The Egyptologist Read online

  With that, Mr. Macy, I had a third client on this same case!

  But what did I have of Paul (Caldwell) Davies to present to London? Well, unfortunately, crime. That would probably affect Davies’s final settlement negatively. And his volunteer enthusiasm for the War, it now seemed, may have been a product of circumstance, the Australian Imperial Force being more inviting than penal labour.

  But I also had two new leads: Inspector Dahlquist, who’d arrested Paul Caldwell and sent him off to die in Egypt rather than rot in prison, and Miss Catherine Barry, the librarian who’d turned up in our tale twice so far, Paul’s first lover. The Davies Case was fast becoming a lucrative use of my time.

  Which reminds me. I’ll send you what I’ve written so far, so as not to delay your progress speaking to publishers. I will, while awaiting your reply by Air Mail, continue to transcribe my notes and letters.

  I am your humble correspondent,

  Harold Ferrell,

  Private enquiries (retired)

  Tuesday, 10 October, 1922. Hotel of the Sphinx, Cairo

  Journal: Arrival in Cairo via rail from Alexandria. Set to work immediately. Have scheduled five days in Cairo for logistics and background writing prior to heading south to site.

  Book notes: To begin at its proper beginning, the completed book must have a frontispiece, protected by a transparent onion-skin overlay. Frontispiece: “The Royal Cartouche of King Atum-hadu, final king of Egypt’s Middle Kingdom, XIIIth Dynasty, 1660–1630 B.C.” Assume only scholarly readership? No—clarify for general readers that a cartouche is the royal seal, one of the king’s five names (the Son of Ra name) written in hieroglyphs and enclosed in an oval.

  Epigraph after the frontispiece:

  “It is the intelligence and resolution of man in overcoming physical difficulty which are to be the source of our pleasure and subject of our praise.” John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice

  Or: “Although we have not yet discovered the tomb of Atum-hadu, we can be fairly certain it is within our reach.” Ralph M. Trilipush, Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt (Collins Amorous Literature, 1920; new edition from Harvard University Press projected for 1923)

  Or: “Ralph Trilipush will never convince anyone with a brain that King Atum-hadu ever existed, let alone wrote the so-called Atum-haduan Admonitions.” Prof. Lars-Philip Thürm, in the Journal of Egyptological Studies, 1921. This epigraph would have an amusing effect when placed next to a photograph of me standing in front of the tomb of King Atum-hadu, holding a complete papyrus of his Admonitions.

  Or: perhaps an excerpt from the Admonitions, from the profound mind and naughty reed brush of King Atum-hadu himself. For example, the first line of Quatrain 30 (found in Fragments B & C only): “Atum-hadu smiles upon his brother.” Actually, a bit misleading as to its original context, as the complete Quatrain 30 describes the discovery of an impostor claiming kinship to the king:

  Atum-hadu smiles upon his brother,

  Overjoyed to meet another fallen from the same mother!

  Until he learns the claim is but a lie,

  And now with fire and asps the liar will die.

  —(From Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt, Collins Amorous Literature, 1920; new edition by Harvard University Press projected for 1923)

  No, better still, to begin this adventure at its proper beginning, let us open the book with a tantalising glimpse of the discovery to come, and offer as epigraph a thrilling episode not too far off in the future, an excerpt of events described in the book itself. We shall extract a triumphant moment and place it at the front, a shocking jewel in the crown, a zesty appetiser to tickle the reader’s tongue for the vast feast to come and to prepare his digestion, lining his stomach for riches for which his dull daily fare has not prepared him. We shall tentatively use the events of—to make a conservative guess and present myself on that date with a nice birthday gift—24 November, six and a half weeks from now, neither too optimistic nor too stodgy, something like: “page ii: 24 November, 1922. At the Deir el Bahari site. I cleared away the loose rocks and descended to my knees, and began slowly—painstakingly slowly, despite my pounding heart—to widen the hole in the millennia-old heaped rubble. The light shook in the hands of the irrationally frightened Abdullah. ‘It’s all right, man. Just give me the torch,’ I whispered, and held my eye to the narrow aperture. ‘Yes, yes . . .’ ‘Please, what does His Lordship see?’ ‘Immortality, Abdullah, I see immortality.’”

  Cover design: photo of RMT standing alongside Atum-hadu’s golden (one safely projects) sarcophagus. Native labourers in work robes standing off to the side. Ralph M. Trilipush and the Discovery of the Tomb of King Atum-hadu by Ralph M. Trilipush. Subtitle: Including the archaeologist’s private diary, notes, and sketches. Harvard University Press, 1923. Dedication page: A discovery of this magnitude simply cannot be achieved without the tireless help and inspirational example of several other contributors. To my team of nearly 500 Egyptian workers, whose diligence was matched only by their devotion to me and our common effort, who suspended what for them must have been an excruciating disbelief and instead displayed a simple faith that the objects I unearthed had significance beyond their shiny lustre, I offer my sincerest gratitude. And, in particular, to my headman, Abdullah, who knew how to dispense to the men discipline and baksheesh in just the right proportions, and whose fierce loyalty to me and quaint efforts to wrestle with the complexities of English touched and amused me in equal measure during our weeks of great toil and peril, I offer a hearty salaam! Mr. Chester Crawford Finneran, of Finneran’s Finer Finery, is a gentleman of magnificent depth and parts, a discerning collector of ancient art, a man of force but also of finesse, not at all what one would have expected to find in an American, let alone a vaunted ‘captain of commerce.’ But our ‘CCF’ has proven himself worthy of the noble, ancient Egyptian title of Master of Largesse, that generous and trusted dispenser of wisdom and wealth in times of need, and the title that Atum-hadu himself used in his poetic Admonitions to refer to his own trusted prime minister. The tomb of Atum-hadu is known to us thanks to CCF, my Master of Largesse, as well as my other partners in Hand-of-Atum Explorations, Limited. To my beloved fiancée, Margaret Finneran, words are insufficient to express my love, admiration, and gratitude. To my fellow explorers, who labour in the hot sands of our beloved adopted mother, I offer you my thanks for your collective example, your tireless and too often unrewarded dedication. In particular, I wish to mention that paragon of Egyptological exploration, my dear friend, Mr. Howard Carter, who as I set pen to paper here, is deep into his sixth season in an apparently fruitless quest for a chimerical tomb, that of a minor XVIIIth-Dynasty king called Tut-ankh-Amen. I now state publicly in these pages, that—fail or succeed—Mr. Carter’s nearly senseless dedication (six years!) is a model to us all, and that for it I have admired him, even before I knew him and called him friend. I salute my elder comrade in dust, my mentor and the dominant figure of the passing generation, reluctantly yielding us the torch. Finally, this book must certainly be dedicated to that great king Atum-hadu, and to his patron-god, the first Creator, Atum. The existence of Atum-hadu’s tomb (and of Atum-hadu himself) was long doubted by many, but Atum-hadu’s genius, his reign, his poetry: all of these I honour as I greet him across more than 3500 years, I, who never doubted him. Majesty, the world gazes upon you now, in your golden tomb, amidst your vast treasures, in your cracking brown mummy wraps. The world marvels at your life, your words, your brilliance. The world in respectful awe gazes upon your noble organs in their canopic jars. This is the very immortality you pursued and deserved, eternal glory and celebrity.

  About the Author: Professor Ralph M. Trilipush was born 24 November, 1892, the only child of the renowned soldier and explorer Ecgbert Trilipush, and was raised a well-adored, if not positively spoilt, only child in the green, idyllic comfort of Trilipush Hall in Kent, England. Educated at home by tutors, he displayed at a precocious age a staggering aptitude for language and an uncanny absorption i
n ancient Egypt. By the age of ten, he had mastered the three written forms of ancient Egyptian, and had begun translating ancient documents into English. By twelve, he had recalculated the accepted dates of the Egyptian dynasties and kingly reigns, pinpointing with greater accuracy than any acknowledged scholar the gaps in modern Egyptological understanding. Admired by his peers, remarked upon by his elders, he went early up to Balliol, Oxford, where he was widely viewed as Egyptology’s greatest hope, along with his dear friend, Hugo St. John Marlowe. At Oxford, the two students worked under the guidance of the late Professor Clement Wexler, participating in his efforts to prove or disprove definitively the existence of the then-apocryphal XIIIth-Dynasty king and erotic poet Atum-hadu. His master’s work complete, Trilipush’s doctoral studies were cut short by the Great War, during which both he and Marlowe were stationed in Egypt as officers in counterintelligence. There, under enemy fire, the two explorers managed to unearth Fragment C of Atum-hadu’s Admonitions from a cliff-side path near Deir el Bahari, taking a giant’s step towards proving that king’s existence and identity as the poet of the previously translated Fragments A and B. Shortly after this discovery, Trilipush was sent along to advise Australian forces invading Gallipoli, in which combat he was wounded and for some time missing and believed dead. Entirely alone, he trekked back to Egypt, arriving after the Armistice, only to learn that his great friend Marlowe had been killed while on expedition in an unsecured part of the Egyptian desert. After demobilisation, Trilipush secured Fragment C, bringing it to the United States of America, where he launched a brilliant academic career. He produced the definitive, if controversial, translation and analysis of all three Atum-haduan fragments, published under the title Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt (Collins Amorous Literature, 1920). The extraordinary sales of this short masterwork confirmed Trilipush’s unique position as both an impeccable scholar and a popular interpreter of Egyptian studies.

  His full professorship and subsequent quick ascension to Chair of the Egyptology Department at Harvard University followed his discovery on his thirtieth birthday, 24 November, 1922, of the tomb of Atum-hadu himself, and the publication of the gripping but academically flawless work you now hold in your perspiring hands. The discovery of Atum-hadu’s tomb was quickly hailed as unprecedented, the most financially and scientifically rewarding discovery in the history of Egyptian excavation.

  Professor Trilipush was knighted in 1923 and has been honoured by governments and universities throughout the civilised world.

  He is married to the former Margaret Finneran of Boston, Massachusetts, USA, the fantastically wealthy department store heiress.

  Wednesday, 11 October, 1922

  Journal: Rise late. Luncheon in town. Refresh my warm memories of splendid Cairo. Explore markets. Purchase maps of Cairo, Luxor, Theban Valley. Purchase extra dominoes. Incredible fruit stands, the round fruit stacked in perfect multi-coloured rows like a giant’s abacus. Fresh yellow dates. Nearly black plums whose skins resemble maps of the night sky, vague clouds and twinkling stars. Discover a shop selling gramophone styluses which the bizarre bazaar-man claimed would fit my Victrola 50 suitcase model, but which, in fact, upon my return to the hotel, did nothing but ruin the first few seconds of “You’re a Dream (and If I Wake I’ll Cry).” Return to my writing; continue preparing documentation and plans, edit yesterday’s work.

  A Letter to the Reader: The book you now hold is unlike any in the history of Egyptology, for in order to provide a context for the discovery our team has made, this volume offers both an historical introduction to the reign of King Atum-hadu as well as the actual journal I kept throughout the expedition, daily—almost hourly—from my arrival in Cairo until we had cleared, cleaned, and catalogued each breath-stealing treasure from Atum-hadu’s tomb.

  Reader, as I sit today, at the humming conclusion of this adventure, with my dear friend and colleague, the explorer Howard Carter, both of us guests in the home of our dear friend, Pierre Lacau, the elegant Director-General of the Egyptian Antiquities Service, some three miles from the Hotel of the Sphinx, where I began my journey in October, three months ago, I gaze out on the evening Nile and invite you to join me on the magnificent adventure of a lifetime, 3500 years in the making.

  Professor Ralph M. Trilipush

  18 January, 1923

  Residence of the Director-General of the Antiquities Service

  Cairo, Egypt

  [RMT—Verify 24 November and 18 January before typesetting.]

  Journal: 11 October, and I have just finished composing certain necessary background elements of this work, to be assembled in the proper order later. I can now begin my log from the beginning, welcoming you, Reader, to Egypt.

  I reached Cairo yesterday, my first visit to this wondrous city since 1918. I came by rail from Alexandria, after disembarking from the Cristoforo Colombo, which vessel bore me here (after a train ride from Boston) from New York, via London and Malta, where I passed a very relaxing week in preparation for my coming work. I have now established my temporary headquarters here in the gold-and-pink Pharaoh Suite of Cairo’s veined-marble Hotel of the Sphinx. While I have no taste for luxury, I do need a certain amount of space to perform the myriad tasks I have at hand, and the millions more to come, and the consortium of Boston’s wisest and wealthiest Egyptological experts and collectors who are financing this expedition would not wish to have its leader worn down—before he had even moved south to the site—by residence in substandard lodging.

  For the extent of an archaeologist’s tasks sometimes surprises the layman. By way of example, I shall, when at the site, be the Director of a vast enterprise, commanding an army of workmen, responsible for their salaries, behaviour, honesty, efficiency, and well-being. I shall be measuring, diagramming, cataloguing, and often preserving in some haste several hundred objects, ranging in size from a jewelled earring to the exquisitely carved and painted walls of a massive sepulchre. I shall be negotiating with bureaux of the Egyptian Government, which, for its own protection, is still overseen whenever necessary by the guiding wisdom and financial probity of the French and English Governments. I shall simultaneously be composing a scholarly work, detailing events three and a half millennia old, and likely translating newly found erotic, political, and acerbically witty texts written by a genius in a language that has not been in common use for well over two thousand years. And I shall be preparing detailed reports back to the wise Partnership that is financing all of this frenzied toil. Thus, if I have begun my trip in some style, it is dictated by scientific necessity.

  That said, for all its vaunted luxury, the Hotel of the Sphinx displays Egypt’s creeping decadence. It is a tourist hotel (in a land that to me has always been an explorer’s frontier or a soldier’s outpost), and it represents the modern Egyptian’s apparently insuperable innate urge to barter his noble patrimony for a shilling. The hotel’s emblem—stitched to every conceivable surface—sports a nonsensical group of vulture, sphinx, and cobra, surmounting a motto—an extract of hieroglyphs which warn (to whom I cannot imagine, since who amongst the hotel’s guests could be expected to read hieroglyphs?) HORUS CONSUMES THE HEARTS OF THE WICKED.

  Horus, ancient Egypt’s falcon-headed sky-god embodied by every Egyptian king, would perhaps hesitate to endorse this hotel, and yet, even here amidst the faux-Pharaonic trappings of a fanciful antiquity, through the open patio windows, from out over the Nile, the smell and feel of the real Egypt—my Egypt—waft in, and all the modern luxe of the suite curls and crumbles under the hot exhalation of the kingdom as it was, sighing to me from across millennia. Atum-hadu, in his power and his glory, summons me even here, as I sip (without the worry one felt, even in Finneran’s private barroom, about the American liquor-lawmen) lemonade and gin from cut crystal on the balcony overlooking my Nile, and revolving seventy-eight times per minute on the gorgeous, colossal cabinet-model Victrola XVII I have installed next to the balcony door, is “He’s a Fella Who Gets His Way (and Who Can Blame Him?).”
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  In this respite from my labours, I caress with undiluted joy the recollection of my recent send-off from Boston, though it seems ages ago, a party whose guests included the expedition’s financial backers and their ladies, celebrating both our approaching good fortune in Egypt and my engagement to the daughter of the house. The images coalesce into clear memory: crisp evening attire and the new light gowns, glowing paper lanterns, and a Negro jazz orchestra stationed in the garden courtyard, its music drifting in and out of the open doors and windows of Chester Crawford Finneran’s Commonwealth Avenue mansion in the unseasonable heat of early September:

  Canis and man is

  A grand combination.

  Gee, my dog is swell!

  The already dense Egyptian décor in the Finneran home proliferated for the party: CCF had installed at the head of the ballroom two golden thrones on a faux-brick dais. As the climax of the evening’s events, he walked Margaret and me up the three steps to our seats before topping us with outrageous (and structurally inaccurate) Pharaonic crowns, then scowled at the bandleader, told him to “give the jungle noise a rest,” and lifted his goblet, bringing an alcoholic tear to an eye or two with the words “Now, desert sands aside, there’s no treasure in this whole wide world means a thing to me next to that little girl up there on the throne where she belongs.” A flurry of “aww” and “ohhh” and “CC’s so sweet” fluttered in the air before the grinning old bear batted his paws at the noise and it retreated. “But that don’t mean you’re comin’ back empty-handed, Pushy!” Vast amusement. “No, folks, folks, serious now, what dad wouldn’t just leap at the chance to pick up a son-in-law like this one, hey? English gentleman, well-educated, explorer. Honestly, Margaret and me are of one brain on this: we both feel like the luckiest gal in the world! Now then, you go get our gold, Pushy, my boy, and if you come back with piles of it, ingots and jewels and crowns, well”—wily squint through winding coils of cigar smoke—“that’ll just about pay Margaret’s dowry!” His splendid oratory extorted its just homage from the gathered party, while my fiancée and I waved from under our tipping toppers, and I squeezed Margaret’s hand to keep her awake, as the excitement had not surprisingly exhausted her in her fragile health. She smiled through heavy lids and murmured, “This is really swell, isn’t it, love? All this fiesta. I could do with a siesta.” Even in her fatigue, she was celestial, grateful to her father and me. The crowd cheered our nuptials and the success of my mission, perhaps not precisely in that order, as CCF had muscled several of the party into becoming partners in Hand-of-Atum Explorations, of which he is President and I am a shareholding Technical Consultant. The band started up again with a peculiar fox-trot, presumably appropriate to Egyptian exploration and an age-old piece of zoological trivia: