The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [96]
Thursday, 2 November, 1922
Journal: Morning: we have cleared three more clefts, for a total now of five, though the process is slowed by remaining hunched out of sight when on the cliff top. The men again retrace the path 200 yards in either direction from where I found Fragment C, this time moving even slower, testing the cliff-face surface. Twice they find smooth patches of possible interest, and per my standing order, they call me down from my work above, but both times slow clearing of the rock face reveals only wind- or water-buffed ancient stone. Lunch with Ahmed, discuss Oxford, about which he is charmingly curious. Afternoon: two more clefts, one more false alarm of smooth rock.
These are the days of mounting excitement, of false leads, of second guessing. In retrospect they will seem like steps in the right direction, inevitable and unalterable, but when you are taking those steps, when they are still the present and not yet the sanctified past, they are all possible wrong steps in the muck, sloshing with doubt, confidence, despair.
I bid my men farewell until tomorrow, and head to town to check my new poste restante, where I find this paste-worthy relic of a crumbling dynasty:
October 19, Cambridge
My dear Mr. Trilipush,
A happy day for me here in Cambridge! After my visit with the trusty Mr. Ferrell last week, I contacted Oxford, and today, having heard from them, I spent a happy hour with your fiancée’s father, a fine, rough fellow who learns quickly and understands at once what an expert has to tell him.
If you are surprised to learn that Oxford says you were never there, and that you did not study under Professor Wexler, then your surprise pales in comparison with my own when I learned this news. I shared my surprise with your Mr. Finneran, as well as my opinion that your expedition will produce nothing of value. You will not be surprised to hear this doubt from me, as your speculative specialization in the putative Atoumadou has hardly impressed me. And, continuing your lack of surprise, I would be surprised if you were much surprised to learn that, given this clarifying news, the Egyptology Department and, in truth, Harvard University, esteemed and immortal, will be able to survive most adequately into the future without your continued presence on the faculty in even the most menial role. Please accept my gratitude for the amusement you have provided us with your indelicate translations of apocryphal erotica and with your spurious background. With every good wish, I remain your superior in every way,
Claes ter Breuggen
The gibbering indiscretion of the mad shocks the sane man’s mind: did ter Breuggen think I would not publish this letter? But, my dear professor of falsehoods, corrupter of youth, of course I will publish it. I will publish it on page 1, reproduce it over your infantile, wobbly signature and print the letter alongside a photo of me holding my Oxford degrees in front of Atum-hadu’s mummy.
Ter Breuggen is an object lesson to us all: a man who purports to be a scientist, trained in weighing evidence carefully, has apparently fallen credulously in love with a random liar, this Ferrell, a man of mist, fallen from the clouds like bad weather. And this lie that he so eagerly gulps makes no sense; that Ralph Trilipush did not go to Oxford makes no sense whatsoever. A missing file, a misspelled name—whatever the corruption that has seeped into some text in a damp basement in Oxford is merely that: a corruption. Corrupted texts do not change reality, they merely confuse the feebleminded.
Ter Breuggen grasped at this to fire me, no surprise there, I wagered my job on Atum-hadu so on my shoulders be it, and if that know-nothing wishes to cling to some criminal’s lies to justify his ignorance, I cannot care. But, honestly, what a flimsy reed! A file is lost, therefore I did not