• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1078 0

he simply recited the address of that establishment I was describing above, the tiresome brute. Seeing my expression, he mentioned how long it had been since he has been promoted, despite his bold and tireless efforts on behalf of Allied counterintelligence. And, furthermore, clearing his throat, and showing a momentary hesitation rare in this magnificently confident swine, he requested—do prepare yourself, Bev, for this—that our tutorials leave the formality of the study-tent and that I take him to examine the monuments in situ, introduce him to archaeologists as my colleague from Oxford, a recent graduate, and give them my recommendation that they hire him after the War. Bev, I ask you. “I shall do no such thing,” I am afraid I replied. “And no one would believe me if I did, you ridiculous colonial convict’s son.”

“I see.” One minute he is quiet, smiling, presumptuously demanding. The next he has precisely that face young men in London sometimes have when you explain that they cannot come and live with you forever even if you did have rather a nice evening together the night before. It is a dangerous warning face, I know that much. And so I apologised for my short temper, excused myself by muttering something about being heartsick for poor Trilipush, from whom there was still no word, damn old Johnny Turk. I meant no offence, I said, and I will be better in a few days, if he could just give me some time to mourn and pull myself together. “Of course,” he says, at once bright-eyed again. “We’ve been working hard, and you’ve lost a mate. Everyone has to let off steam now and again. Let’s meet in a few days. I didn’t mean to push you too hard just now. I just think we should start thinking of our situation more like a partnership.” Yes, Bev, I can hear you nagging me for details and accuracy, but that was precisely his word; I have been careful to present all of these encounters without exaggeration. “A partnership you’ve been preparing me for, so after this War we can think about working together as a team.” Quite. His mood was restored, and off he bounced.

Now then, Bev, I could rather use a bit of your calm advice, if you follow me.

HM

11 November, 1918

Bev, Bev, Bev!

Well today is quite a day, and no mistake. You have no doubt heard the news by now. The future begins again! There will be a bit of time lost before demobilisation, but I would guess I should be home well before summer. And then back to my studies, and then back here to dear Egypt in happier circumstances to apply myself to the gentlemanly pursuits of desecrating tombs and exhuming the dead. And where will Bev be, I wonder to myself sleeplessly.

As for my little problem, I believe you found an elegant solution; your counsel was subtly worded but wisely conceived: “When the War ends, things will take care of themselves. Be patient and do try at least to pretend to be kind to the boy.” Trust Bev for seeing to the nut of the issue!

And so yesterday, I conducted my tutorial in a state of not entirely feigned excitement. I told him that I had something to show him, some dazzling news. I swore him to secrecy, an oath he undertook with moist-eyed Aussie sincerity, and then I allowed him a glimpse of that papyrus you failed to ask Wexler about, which document you will recall I found in a bazaar, but which I told him I had dug up before I had the pleasure of meeting him, and had held on to since, waiting for sweet Peace, when I could bring it back to England for analysis. Bless his bright convict’s head: to give him (and me as his tutor) credit, he read the relic with care, and immediately came to the same conclusion I had. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked in delight. “No question at all,” I declared, though the truth is quite a bit hazier; the thing could absolutely be a forgery, and even if it is real, it is still hardly conclusive as to— well, never mind, you couldn’t conceivably care less, and the point of my story is elsewhere, right here in lovely, peaceful A.D. 1918. Either way, the rest of my intrigue unfolded along its own impeccable