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 findever? 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 theTimes?” I ask. I know Howard is thinking the same thing but won’t ask about theTimes, 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.”
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 onmanylevels.”
