Chapter Sixty-One #2
I sink back into my chair. The disappointment I’d felt in uncovering Tutankhamun’s tomb instead of Hatshepsut’s had only been abated by the belief that it might fund future excavations.
The history we might glean from Tutankhamun’s artifacts is, of course, tantalizing as well, but it had mostly been a means to an end in my eyes.
Is that aftereffect now gone? How will I ever continue to work as an archaeologist if we abandon the excavation—on Tutankhamun’s tomb or anyone else’s?
And less personally, does this impact change how I feel about the nationalists’ position on ownership and control of Tutankhamun’s tomb?
It’s all well and good to be righteous if it doesn’t affect me.
An idea occurs to me, and I sit upright. “What about Mama? What if I went to her and asked for the money to finish the dig?”
Papa glances over at me with an almost pitying expression.
“Eve, do you think I haven’t already tried?
Even when the elimination of partage was just a threat and not a reality, she was very firm that she won’t”—he pauses and then winces as if reviewing an unpleasant memory—“throw good money after bad.”
“You don’t think I might be able to sway her?” I implore.
Papa doesn’t even answer the question that I should know better than to ask. He just slowly shakes his head.
Desperation claws at me. “What about other family members? Or friends? Could they help financially?”
Papa reaches for my hand, and gently strokes it. “My dear girl, no one would sink money into an excavation when they have no chance at recouping some of their funds with a portion of the proceeds—the treasure.”
I close my eyes, and allow disappointment to wash over me. I imagine my life without the calling of archaeology, and despair begins to set in.
Howard clears his throat rather loudly, and I open my eyes to glance over at him. “Lord C., I may have a solution. A temporary one at least.”
“What’s that, Howard?” Papa’s voice is weak. Does he have so little confidence in Howard’s fixes these days? Or does he believe the political barricade is insurmountable?
Howard doesn’t answer in words. He gestures to a stack of pouches on the private dining room sideboard. Leaning hard on his cane, Papa pushes himself to standing and wanders over to the pile, studying the labels. “These are packages to be sent by diplomatic mail back to England.”
What does that have to do with Tutankhamun or my current predicament? Papa doesn’t sound mad, only tired and confused. Or perhaps defeated.
“It isn’t the packages themselves but what’s inside them that may help with the dilemma,” Howard says enigmatically.
This explanation does nothing to enlighten Papa or me. Then, slowly, Papa begins to nod, and he gives Howard a broad smile. “I see. This may help on many levels.”
I am still perplexed. But then it suddenly dawns on me. Howard is sending back artifacts from Tutankhamun’s tomb via diplomatic pouch. He’s been explicitly forbidden by the Egyptian government to remove any antiquities from the country, but the authorities cannot check diplomatic pouches.
“How could you, Howard?” I utter, not hiding the shock and disdain in my voice.
“How could I not,” he replies, surprised at my reaction.
I am stunned. This goes beyond Howard’s past actions, squirreling away a few artifacts looted by locals and then selling them to dealers. Or even bartering for illicit items to add to Papa’s collection.
I turn to Papa, seeking support. Even if he was aware of Howard’s earlier dealings, he must be as appalled as I am by this transgression.
This does not fall into any sort of gray area of ignored trading in illicit antiquities; it is an affront not only to the laws but the people of Egypt. “Papa? Surely you don’t condone this?”
“Eve,” Papa says, his voice soft and pleading, “if we don’t do this, we won’t get a single item from the tomb. How can we go on with the dig without the funds these objects might provide?”
Papa gives me a small smile, fully expecting dutiful Eve to emerge and accept this rationale. But she is gone. My astonishment has banished the vestiges of that trusting girl.
“They aren’t ours to take,” I exclaim, fury raging within me.
My convictions have clarified and sharpened against the backdrop of Howard’s actions.
While I may not like the way that the new Egyptian government’s laws affect us and I do sympathize with Papa’s situation, I understand that the rights to excavate the tomb and remove its artifacts were never ours to take.
They were the Egyptians’ to give—and they have reclaimed them.
Papa’s tone hardens, as does his gaze. “I don’t like this path, but what other course do we have?
We are the ones who found the tomb—after an enormous amount of money and effort, I might add.
Why shouldn’t we be entitled to some of the spoils?
I’m not looking for anywhere close to the half we’d been promised—by contract, no less—just enough to keep going with the dig. ”
“How can you say that?” I ask, my voice growing louder. “You yourself have expressed sympathy for the Egyptian desire for self-governance. We are talking about Egypt’s history—not England’s—and the Egyptian citizens have the right to dictate the fate of their historical remains.”
“My sympathy does not extend to Egyptian interference with our dig. Not after all we’ve sacrificed for it,” he replies, his posture erect and voice firm.
“In the past, the Egyptians have proven themselves uninterested—or unskilled—in proper excavation of ancient remains. Without us, Tutankhamun’s tomb would never have been found, certainly not intact.
We deserve something for our efforts—and this is a pittance compared to what was agreed on. ”
“You cannot be serious, Papa. Agreeing to send those packages”—I point to the pile, stare at my father, and say, in a tone every bit as unyielding as his—“crosses a line that cannot be uncrossed.”
He doesn’t speak, but the expression on his face is one I know well from witnessing countless arguments between him and Porchey.
Words will not sway him now, and I am thus left with only one recourse.
I lunge for the pouches stacked on the sideboard.
Howard quickly dodges in front of me, blocking them from me.
Papa isn’t far behind. We stand facing one another, fixed in place and staring.
So, it’s come to this, I think. Papa and Howard have drawn a line I will not cross, even if it means walking away from any chance of uncovering Hatshepsut. Not that the Egyptians have left us with much choice. They’ve decided to take back that which was always theirs.
Will I ever learn what happened to Hatshepsut?
Do I deserve to try? Perhaps that quest does not belong to me anymore.
Maybe it never did. As Mr. Zaghloul himself once told me, Egypt’s past belongs to its people, and they alone can tell its story.
I’d thought that my efforts with archaeology would end when Papa could no longer operate his Valley of the Kings concession—since it’s the only way, as an uneducated, aristocratic woman, I could excavate—but I see now that I must make the decision based on my own principles.
And this is the end.
Suddenly, Papa stumbles forward, away from the sideboard. He practically falls into my arms. His cheeks flame red, and his eyes look glassy. I reach out to feel his forehead.
“Papa, you’re burning up,” I cry out. No matter how furious I am with him, he is still my father. And no matter how conflicting our views, I love him.
“No, no, just feeling a bit seedy,” he says, waving me away with his free hand. “I’ll be right as rain with a breath of fresh air.” His voice trails off.
Then, suddenly, he collapses. And, in a flash, I know nothing will ever be the same again.