The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [57]
But when it was the day! How I sped to the great front door and the gravel drive, how I leapt up to his carriage when it was still moving, and how the door swung open and he pulled me inside, onto his lap, and the tickle of his moustaches smelt of tobacco and faraway lands, and how I relished the laughing surprise in his eyes as he would shout, “What? What? What’s this, then? Who are you, young man? I left a small boy behind! Where’s my son? What have you done with Ralph, then, you scoundrel?”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!”
“What? Ralph? Is it you, really? Why, I took you for one of the farmhands!”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!”
Monday, 16 October, 1922
Journal: Post. Lunch in town. Post. Antiquities Service, to see if there has been a speedy resolution to my application. Post. Visit a portrait photographer to send my fiancée just the right memento. The afternoon is well-spent: I have a dozen handsome options for her.
Evening, return to hotel to continue writing the surrounding material, the soft, form-fitting packing of this work, as it were, in which its precious treasures shall be carried out of the tomb and into the world at large.
On immortality and “The Tomb Paradox”: Atum-hadu reigned in a
Tuesday, 17 October, 1922
Journal: Yesterday’s work ended prematurely with a boiling, vindictive attack of explorer’s gut, the brutal, acidic remnants of dysentery. Lost half a day to treating it, sleeping it off, burning through dozens of styluses on the HMV suitcase model gramophone I have placed in the water closet to make just such afternoons tolerable. Before taking up yesterday’s work, I shall set off for town to breakfast, and visit Antiquities and the post.
Sep. 22
Hello, darling!
Who’s your good girl? I am, my prince. I set myself the goal of writing to you every day while you are “in the field,” and I have kept my solemn promise. I sent you a letter just this morning that I wrote and sealed last night, though I can’t remember writing it for the life of me, as Inge had me on some very strong things to help me sleep, because after you left, I was upset, even though I know you will say that I was being simply absurd, but you are absolutely my Hero, and when a girl’s Hero leaves town, everything feels a little bleak, now doesn’t it? And here I am writing you again, because this morning I had something I wanted to include, but last night’s letter was already sealed and ready, so I gave it to Inge just now to run down to Arlington Street while I write you this one, and then I am going to give her this one to run right back down to Arlington Street the minute she gets back, because she is fat and needs the air.
I had an absolutely awful dream last night. Truth is, Inge gave me pain and sleeping things last night, and I didn’t remember to tell her that she was giving them to me on top of a drink or two. See, last night, truth is, I hopped out on Inge, completely foxed her. She’d been watching me so close for so many days, it was getting hard to get out of the house, and I was feeling awful bored, which is worse than anything. So I snuck out last night and went over to J. P. O’Toole’s place. When I got back, she was waiting for me all angry like she gets when I show her how much smarter I am than she is, so it was sleeping and pain stuff from her (on top of the drink or two), and it can be a plenty deep sleep when they’re mixed up like that. When it’s just you and me, just the old “man and wife,” I’ll be so pleased to see Inge get her walking papers. Do you know she had the nerve to tell me the other day that you fell in love with me for Daddy’s money? I nearly slapped her, the Swedish hussy, but she had the drop on me.
Of course, even when I’m done with her, don’t be surprised if she stays on to “work” for Daddy. I know where she goes when I’m fast asleep. I’m not, after all, a complete ninny. You