The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [79]
Nothing at bank, post.
Return to hotel. Considering the Explorers’ Club, a long session with the portraitist is an urgent necessity before my departure south on Thursday.
Tuesday, 24 October, 1922
No news at bank. Why has M. not made sure that precisely this did not happen? Surely it is not unreasonable to assume she would take responsibility for what she began, the wealth she waved at me like so many veils.
Door still impenetrable at Antiquities.
Nothing at post. Cable CCF to express urgency.
I won’t deny I was in some confusion, pain even. Your aunt teased me mercilessly. Some days (my wise ones, I’d say now) I decided the best thing to do was just to leave Boston quick, but when I told her I’d booked my passage, she’d pout and say, “No, how could you leave me alone with no one to have fun with?” I’d change my plans to stay, and next time I saw her, a bouquet for her in my shaking hands, she’d ask me with a sneer why on earth I hadn’t left for Egypt yet. When I couldn’t find her, I’d find myself wandering about Boston (a city far, far from home), unable to see how to move forward my stalled investigations or what to write for Finneran, and I’d go book another New York–Alexandria ticket package, which of course I wouldn’t use. I convinced myself that my numerous clients and the twists and turns of the case required my presence in Boston. And maybe she didn’t want Trilipush, she’d almost said, nearly. Are you laughing at me too, Macy? Go right ahead and laugh.
I’d call on Finneran, tell him I was keeping an eye on Margaret (never talking about our evenings at JP’s, of course, that’s why I never took a shilling from him to look after her, wouldn’t’ve been right). I’d try to get him to see the situation clearly without me having to spell it out, but he wasn’t going to see or set things straight on his own. Really I went to the house just hoping she’d be there. Sometimes she was, and the charming hostess offered me lemonades in the parlour and patted her dogs, and we sat quietly, and she’d mock me because I didn’t know what to say anymore without disclosing some secret—hers to her father, Trilipush’s to her, her father’s to her, or of course, mine, which was the most painful for me to hold tight. And she’d look at me in my afternoon anguish and say, “Harry, you’re getting quieter and quieter. Do try to be fun, can’t you? Didn’t you once promise not to bore me? I can’t bear men who break promises.” But still she’d turn up at my hotel (where she’d be sure to find me waiting and hoping) and lead me off to evenings at JP’s.
Then one afternoon, Finneran called me at the hotel, invited me over for my “advice, as a fellow who understands complex situations.” He’d just had a cable from Trilipush: the brave explorer was moving from Cairo to the digging site in the southern desert, and he needed the investors’ money wired to the bank in Egypt immediately. It seems Finneran, while he considered the Oxford business, had delayed sending the money they’d agreed upon, but now I could see the shock of Oxford had worn off. No question: Finneran was softening. He plainly wanted me to tell him that Trilipush was trustworthy after all. He hadn’t wanted my advice, not a bit of it. No, he wanted me to lie, plain as day, and hold his hand while I did it. “Margaret really loves this fellow,” he said, as if that, even if it were true, argued for anything at all, other than adjusting her medication. “And the investors are counting on him. And on me.” One minute he’s chomping his cigar, and he’s all croc hide covering shark cartilage, proper captain of business issuing orders, the next minute he’s pathetically asking me (hardly a close