(FIG. E: MAP OF ATUM-HADU' S TOMB AS OF 17 NOV., '22 )
Were it not for the (lost) inscription on Door B and the seductress's
song of Door C, my own confusion and despair might at this point have
matched those of the hypothetical ancient robber.
It was late in the morning of the 17th before my man was back with
bandages, water, food, and a cane, curved at the top like a royal sceptre
and crafted of a strong, dark wood. "Do you know he smashed a foot
on the dig and then, cool as you like, merely sent for a cane while he
carried on? The cane's on display at the Explorers' in Cairo."
The cane was a help, as with every step my foot throbbed out a per•
petual echo to the fallen door's impact. I ate, drank, and finished my
magnifying glass inspection of the Chamber of Confusion, confirming
its brilliant "possum" design, but for the very faint but unmistakable
outline of Door C, quite blank.
With my one man's help (Ahmed and the other three were late in
returning), I commenced dusting and chiselling around Door C, the
same slow work of chisel, brush, mallet, wedge, brush, chisel, brush,
mallet, wedge, brush. I was feeling terribly weak, perhaps even a bit
feverish, no doubt from excitement at what was behind this last re•
markable door. And, two or three times, I hobbled back outside, where
I was slightly ill. Twice also, at least, I was so exhausted that I slept un•
easily on one of the cots in the Empty Chamber, trying to make up for
many lost hours. Night fell on the 17th with me having slept most of
the day away, and I awoke—as was my unfortunate habit, and Atum-
hadu's as well—in the earliest, dark hours. The 18th. I could hear but
not see my one loyal man asleep in a dark corner, but the others had
still not returned. I went outside to consider the stars above Deir
el Bahari.
I will not say I was cheerful in this night watch.
Dawn of the 18th finally arrived, and the pale light revealed that I
was alone; I had evidently misconstrued the echoes of my own breath
as that of a loyal worker who was not there. I noted that Ahmed and
the others were now eighteen hours late. The possibility of betrayal oc•
curred to me, the cowardice and avarice of the local workforce a con•
stant threat. With no immediate gratification to astound their eyes,
abandonment was a likely explanation. So be it. I decided that I would
continue alone to prepare Door C, despite my wound, thirst, hunger,
and justifiable rage. Then I would cover up the front of the tomb with
stacked rocks and mud, return to Luxor, present my discovery to the
local Antiquities Service Inspector, and accept my scolding as well as
the men and technical support they would issue me as a result of my
discovery. In particular, wiring electric lights into the tomb would be of
great assistance, ridding the space of torch and lantern smoke and
greatly increasing the number of hours in a row that work can be con•
ducted without being forced outside for fresh air.
Late in the afternoon of the 18th, today, Ahmed returned with three
of the men. Their apologies were profuse, and they were delighted to
see the outline of Door C. The injured man had required care, Ahmed
had stayed at the villa until the cats had arrived and taken nourish•
ment, and then Ahmed and the men had obtained, on their own inspi•
ration, tools they thought would be helpful in "our shared task." To wit:
two massive sledgehammers. I was touched by their efforts, but I could
not help but laugh at their expressions when I asked them the elemen•
tary question: what would happen to the treasures just on the
other
side
of Door C, if we were to use their door-smashing technique?
And so I left Ahmed and one other man to stand watch for the night
while I relied on the other two to help me back to Villa Trilipush, hop-
ing, with every jarring, bone-shredding step of the cruel donkey, that I
would soon travel to my site with easy candour in full daylight, blessed
by the buffoons in charge, the Hyksos of modern times, who drive men
to such necessary deception.
Villa Trilipush, at least, did not disappoint: a hot bath, a drink or
two, new bandages on a foot which is now far too large to fit into a
boot, and I bring this journal up to date.
Later now. My man has returned from the post, where a letter and
cable awaited me. Cable: CCF congratulating me and alerting me that
he has authorised credit transfer and requesting I send him immedi•
ately a catalogue of the finds, "esp. items of private, personal interest."
The letter was from the Luxor bank, confirming CCF's cable: a credit
to my account from the USA had been made two days ago, on Thurs•
day the 16th—an amount only one-eighth, to the disastrous piastre, of
the expected and painstakingly agreed-upon monthly payment under a
Preliminary Team Budget, and twenty-five days late for good measure.
After my recent expenses and extended promises, CCF's octro-deposit
registers as scarcely more than the faint aroma of funds.
It is a staggering betrayal. I would like to credit him with some sort
of logic, some reason, but of course he has none. Does he mean to make
up the difference at the next scheduled wire, 22 November? I spend an
anxious time trying to untangle his thoughts, which were perhaps—it
must be at least considered — corrupted by the sinister Ferrell. CCF is
obviously under the sway of a dark influence. I have means to force his
cooperation, of course, but that is not at all how I would wish for this
partnership to function. Why is he doing this to me? I search in vain
for a reason to explain why my wretched, skinflint Master of Largesse
has not lived up to his limited requirements, and has instead probably
slithered off to some Boston gin palace to burn Atum-hadu's necessary
finances on bootleg alcohol and flappers in the company of his hoodlum
chums and Scandinavian concubine.
My loyal man is still outside waiting for my orders. I send him back
to the post with my considered reply to CCF: HAVE OPENED SECOND
GLORIOUS CHAMBER DESPITE SHAMEFUL PENURY. NOW IS NOT THE
TIME FOR PETTINESS, WITH YOUR SPECIALISED COLLECTION AT STAKE.
Much needed rest. I will sleep like the dead, and tomorrow charge
back into battle, with whatever weapons remain. I will not be deterred.
Sunday, 19 November, 1922
3.55 A.M.—Wrote too soon. No sleep, but the foot is positively
numb, a welcome blessing.
The night is black. Atum-hadu's solution to the Tomb Paradox —
the solution that has so far choked me with dust and claimed a foot —
is so elegant and yet still out of my grasp. Hidden doors. False dead
ends to throw off robbers. There is more, something I cannot see.
What did he decide under these stars? One must put oneself in his
place.
He walks the illuminated, nearly abandoned halls of his Theban
palace, throws himself in restless agitation from golden throne to
carved couch. Does His Lordship wish to see acrobats? I do not. Does
the incarnation of Osiris seek company? I do not. Does the celestial
lover of Ma'at wish to ride a camel, feed a tiger, flay a prisoner, swing
from the hanging bars, play on an elephant's trunk, caress the giraffe? I
do not. My royal concerns tonight overwhelm me and deny me my
sleep. Tonight, after only a few minutes considering my predicament,
Horus extracts his tribute with more cruelty than usual. It is an ana•
gram in the language of my future friend: Horus demands hours, hours
spent clutching my aching belly, burning in shame and fiery solitude,
unapproachable, precious hours of my dwindling mortal span, for
which my falcon-headed protector will repay me how? How can my
final journey be made? It is coming soon, no question, seen off either
by Hyksos arrows or by the poisoned blade of one of my crumbling
court's proliferating traitors or by this crocodile growing every day in•
side my belly, who will at last eat my stomach if I have not secured it in
an underground jar in time.
Now I have awoken to the setting sun; I have lost another whole day to
my injury and exhaustion. My foot weighs one hundred pounds. My
head is pinched between a giant's fists. My stomach roars in fury, and
several minutes doing its bidding do not suffice in placating its rage.
It is dark before one of my loyal idiots thinks to check on me. They
have spent the day sitting in the Empty Chamber gossiping. A day has
passed, they were paid and did not find my absence strange. I send the
man back to assure a guard is kept on Atum-hadu's tomb all night, and
to have the men ready at dawn tomorrow for a final push into the last
chamber and our just reward. He also has a letter he collected from my
poste restante.
From my fiancee, dated 2 November. The crossing of let•
ters in the post is a particularly cruel game.
Nov. 2
My dear Ralph,
I will be brief. I need a letter from you very soon. I'm worried
by things here, and I need to hear you telling me everything will be
fine and explaining everything.
The snoop is still here. For a while I thought he was harmless
and even some fun. He's not a bad dancer and he kept me company.
And I know he's taken a shine to me, and that's some fun in this
gray weather. I can manage fellows like him. But there's a problem.
He's told Daddy things that I've heard, and he's told me things. He
makes it sound like he's just talking, but I know he's trying to tell me
something about you. He asked me about Oxford, and I told him
easily a hundred times that you were there with Marlowe and you
left to go fight for Democracy after your MA. but before your Ph.D.,
and Oxford said that was OK. Ferrell asked for a picture of you and
Marlowe together, and I showed him the one you gave me, of you
boys in your digging duds, with your arm around his shoulder, you
grinning and Marlowe pretending to look all serious and above-it-
all, but this Ferrell just says, "Of course." He'
s
a little ratty, if you
ask me. I hope you're not cross about the picture.
I don't feel very well lately, Ralphie. I don't want you to worry,
it's just that I don't feel very well, like things are getting the better
of me again. I always think of you as the one who makes me feel
healthy, and that's true, it's just that you've been away along
time, so it's hard. I miss you a lot, but some days you feel so far
away, like you can't help me, so I might as well be sick. So don't
worry, it's nothing, it's just that, that's all, that I miss you.
Ferrell's gone in to talk to Daddy in Daddy's study once or
twice, and I try to listen for you but I'm not much of a snoop. And
when I've asked Daddy what it was all about, all he said was
"We'll see. "And when we go to JP's, Ferrell doesn't drink much so
he doesn't talk, and then I get bored being your girl detective be•
cause after all that's not fair to make me do, is it? It's a bore.
Can you tell Daddy again that you went to Oxford? And this
snoop, Harry, keeps looking at me with a wolf-face, and saying
things like "Well you never know" and "Things ain't always what
they seem, especially with poms. "Poms he calls the English. He's
jealous. I hate him for not respecting you like I do. I love you,
Ralph, because everything about you is real even though it's excit•
ing, and everything about him is a lie even though it's boring, and
that's why he hates you and makes out to Daddy like there are
things about you that aren't true.
Don't worry. Inge is going to cure me of my little things and
I'm getting better every day and it will be just as I promised by our
wedding day, all cured. But I need you around to help me do that,
OK? You 're my best doctor. I can get better with you around to keep
me busy and happy, so come home now, please. Bored is bad for
me, really bad for me.
If there's something you want to tell me, I would listen, you
know. Anything you told me would be OK Just like you'd still love
me no matter what you learned about me, right ? I don't want to