Chapter Sixty-One
LUXOR, EGYPT
Our planned several days on board the dahabiya extend past a week.
Sailing along the Nile on the two-masted boat with its shaded sundeck and luxurious living area belowdecks is precisely what Papa needs.
By the end of a week, his color returns and his mood softens.
The apologetic note from Howard helps this transformation along, as does Papa’s own contrite reply, and he is calm enough to talk through a reasonable strategy for dealing with Tutankhamun’s tomb.
But then, just as we are about to return to Luxor, a mosquito bite on his cheek becomes infected, and I decide more days are necessary for Papa’s recuperation.
After all, I have no need to rush back to Luxor for Brograve, my fiancé, I think with a smile.
Only the complicated, confusing lure of the past continues to tug at me.
But now, when we finally leave the boat and approach the Winter Palace again, I feel as though we’ve entered a different Luxor from the one we left.
The number of tourists seems to have quadrupled and the quantity of journalists along with them.
Advertisements for hotel rooms and promotions for restaurants with “Tutankhamun Rag” dances are posted all over town, and Europeans dressed in “ancient Egyptian” costumes crowd the streets.
The downpour has escalated to a deluge, and I worry how Papa will fare in this storm—and what impact it will have on the excavation.
Monsieur Gavreau guides us in through the hotel’s side door, so we don’t have to face the hordes in the lobby.
He directs us into the private dining room where Howard awaits and we plan to share a meal in peace.
As if they’d never had a harsh word, the men shake hands, and Howard and I embrace.
It feels like eons have passed since we chipped away at the stone slabs guarding Tutankhamun’s secret, so much has transpired.
How the public gaze has transformed our private joy.
Waiters bring in the first of an elegant five-course French meal that Monsieur Gavreau had specially prepared, and we settle into our seats.
We discuss the artifacts that continue to pour out of the tomb, and study the photographs that Mr. Burton has made, marveling at the exquisite objects, which include a few artifacts that are of a completely new type.
I long to see these items with my own eyes.
We then review the Herculean efforts to preserve and box up the treasures that have been removed from the tomb as well as to secure the site, reburying it after the installation of a steel gate on the entrance and hiring round-the-clock security detail.
Soon the weather will become so hot that excavation and preservation in the field will not be tenable.
Even so, Howard plans to remain at Castle Carter for most of the summer to continue working on the artifacts, never mind the heat.
“Did you have access to the newspapers while you were on the dahabiya?” Howard asks. If I didn’t know better, I might think he’s just making conversation. But Howard never engages in polite chatter.
Why is he asking about the news? I feel a knot returning to my stomach.
“No, for the most part, and it was a bloody relief,” Papa says with a sigh. He doesn’t seem to have picked up on the incongruity of Howard making seemingly innocuous conversation. “I’d gotten pretty tired of being lambasted in the press.”
Howard takes a long sip of wine, and says, “Well, then I suppose I’ll have to be the bearer of bad news.”
Papa puts down his silver fork with its bite of sole, and stares at Howard. “What’s happened?”
“You know, of course, that the British government ended the protectorate. Although England and Egypt have been haggling over what that means, since the British still control the Suez Canal and the British still populate the military and the government. To that end, a new constitution is about to go into effect, one that will purportedly promulgate democracy.” Howard pauses for another sip of wine.
Papa remarks, a little caustically, “I don’t need a newspaper to tell me all that. That’s old news.”
Ignoring Papa’s tone, Howard continues. “What you may not know is that the new constitution calls for an election to choose a leader. Zaghloul is slated to run for prime minister. His platform calls for Egyptian autonomy, civil rights, dominion over the canal, and full control over Tutankhamun’s tomb and the fate of its contents. ”
“No!” Papa exclaims.
“Yes,” Howard says, his eyes downcast.
“I wish I’d never invited that bloody fellow to Highclere. I never thought he’d take such a firm stance against excavations.” Papa seethes.
Mr. Zaghloul’s platform doesn’t surprise me.
His views are ones he’s espoused for some time, and he and his wife intimated as much to me directly.
But I suppose Papa’s focus has been on restoring order to Egypt so he could go about his business as usual, which Mr. Zaghloul could help deliver.
Anyway, he and Mama are notorious for only hearing what they want to hear.
I feel two contradictory things at once.
Papa has invested much of his time and resources into finding a pharaonic tomb, and he does care about both the history of ancient Egypt and the artistry of its antiquities; my sympathies lie with him.
Yet, the Egyptian people have been under the yoke of different colonialists for centuries and deserve to own their history; the Zaghlouls’ view seems morally righteous.
I must be honest with myself. Would I even have an affinity for the Egyptian perspective at all if the tomb had been Hatshepsut’s?
Wouldn’t I want to unearth her past with my own hands?
Or would I really glory in the fact that the Egyptians have her heroic legacy to lead them forward, instead of Tutankhamun’s?
“I’m certain it rankles. But I think the discovery of Tutankhamun has changed everything,” Howard commiserates.
Papa nods, then adds, “Let’s just hope Zaghloul doesn’t win the prime minister spot. Let’s hope that someone more sympathetic gets the vote.”
Although Howard nods in agreement, I can see from his expression that he has more to say.
Even though he’d probably rather not, he continues.
“Unfortunately, Lord C., I have it on good authority that Zaghloul is predicted to win by a landslide. According to my sources, one of his first orders of business will be to end partage, come to the site and oversee my excavation, and ensure that not a single artifact from Tutankhamun’s tomb leaves Egypt. ”
“What?” Papa’s face turns an unhealthy crimson, and he sounds apoplectic. If Europeans and Americans hadn’t come into Egypt and unearthed its artifacts, the objects would have just been neglected, slowly wasting away. Except for the items stolen by grave robbers in the dead of the night.”
“Well, the Egyptians care now. Tutankhamun has become the symbol of Egypt reborn, and that rallying cry is on every nationalist’s lips.
The pharaoh and all his treasure are a source of national pride, one that binds the disparate Egyptian people, and Zaghloul has seized upon Tutankhamun and claimed him for the nation. ”
“My God,” Papa exclaims, anger in his tone.
“They just want to put Tutankhamun to political use; they don’t care about his place in history.
If only we’d discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb earlier!
Even last year would have yielded an entirely different result.
We would have been allowed to continue with the dig—which I pay for, not the Egyptians, mind—and arrived at some reasonable division of our findings.
We might even have some of Tutankhamun’s objects at Highclere Castle.
Now, look where we are.” Papa shakes his head in disgust, then asks, “What do you think will happen?”
I feel Howard’s eyes on me, but I refuse to meet his gaze. I already feel guilty enough. I know why he held off on digging at the site of Tutankhamun’s tomb until this year: my desire to find Hatshepsut.
“I don’t think we will receive a share of the antiquities for our efforts, as had been guaranteed in the past,” Howard admits, and I can see this is difficult for him to admit.
“As I’d been promised when I sunk considerable wealth into digging in the Valley of the Kings,” Papa insists, his voice even more furious now. “The Egyptians have breached the damn contract—broken their word and the terms of the commission.”
“Yes,” Howard replies, his tone sad and guarded rather than angry. There’s more bad news to come, I’m guessing. “In fact, the governmental authorities will have a presence at the tomb beginning tomorrow. To ensure that nothing goes missing, I suppose.”
Papa grows very quiet. Puffing on his cigar for a long moment, he then says, “I think we have to walk away from this excavation.”
“What do you mean?” I blurt out. Why on earth would Papa give up on the biggest archaeological find ever? I understand his frustration over the political morass in which we find ourselves, but is that reason enough to abandon his dreams?
“Without the proceeds of at least a few of the artifacts, I cannot continue to pay for the excavation, Eve. Not to mention, the more we find, the more it costs to preserve and store the objects. If I cannot sell at least a few items, I can’t afford to go on,” he explains.
“What about the payment from the Times?” I ask. I know Howard is thinking the same thing but won’t ask about the Times, given their row. What was the point of selling those exclusive coverage rights—and all the controversy that ensued—if it didn’t fund this dig?
“That money is almost gone.” Papa’s eyes look impossibly sad. “Terrible to have gotten this far after all this time, only to miss out by a year. Damn Egyptian politics.”