Sphinx (14 page)

‘Boy, how good it is to stop the brain.’

I inhaled gingerly; I had never liked to lose control and marijuana wasn’t a favourite of mine, although Isabella had smoked it regularly, claiming that it stimulated her imagination. Personally I thought it stimulated nothing but paranoia, but, for fear of sounding unfashionable and old, I’d never asked her to stop indulging. My preference was alcohol, and I’d never tried any of the stronger hallucinogens and stimulants around at the time - LSD, mescaline, cocaine. But now I was willing to try anything to stop my mind from slipping into introspection. The smoke hit the back of my throat and seared my eyes. Seconds later a sense of psychological dislocation seeped through my body.

‘This is strong. Where did you get it?’

‘Afghanistan - it’s opiated. They always prioritise my equipment so I’m never searched at airports.’

‘Sounds useful.’

‘Sure thing, buddy, but I draw the line at firearms and radioactive waste. A man has to have some morals.’

I stared across the lake, the colours blurring into smudges of brilliant blue, emerald green, white-yellow. An ibis flew low over the water’s surface, its wings a languid progression of semi-circles rising and falling in a spiral of feathers.

‘Do you know why I do what I do?’ Anderson’s voice was distant and slightly slurred, and my own increasingly inarticulate mind struggled to register the fact that he sounded very stoned.

‘For the money, I suppose, maybe the danger.’

‘Wrong on both counts. You know I was in Nam?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, back around ’68 - 17th September 1968, to be precise - my platoon was ambushed by the Vietcong and I found myself crouched among three friends with their guts spilling out. I was the only one left standing. I can’t tell you why - wasn’t reflexes, wasn’t clever thinking, it just happened that way. I missed my death day. That’s what I truly believe: I missed my death day and now here I fucking am - amen.’ He took another drag of the joint, then stubbed it out on a rock. ‘But I know, in my heart of hearts, I was truly meant to die that day.’

I lay there thinking about Isabella, her fear of Ahmos Khafre’s prediction of her death day. Was that really the day she had drowned? Then there was the vision I’d had of her in the bathtub, the fact of her stolen organs and her own terror of her Ba and Ka not being united and ending up in an Egyptian purgatory. I waited for Anderson to continue. I’d never considered him a religious man or even particularly philosophical; in fact, I’d always assumed him to be the opposite: a realist willing to work for anyone for the right price, regardless of his politics.

‘Couldn’t it have been simply luck - the angle of fire?’ I asked finally.

Anderson rolled over and stared at me, the whites of his eyes reddened. ‘Christ, another cynic.’

‘Organised religion is the scourge of the world. Look what it’s done in this region.’

‘That’s economics, colonial history and territory and you know it. Anyhow, I’m not talking about religion. I’m talking about the natural span of a man’s life and what kind of meaning we bring to our time here on this damn planet!’

Anderson’s voice was loud - he was too stoned to realise how loud. I glanced around: the place was deserted except for a peasant woman on the opposite bank doing the laundry. She squatted at the water’s edge, her long slim wrists emerging from her robes, her reddened hands a fury of soap suds as she scrubbed the clothes with a pebble on a rock. She looked across at me, then went back to her washing.

I turned back to Anderson, wondering whether to humour the huge bear of an ex-soldier or to be honest.

‘You know, one of the things Isabella and I disagreed on most was her belief in all this voodoo. It used to amaze me that an educated, intelligent woman could believe in astrology and Ancient Egyptian magic, that some kind of invisible force directed her in her archaeology. I just don’t buy that. Everything is what you see: gravity is gravity, the laws of physics are immutable and all mysteries are explicable. We’re complex animals run by our hormones and ultimately not very important in the grand scheme of things. No more, no less.’

There was a short pause during which I realised we were engaged in the meandering philosophising that smoking marijuana always led to. But I was on a roll, I couldn’t stop myself; it was as if I was talking out the events of the past two weeks, trying to incorporate them in a framework that made some logical sense. But why was I so angry? Was I angry with Isabella for dying in her search for something that she believed was a spiritual object - a magical one, even, if some of the old accounts were to be believed?

‘We live and then we die,’ I continued. ‘People live on in memory; that’s the only kind of immortality available, unless you believe in wrapping desiccated corpses in linen and building huge triangular tombs over them. I don’t. I’m worse than an atheist; I believe in expendable biology. Maybe that’s why I’m terrified of forgetting Isabella because that would mean she’d really left me. You know, that moment when she stops appearing in my dreams and I find I can’t remember her face.’

There was another long silence. Intoxicated, I gazed up into the vast blue. Suddenly I realised that the circling dot above me was a hawk patiently stalking over its hunting ground.

Bill lifted his sunglasses and peered at me, genuine emotion crinkling his eyes. ‘She’ll never leave you - you know that, don’t you, Oliver?’

‘I guess not.’

Another silence fell upon us, as dense as wood.

Bill collapsed back onto his towel. ‘Tom, one of the guys who died with me in Vietnam, a real close friend, had this private joke with me. When we were under fire he’d call me Jerry. Tom and Jerry, see? Humour was his way of dealing with terror; no one else in that platoon, hell, on the whole planet, knew this little joke we had going between us. Anyhow, a couple of weeks after his funeral in Austin, the army put on a commemoration dinner for the platoon - most of whom had perished with Tom. So there I am, dressed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, thinking how much Tom would have hated all this hypocrisy and pomp, and I’m looking for my place name on the table. And there it was: Jerry Anderson - not Bill, Jerry - in black ink with a small cartoon of a cat and mouse. It was a sign, you know - Tom joking with me, reminding me that he was still out there, watching.’

‘I’d love to believe that random events may have a special significance,’ I said, ‘but I can’t. Maybe it’s my scientific training - who knows? - but if I had an experience like that I’d just see it as someone’s ill-conceived joke.’

‘That’s bullshit, Oliver. I’ve seen how you work - not all of it’s based on cold logic, not in this game.’

Uncomfortable with the knowledge that he was right, I changed the subject. ‘You still haven’t told me why you became a firefighter on oil wells.’

Anderson trailed a hand into the water. The drips falling from his fingers appeared huge: deliciously welling miniature worlds of cool, cool water.

‘Maybe I just like tempting the gods. You see, every time we set those explosives I’m waiting to die. Just can’t shake off the sensation that I’m living on borrowed time.’

‘Survivor’s guilt?’

‘Like I said, I missed my death day, brother. It’s as simple as that.’

We lay there flattened by the sun, both very conscious of the unspoken statement hanging awkwardly between us. Finally Anderson spoke.

‘Listen, I didn’t mean to suggest that Isabella’s accident was—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I cut in. Then I stood up and waded into the shallow lake.

At the edge the water was warm. I slipped off the bank and moved into the deeper part where it became colder. After taking a deep breath I dived down, four strokes through the greenish water, sand below, the dark stripes of reeds shooting up towards the light, caressing paintbrushes against my body. The cold jet of the current travelling over my burning skin was soothing; my fingers making splayed frog-hands in the aquamarine light filtering from above.

I swam further down and along the bottom. A small group of large fish hovered above me, metal-blue in the subterranean sun, then darted away, glinting like thrown silver coins. In that moment I felt something pass by me, something large. Nothing was visible. Ripples ran along my skin, making my body hair stand on end. Treading water, I rotated as fast as I could, just in time to catch the sight of feet and naked legs disappearing into a forest of weeds.

A second later, Isabella loomed out of the lattice of long floating leaves, her loose hair weaving around her face, her breasts luminous. Terrified, I froze, drifting slowly down, as she smiled sadly at me, her face a translucent moon filtering through the green. Then, indicating that I should follow, she turned and swam away with that characteristic kick of hers. This is no ghost, I told myself, fighting blind panic.

I followed, only to lose her in the shadowy labyrinth. I searched, fighting the dangerous tangle, stirring up clouds of mud, but found nothing. Lungs bursting, I made for the surface.

Gasping, I broke through, limbs flailing. Disorientated, I struggled for breath for what felt like minutes, then managed to clamber onto the bank where I lay curled on the ground.

I became aware of a strange dull whirring sound - my satellite phone was ringing. I sat up. Anderson was on his feet, waving frantically.

‘Are you okay?’ he shouted.

Shaking, I got to my knees, trying to compose myself, but Isabella’s face still hovered in front of my eyes. I leaned against the sandy bank.

‘Fine. I just shouldn’t smoke and swim!’ I yelled back.

The satellite phone continued to ring.

‘Answer it!’ I shouted, and then I was back in the water, swimming towards him.

Barry’s excited voice sounded distant, as if he were yelling from the bottom of a ravine. ‘Oliver, this thing, it’s amazing, mate. It’s definitely an astrarium, but I’ve never seen anything even remotely this mechanically sophisticated.’

‘What do you mean? It’s an ancient artefact.’

‘That’s what’s blowing my mind. It isn’t bronze but some other alloy, which might explain why it’s so well preserved. It seems to have some unusual magnetic properties - there’s a cog-like device at the centre with what appear to be two magnets - looks as if it’s meant to spin. Totally freaky. But get this, mate, the first time I carbon-dated the wooden box I thought I was hallucinating, but I’ve checked it five times now and I’m getting the same result over and over!’

‘What result?’

‘Mate, this astrarium isn’t Ptolemaic, it’s way older - Pharaonic. I found two cartouches on it - the cartouche of Nakhthoreb, otherwise known as Nectanebo II. That makes it Thirtieth Dynasty, which in itself is bloody unbelievable! But what is even more freaky is the cartouche I found next to it - of Ramses III. You know when that was, Oliver?’

‘I have an idea.’ My voice broke in terror. An uncomfortable blend of fear and excitement was making it difficult to talk.

‘The Twentieth Dynasty, Oliver!’ Barry yelled down the phone. ‘I reckon around 1160 BCE, time of frigging Moses!’

My throat was dry and my heart felt as if it was thumping against the wall of my stomach. If the astrarium was Twentieth Dynasty it was well over two thousand years old. The Pharaohs weren’t meant to have this kind of technology. If confirmed the discovery would force a complete reassessment of history, the beginning of civilisation, and our understanding of the Ancient Egyptians. It also meant the astrarium was immeasurably valuable, priceless beyond any reckoning.

‘That’s not possible. You’ve made a mistake.’ I fought to keep my voice calm.

‘Mate, I don’t make mistakes.’

‘Okay, I’m going to get back as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, I want you to keep this quiet. Barry, listen to me. Not a single word to anyone.’ Overwhelmed, I sat back on the ground, fighting a sudden dizziness. In my mind I saw Faakhir, then Amelia. Hermes. Isabella’s face. Her unbelievable excitement had she been around to witness this.

‘Oliver, this is the discovery of the century.’

‘Just promise me you’ll lie low. I don’t want either of us ending up in jail for stealing an antiquity. I’ll be back in a couple of days. And, Barry, for Christ’s sake watch your back.’

The line cut out before he had a chance to answer. I glanced over my shoulder. I was relieved to see that Anderson was fast asleep on his towel and the peasant woman washing her clothes had disappeared.

 

I flew to Alexandria four days later. I took a cab from the airport straight to Barry’s apartment on the Corniche. The apartment block was one of those neoclassical buildings constructed at the turn of the twentieth century and had a crumbling magnificence. Barry had lived there for years, and had an arrangement with his Syrian Christian landlady, Madame Tibishrani. Now a voluptuous widow in her early sixties, she lived on the first floor with her handicapped daughter. She maintained Barry’s place during his long and often inexplicable absences and operated as an unofficial postbox, dutifully collecting his mail. She adored the Australian and was fiercely protective of him, as well as tolerant of the numerous young travellers (almost always female) who’d turned up to stay over the years.