The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [193]
But my tale.
You have no reason to know this, but here in our little home away from hygiene we are but forty miles from a suburb called Tel el Kebir, an antipodal colony, a festival of jolly waltzing matildas and swagmen, those remnants who weren’t sent off to splash their insides all over the Bosporus for what, I haven’t the slightest doubt, were unmistakably brilliant strategic considerations. For the most part one avoids them, of course, though some of their officers are not absolute ovinophiles and one is required to consult with them now and again whilst in the thunderous councils of war, devising devilishly clever coups to dazzle the fezzy heads of our wicked Enemy. I was even forced to spend a week billeted amongst these odd marsupials, liaising, as we say, though we say it in the least amusing sense of that word the Army could devise. The point: one of these dear young upside-down fellows found me in circumstances that merit illustration.
Some weeks after my return from the diggers’ camp, I had quite put them out of my mind. Then, one evening—one of those nights that make this whole fancy-dress ball worth the trouble, almost make you thank the King for taking the time out of his schedule to engage in this dust-up with his cousin—I left the base for a rendez-vous I had arranged amongst my beloved pyramids at Gizeh, which is a longish trip from here but a pleasant one on a motorcycle late at night.
Setting please, Bev: the apex of Cheops’s pyramid penetrated the silver disk of moon, rather charmingly like a head on a pike. The attenuated black shadows of the three pyramids fell behind their yellow-white selves, making a backgammon board of the desert, and I cut the ’cycle’s engine. I walked towards the pyramids, sultry on this silver-black night as if they were absolutely luring me into a tryst. But for my expected guest, I was, I thought, the only man in the ancient desert, and these three proud beauties, along with their noseless pimp, called me onto the sand, where we could all be alone together. Soon thereafter, my appointment arrived, a native son I had interrogated that day, a quite innocent fellow hauled in for reasons known only to some Emma Pip or other. As I was the only Arabic speaker in the interrogation, I took the opportunity of telling him that the best way to avoid future trouble with his masterful English overlords was to meet me for a tour of the pyramids after midnight. “His Excellency does me too much honour,” replied the coquette. “What’s he saying, then?” asked the sergeant. “He says he is a submissive subject.” “A likely story, the little black bastard,” grumbles old sarge, and I assured him I would keep the boy’s name on file and have my legendary network of spies watch him constantly.
Well, we’d placed ourselves in the shadow of the great pyramid, my interrogatee and I, making a great pyramid of our own, when I heard another motorcycle engine, but it seemed to be heading off in the other direction (damned echoes). A few minutes later I looked down and noticed I was no longer standing in shadow (damned mobile moon) but rather on moon-blanched sand, and only a moment later I heard a throat clear, and out of the dark steps this little private (whilst one’s own little private remained well-concealed).
Some free counsel, Bev, should you ever be in just this situation: this is not the time to panic or show weakness. My hips absolutely continued their nocturnal travels, though my native bearer was now wide-eyed and whimpering, and his supporting arms were sagging when he was supposed to be holding up the side of the pyramid. I barked some convincing Arabic at the intruder, meaning to have him scurry off thinking he had interrupted a heavily armed Egyptian gentleman in a standard evening’s pursuit: “Name yourself,