The Egyptologist (30 page)

Atum-hadu watched with furious eye
As the foreigners rape his land.

And he will take with him into the sand

All the gold and gods and wives and [fragment].

— (Quatrain 17, A only,
Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt,
Collins
Amorous Literature, 1920; Harvard University, 1923, if they
are not absolutely poisoned by ter Breuggen)

Now, observe. Atum-hadu clearly intended to be discreet with his
tomb. He was forced to be, unlike previous and subsequent kings, for it
was not only
his
immortality he was taking with him; he was carrying
into his hole the entirety of an Egypt he thought was finished. It was
not mere tomb-robbers and spendthrift successors from whom he
needed to defend his resting place; an entire alien race, the so-called
Hyksos (a later Greek term), were belching their way through the land
of Horus and Isis and Ra. Therefore his tomb would be (will be) both
hidden and overflowing with wealth, artistic and otherwise.

Ma 'at has forsaken me; I tear my hair.

When I need her, must have her, would splay her,
She proves herself a fickle slut,

Suitable only for taking from behind.

— (Quatrain
72,
ABC,
Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt,
Collins
Amorous Literature, 1920; Harvard University, 1923)

Atum-hadu's harsh words for Ma'at, goddess of truth and justice,
while all of his world was disintegrating, provide us some insight into
the temper of the times and of the man.

But perhaps a less literal reading of this earthy verse is in order
(though we need not go as far as Harriman: "Order collapses and I am
lost/Justice turns from me, unfaithful and cruel/Showing me only her
receding back." Vassal and Wilson: "Ah, but she is a sly one, that
Ma'at/Tripping me up, taunting,
une vraie coquette/Flaunting
at me her
shape/When affairs of state are pressing").

The brilliance of Atum-hadu is nowhere clearer than in this com•
plex verse: hear this king, raging, crying out not for cowardly escape
(bartering kingdoms for a horse, a horse) but instead, in futile combat
with Fate herself, his eternal life against her amoral machinations, our
bold hero spits his disgust at the pointlessness of relying on truth and
justice, as if to say, "Such ideals merit only a backdoor visit."

All Egypt died with me

And I will leave nothing for the occursed.
Cowards and invaders pursue me

But I will quench my thirst.

— (Quatrain
74,
C only)

We may safely assume the following about Atum-hadu:

I shall be in Isis's bed

My tongue swimming in her Nile delta,
E'er any intruder find my head
Wrapped and resting upon a lion's pelt.

- (Quatrain 52, B & C)

And yet, how did he do it? It is a maddening puzzle. How did he
arrange, in the chaos of the end of days, to have a tomb built and
stocked, and to know that after his death (in battle? in bed? in battle in
bed?) his body would be transported there, mummified, sealed in, and
then promptly forgotten? Tomb architects, decorators, workmen,
Overseers of the Secrets (the priestly specialists who 'would disem•
bowel, preserve, and wrap him), and strong men to seal the tomb: none
of whom would reveal to a living soul what they knew? How did he
know that his authority would endure to the last crucial minute, and
that his world would then disappear a moment later, under the on•
slaught, before anyone who knew enough thought to disturb his peace?
Somehow he did it, setting for us the most brilliant Tomb Paradox in
the history of Egyptian immortality and preparing, for only the most
brilliant and deserving, a discovery like no other.

Sunday, 29 October, 1922

Journal:
Up early, hours before the bank will open, and I

find . . . Cats! Wonderful family of cats appears outside the villa this
morning, and as the rising sun gilds our Nile, I happily share water and
the food I bought yesterday in town, all adorably lapped up from the
villa's dishes decorated with romanticised pictures of Arab horsemen.

There are three of them, two toms and the most endearing orange girl.
Name the toms Rameses and Rameses (II and VI, of course), but a
creature as rare as an orange girl can only be Maggie. She has a fine
appetite, and after finishing off her breakfast she immediately reports
to my lap for an affectionate round of petting and purring. The ancients

were wise to see in these charmers the wiles of goddesses: they know
more than they let on. When Maggie turns her gold-and-green eyes on
me, with their slim, sharpened ovals of anthracite, I am clearly in the
presence of an eternal force occupying this body for just a spell. And
they know who their friends are, with neither hesitation nor misstep;
they recognised at once my lap as that of a cat-worshipper.

My father kept hounds, of course, kennels full of them, maintain•
ing at all times five to six hundred English and American foxhounds,
harriers, beagles, beagle-harriers, and anglo-francais. The kennel mas•
ters (a team of twenty-five, dressed in my father's unconventional liv•
ery) were some of my keenest childhood friends, especially when
Father was on expedition. In such numbers, of course, the hounds
lived very much as a dog community, rather than as domesticated
house pets, though there were two merry beagles I took as my own
companions in the Hall. I spent many years at the kennel masters'
sides observing that crowded, well-governed dog world with the
purest respect and fascination. The dogs' baying, which the masters in
their flared harlequin trousers and winged helmets could start and
stop at will, enthralled me, and I would beg the houndsmen to set the
dogs to singing. When, with laughing eyes, the masters had all of the
beasts
roo-roo-roo
ing at once, the countryside echoed with the sweet
choir, and as far away as the village, house windows rattled and bells
clanked in sympathy and the children were all happy, crying out, "The
Trilipush hounds! The Trilipush hounds!" It was, of course, a sound
the animals produced unprompted when Father returned from expedi•
tions, even when he was still several miles away, farther, one would
think, than his scent could carry, but no farther than his love for them

and theirs for him could stretch.

There is no peace in a world of fighting men,

And no woman feels right without soon feeling wrong.
There is no lasting comfort in [fragment].

To know the gods, only scratch to make the neck long.

It is at the very least anachronistic if not positively insane to see in
Quatrain 16 (Fragment A only), as Harriman did, "a primitive's first,
tentative desire for God's grace (the sinner-king-poet stretching
long
his
neck
heavenward to
scratch
the itch for God's love)." And, while I admit
that in
Desire and Deceit
I not illogically interpreted this puzzling verse as
a reference to the primal Atumic act ("scratching" to lengthen a
"neck"), I believe now that the verse refers to something quite differ•
ent, and it is a case where the illustrative hieroglyph expresses meaning
better than the cryptic Roman alphabet. The stretching neck belongs to
none other than a dog being scratched under the chin or a cat being
stroked from shoulder to tail.

And so, should the Press someday enquire in its raucous, childishly
fleeting clamour for knowledge, "Mr. Trilipush, what drew you to
Atum-hadu? Why not Rameses or Akh-en-Aten or this unlikely Tut-
ankh-Amen?" I might answer that we are both lovers of animals, my
king and I, and see in their dark eyes a wisdom and sympathy too often
bleached from the whites of men's eyes.

Margaret:
Your spaniels, the little picnic-pirate dog that day we
were engaged, my father's hounds and horses, Atum-hadu's menagerie,
the pictures found on so many tomb walls of salukis or greyhounds:
they have been with us from the very beginning. My three cats here
ran off again after our morning's petting. I hope they will be back to•
morrow, and as long as I am here. The moment I was looking into
Maggie's golden eyes I could imagine you lying awake in Boston,
stroking the bellies of Antony and Cleopatra until their back left legs
shook uncontrollably, so that at that very instant you and I were meet•
ing halfway, and our hands were somehow touching through the soft
bellies of these beasts. I hope you are keeping a journal while I am

away. At just after midnight your time on 29 October, were you petting
your dogs and thinking of me?

Journal:
I set off to explore Luxor. Not in a position to buy much
just now, but I examine its markets and bazaars, its hidden streets and
public squares, try to get my bearings as, though it is much smaller
than Cairo, I do not claim to know it well. Try again, and futilely, not to
think of the fate of this expedition if my financiers fail now.

I take the opportunity to visit the bank, introduce myself, provide
them my address, ask for notification as soon as the credit is settled.
Which it is not, as of this morning. Remind myself that Sunday in
Boston the banks are closed.

Ferry across the Nile again to walk to Deir el Bahari, time the trip
on foot, try to plot a route that leads me to the site of Fragment C with•
out passing in view of Winlock's cordoned-off areas or the touristic
centres around Hat-shep-sut's temple. Cannot quite see how to do it ef•
ficiently. I remember Marlowe leading the way, sensing just the place
to begin, hill after hill: "A bit farther on, I should say, old boy, just a bit
farther on."

Return to villa. Organise my drafting table, desks, notebooks, jour•
nals. Shelve research texts, translating dictionaries, gramophone
records. Prepare daily work packs with canteens, chisels, rope, et
cetera.

After sundown here on the banks of the Nile, with my back to Villa
Trilipush, it is no lighter than it was 3500 years ago, and one can imag•
ine the great king himself, walking perhaps this very ground, gazing, as
I just have, into the darkness across the river, wondering, when the in•
evitable end can be held at bay no longer, how he will cross that river
and hide his earthly remains with none to bear witness.

Monday, 30 October, 1922

Journal:
I am established in Villa Trilipush, the (returned!) cats
are fed and thoroughly petted, and I admit this morning I awoke actu-