The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [160]
Your father was angry, as I know you know, but he had truly come here—whether or not his pride allowed him to confess it—to see our discovery in situ, and to put much-needed physical muscle behind his financial muscle to make this excavation a family triumph. “Some genius! You English fairy, I shoulda steered clear of you, but Margaret said you were just what she wanted, you windbag, and then you do this to me.”
“Is that why you forced her to break with me?”
“Forced? Are you insane? It took no doing at all. She’s got suitors by the dozen. Christ, even that little detective wants her, she’s got no end of boys chasing her, and you think giving you up was any sacrifice?” Of course, your father was only trying to anger me, a natural response for the poor fellow, the pressure he was under, Ferrell’s and ter Breuggen’s lies confusing him. “Oh, heck, please don’t write that part down, Pushy!” he has just said to me, the old devil trying to fudge the official record! He is apologising to you now for having said all that about you, and is demanding I write that down right now, too.
“Didn’t you find anything for my collection?” he asked. “I had hoped you had at least managed that! And those,” he yelled, waving his light behind me, again back into the History Chamber, shoving me against a wall, doing incalculable damage to the ancient masterworks, “did a drunken ape paint those? Is that supposed to be an orgy?” I believe he was referring to Pillar Five. “Don’t make me laugh—why would he be petting a giraffe when he could have those two girls there? Blessed Mother, are the walls wet? My God, they’re bloody dripping! What have you done with my money? Painting basement walls? Are you insane?” Now, if anyone had led Finneran here and was still lingering about outside and had heard that! An onlistener would have been most puzzled, to say the very least. But it is all the simplest thing, and CCF was learning about tomb preservation the hard way. You see, the paintings are glossy, of course, from the preservative celluloid sprays I have been applying to them, and the fresh, modern preservatives under CCF’s electric torchlight made the ancient paintings appear to be damp, which is a lovely but misleading effect.
And CCF, in his confusion at what he thought he saw, was reaching out his hand to touch the fragile, ancient paintings on the surface of one of the pillars, and I gently, very gently, pushed his hand away with my cane, hardly at all, slightly, just enough to prevent him from touching the surface, which being desiccated and 3500 years old, would have disintegrated at the slightest touch, because while I have been copying into my notes the magnificent workmanship of the tomb, I still have not had an opportunity to complete the scientific methods of preservation that would allow even a stray warm breath on these masterpieces, let alone the mauling of a giant’s paw, and that reminds me: CCF and I should be off to fetch more preserving materials today.
I had some sleep to catch up on, but that was not possible just then as there was quite a bit of tidying up to perform, on the floors and walls and whatnot, and just talking to your father was such a pleasure, as I have been toiling without company for some time. As some of the paintings had been slightly damaged by his clumsiness, he and I have agreed to restore those and deal with preservation issues next. He is eager to understand the tomb and to help me complete our work. Quite a bit to teach him, obviously, but he is a remarkably adept student of archaeology.
We finally fell asleep after that tidying up, and we were late in rising this morning, he exhausted from his travels, I from work, and we woke still laughing at our awkward reunion yesterday,