The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [99]
“I hear you’ve tripped over a stair, Howard. Mind if I have a look, professional courtesy, peer review, all that?”
“Word’s already out, is it?”
“You know the native love of sharing a secret.”
“Yes, well, I’d rather not have visitors at this point.”
“Of course not, old man, too early for a bunch of tourists and grandees to muck up the works.” And he is right, the old professional: the thought of civilians tramping away on a new find—unspeakable. I set off towards the spot where his workmen were kneeling, a row of a dozen men with screens, sifting through all of the lifted sand, rebagging the confirmed dirt, calling for a supervisor if any shard of anything turned up. What a production! It was a factory, a capitalist’s “sweatshop” more than a scientific expedition. Massive archaeological waste. No wonder Carter has burnt years at this. I finally penetrated to the centre of the fuss and found that his one stair had been hard at it, à la Atum, and had multiplied with showy fertility: now a whole staircase burrowed down into the earth, ending with a wall of stones and rubbish. My God, what a sight, an incredible discovery, no question, of what I cannot say.
“Cache of plundered junk?” I asked him when he caught up with me. “Ancient storage facility? Granary?”
“Probably,” he agreed. “Well, if you will excuse me, dearest Ralph, we have days ahead of us to clear this rubbish and gently open any doors we might find.” As I rode off, I looked over my shoulder, and he was all energy in all directions, a remarkable sight for an old fellow, especially if his bowels were in a state anything like mine. The expressions on his workers’ faces were quite unlike anything my discount team can manufacture. Of course, even in his dotage, Carter has such an ability to make one feel completely invisible, weightless. He does not seem to know he does it; it is precisely as if he constantly, from birth, had given off a blinding light from his face that made everyone he spoke to cover their eyes—how would he ever know that people were not dazzled when he was not looking at them? Even if someone told him, he would likely disbelieve them. “What?” he would say, looking incredulously at yet another squinting face. “What do you mean? How am I different?”
I need to take some air, check poste restante.
Letter from my fiancée, dated 13 October, twenty-three days ago. What has happened since?
A long, vindictive session of enforced closet time. Gramophone not helpful. Fever.
Oct. 13
My Ralphie—
Strange adventures to relate, my Egyptian Lord.
A snooping nosy parker named Harold Ferrell came to our house today. He’s looking for a friend of yours. Get a load of this, Ralphie: he says your friend is a poor Australian boy named Paul Caldwell, an amateur Egyptologist who has lived what sounds like a positively dreary and horrible little life. “A friend of Ralph’s?” I asked in a tone to get the point across, and then, to be quite sure he got it, I told him that even though you were forced to mix with all sorts of odd types in the War, this Paul Caldwell didn’t sound like your sort of friend at all. He’s Australian, too. The snooper, I mean. He also spent time behind closed doors with Daddy, and I tried to put my ear to the door for you, but it was very tiring.
You’ve been gone forever, it seems like. It’s hard to imagine what you do all day there in the sand. It’s hard to remember having you around. The weather is turning cold here, and Inge has me under such careful watch it’s an absolute bore. J. P. O’Toole comes around with an invitation or a present from time to time. He sends his best to you. Oh, yes: I nearly forgot to tell you, he asked me a favor. He said I should ask you to send him “any and all news” of the excavation too, don’t just send reports to Daddy, because JP doesn’t want to feel left out. Isn’t that sweet? He’s a very sweet man, you know, and so generous.
That reminds me: I hope you are having success and that it is fast. I think you