings, but I cannot leave this place until my work is done, my discovery complete and acknowledged. She certainly will not return to me if I arrive broken and empty-handed; if I am not her English explorer then I am nothing to her. Nothing and no one waits for me in Boston without Atum-hadu wrapped and stately in golden bedding, the last chambers of the tomb.
They were gods for good reason, these cats who repay loyalty and understanding. Maggie the orange beauty is all kindness, like her namesake, who did not mean what that cable says. She did not write that cable, she did not even see that cable.
Nov. 15
My own, sweet Ralph,
Yesterday I got your letter of October 19th. And it made me so sad. I miss you very much. And of course just four days ago was the cable bearing the grand news of your Find, Daddy showed it to me and I was so very proud of you. We both were, of course.
I read your letter again just now. I don’t know what to write I am so sad. I’m crying as I read your lovely letter, full of concern for me, which I fear I do not deserve. That’s being very absurd of me, isn’t it, now that everything is going well?
Daddy finally lost his temper and showed the snoop the door the other day. I didn’t hear the whole thing, and when I asked Daddy what had happened, he just told me to go away, and not very nicely. Daddy’s under terrible pressure, you see. He never tells me a word of it, doesn’t want me to worry, but you must forgive him if he gets angry