The Curse of Pharaohs. A novel

Lieutenant Gregson

ROSINA. He surely will here – a young Man, such as you describe, cannot remain neglected.

When the door closed behind Gregson, another one immediately opened at the back of the office, thereout came a very stout gentleman wearing a black suit. Breathing noisily, he stomped to the table, sat down heavily in the chair in front of the major and took rather long time to make himself comfortable. Small, evil eyes glittered under swollen eyelids. The major noted that the bags with the blue mesh of blood vessels under his eyes looked heavier than usual.

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t you entrust this matter to a gentleman, Major?” The fatty spoke in a nasty raspy voice.

“Sir?”

“Commoners aren’t supposed to handle gentlemen’ affairs. This is politically incorrect!”

“Sir, I would venture to quote Plato to you: The state is bound together by three major qualities: commercial, protective and authoritative. Just like the soul possesses a spirit of fury which is by nature auxiliary to the rational element, provided it is not corrupted by a poor upbringing?”

The fatty stared at the major in surprise. “I see that you anticipated my objections in advance, since you have provided yourself with a quote from my beloved Plato. It’s from The Republic I suppose. In turn, I want to quote Phaedrus to you: Of the Gods, all – the horses and charioteers are all noble and of noble ancestry. By this citation I mean that scandals within the noble Carnarvon family should not be brought out!”

“Sir, with these words Plato tells us that only Gods can rely on the noble ones, but we must be content with people of mixed origin.” The fatty moved his lips in a pensive displeasure. The major hastened to add. “In this particular case, we have just an example of a very useful spirit, not spoiled by bad upbringing Yes, it does contain a third element.”

“I can’t agree with you. You have enough proper gentlemen under your command.”

“Sir!” The major’s voice was firm and decisive. “As soon as I have a sufficient number of gentlemen on my staff who are capable and ready to do such a job, I promise you, I will immediately fire all the commoners miraculously surviving to this day. But, unfortunately, while real gentlemen prefer the activities of real gentlemen to the hardships of the service, the commoners have to keep their shoulders to the wheel and even, as in this particular case, sometimes get a decent reward for it.”

The fatty sighed heavily. “The unfortunate consequence of the recent War…”

“Or maybe, on the contrary, sir, a blessed consequence of the War?”

The fatty gave a sideways glance of disapproval. “Judging by your statement, you must be a secret Bolshevik here, Major?”

“Of course, sir!” The major replied seriously. “Of course, only a secret one!”

“It’s a sinister joke, Major!” The fatty twisted his smile. “Soon it might stop being just a joke in your department. You promote the ignobles, and the ignobles are prone to Bolshevism. Well, then, tell me in detail about this Lieutenant of yours, Gregson. To whom is he related and how did he even manage to get a rank?”

“The poor man has no relatives at all, sir.”

The fatty grinned. “Orphanhood is the standard background of an agent. Someone always has to give him money, and this, you must admit, could be distressing.”

“I mean, sir, he doesn’t have anyone to protect him. He comes from a simple family. His father was a merchant and ran a grocery store. The guy graduated from a public school in Yorkshire. He received his initial military training at school. After studying, he worked for a while as a draftsman at an architectural bureau. There he developed some skills, and there he acquired basic knowledge in topography. Because of this, when the war began and he volunteered to serve, he was assigned to the intcor – the intelligence corps. He studied in the officer cadet battalion. The guy was literate, modest and at the same time knew how to use a knife and fork at the table, which is why he so easily became a ‘temporary gentleman’. First he got to our topographers, and then I noticed him. And when he was sent to my unit, I promoted him further myself.”

“TG could still make a decent military man, but in no case would a real gentleman come out.”

“With all due respect, sir, a man without means will never make a real gentleman, because he would not be able to get thoroughbred horses for racing, nor lose at cards, nor throw champagne dinners for other gentlemen. However, these days we don’t need officers with means, but people with abilities and experience who would do the job. And providing them with the means for that is our business.”

The fatty grinned contentedly. “When a person with experience encounters a person with money, the person with experience walks off with money, and the person with money walks off with experience.”

“Well said, sir!” The major smiled. “This assertion is a testament to the skills of creative writer.”

“Thank you, dear friend!” The fatty seemed genuinely flattered by the compliment. “And what did this Gregson of yours do so well in the war?”

“He and I served together for three years in Sinai: in Egypt and in Palestine. First of all, I would note in him the ability to quickly navigate an unusual situation and the willingness to meet the unknown. Do you know what our ‘proper’ officers, graduates of Sunhurst, called him?”

“What?”

“‘Sir Toby’! Some called him this name in a friendly, ironic and joking way but some others openly mocked him.”

The fatty shrugged doubtfully. “I admit I don’t see the slightest resemblance to Sir Toby in him right now. As I imagine him, Sir Toby should have some noble portliness.” The fatty passed his hand near his own stomach.

The major remarked casually. “They say it’s bad luck to show such a thing on yourself, sir.”

“I say ‘portliness’, but not at all ‘obesity’, which is rather a state of mind caused by longing and disappointment.”

The major seemed to suppress a smile. “You certainly know better, sir. But I will explain what was the reason in this case. Addressing ‘sir’ in relation to TJ is in itself a sarcastic mockery. But it’s not just that. ‘Tob’ is a long white men’s shirt with wide sleeves and buttons at the throat, which is worn by Bedouins. Our Gregson often and, in my opinion, very willingly wore the local Arab costume instead of an officer’s uniform to the contrary of the ‘proper’ officers who did not favor this. In addition, he not only learned the Arabic dialect there quite quickly, but also acquired the Arabic appearance to certain degree. Thanks to him, we were able to quickly figure out the intricacies of intertribal relations there. You can’t imagine how subtle and tricky everything is in the East. How quickly the intertribal unions may emerge and break up, how fleeting is the friendship and enmity between individual sheikhs. It is much easier for Arabs to deal with Inglis, who does not wear a peak-cap, but a kuffiyah, a native striped headscarf, and speaks the same dialect with them. Largely due to Gregson, we succeeded to organize a network of informants among Bedouins hostile to the Turks, and receive timely warning about the plans and movements of the Turks and Germans.”

“So you’re saying that he understands something about politics too?” The fatty raised his eyebrows in surprise.

The major nodded. “We could say so, sir.”

The fatty raised his sausage-like finger meaningfully. “Politics is much more exciting than war, but more dangerous. In war, you can be killed only once, in politics many times.”

“That’s another aphorism worthy of a real writer, sir.”

The fatty smiled contentedly. “Even writers can be useful: they sometimes have interesting thoughts. Speaking more precisely: writers, unlike other people, manage to write down these interesting thoughts. Everyone else has to borrow other people’s thoughts, because most of them do not have their own at all. By the way, a writer is a great disguise for a spy or an agent of influence. Many of them are not even hiding. Does our Gregson, as I heard, also work under the guise of a writer? Detective stories, if I’m not mistaken?”

“He is a writer, sir. In my opinion, he has a certain aptitude for the artistic word. And studying literature in itself makes a person accurate. Besides, almost all of our writers have been in the service of Their Majesties since Chaucer’s time.”

The fatty grinned. “In our time, a writer is not the one who writes, but the one whose books are published.”

The major smiled in response. “But we could publish it ourselves. We would publish his report for us in one or two copies. Here he is, consider him a full-fledged writer! And who knows what might be born as a by-product of his literary work that we endorsed?

The fatty seemed to be thinking for a long time, sitting in an armchair.

“And here’s another thing.” The major added after a pause. “Gregson has a kind of talent for getting everywhere, being in the right place at the right time.”

“Talent like Figaro’s?” The fatty smiled.

“Perhaps, yes, but without the frivolous bustling peculiar to the French or Southerners. With your permission, I would call it luck.”

The fatty raised his eyebrows high and pondered again. The major waited patiently. Finally, the fatty sighed heavily and said with a scowl of displease. “Well, if you don’t have anyone better, go ahead, Major. But I stand by my opinion. The man of our civilization would be able to easily control the archaic sheikhs driven by the most basic motives: greed and power over his tribe. However, a person of low origin, even of our civilization, would never be able to realize the true motives of the behavior of a real aristocracy, an elite destined to direct the future of the world sometimes for the centuries ahead. Their mission determines their actions, and ultimately their fate. Such fate cannot be avoided. A kind of generic curse, just as labor is the curse of the working classes. This has been the case since the time of the Pharaohs and will remain forever. And the departed Lord Carnarvon was part of just such an aristocracy.”

“I hope, sir, Gregson would not need to delve into the deepest motives of Lord Carnarvon’s behavior and dig into the ancestral ‘curse of the pharaohs’ in his investigation. I believe he should do a great job finding out the external circumstances. I also don’t think that even the best graduates of the academies like Sandhurst or Woolwich would have coped with such a task better than him. However, after all, Lord Carnarvon’s death may turn out to be natural or explained by quite trivial reasons, as the same Gregson rightly pointed out to us. And when everything is safely clarified, you and I would breathe a sigh of peace.”

“I wish it with all my heart.” The stout gentleman shook his head. “It’s never worth waking up a sleeping dog in such cases!”

The Steamship Muiron

BARTHOLO. We are not in France, were women are always in the right.

An airplane was landing on the airfield near Marseille. The rumble of the Farman’s engine was finally changed to the peaceful buzzing of insects. Gregson, barely alive, all green and wet with sticky cold sweat, almost fell out of the cockpit and staggered on trembling legs to the car waiting for him. He endured the first flight to the outskirts of Paris relatively well, but the subsequent second flight to Marseille completely knocked him out of the saddle. An Englishman, of course, can never get seasick, but, as it turned out, can quite get air-sick!

A young red-moustached and freckled Englishman driver picked up a valise and sat the newcomer in a black Renault. They drove past the gate guarded by menacing moustached gendarmes, but no one asked for documents and visas. The driver took Gregson into the city without bothering him with idle conversations. Provencal villages flashed by, towns with tiled roofs, the first vines and olives trees were green. After circling through the busy bustle of Marseille, they arrived to the department store. Gregson picked up an attire, a suitcase and the little necessities, paid with francs carefully and prudently placed in his valise. Thanks to his slender figure, the new clothes fit him quite well. Only a picky or very experienced eye would notice that it was bought in a ready-made dress store, and not made to order. The cheerful, dark-haired salesman closed his eyes in delight and only kissed the tips of his fingers. Beautiful!

After the store, Gregson suddenly felt hungry. He really wanted to have dinner at a local tavern and order a bouaibes with local white wine, but the adamant driver did not allow because they had to hurry to the departure of steamship. They went straight to the port.

On the cramped, cluttered embankment, there was an appetizing smell of fried fish, seawater and algae. The driver picked up the luggage and escorted Gregson to the pier where the snow-white steamship Muiron was moored and already smoking the pipes. There, the driver without further ado handed Gregson a first-class ticket to Alexandria: Muiron, unlike most other ships, departed from Marseille harbor late in the evening. The driver briefly wished to Gregson for seven feet under the keel and left him alone.

It was almost dark. Gregson ran up the stairs and felt the deck sway slightly under his feet. He took a last look at the embankment, at the harbor lighthouse, at the cozy city lights, at the seagulls swarming near the side and, without waiting for the final steamship whistle, accompanied by a smiling steward, headed for his cabin. There he appreciated the cleanliness, comfort and coolness of the snow-white cabin, the view from the porthole, the brass polished to a sunny shine, mahogany and the softness of the crimson leather furniture. Gregson nodded in satisfaction and tipped the steward generously. Then he locked the door, put his valise on the shelf, put the browning under his pillow, undressed, fell into bed and slept dreamlessly until the morning.

In the morning, he woke up to the sound of the ship’s engines reverberating in his brain like a spell: “Bravo, bravissimo, bravo, bravissimo, bravo, bravissimo, fortunatissimo, fortunatissimo, fortunatissimo per verità!”

Gregson shook off the delusion. The cabin vibrated slightly from the running machines. Bright light seeped through the porthole. The shrill cries of seagulls were coming from outside. What a bliss! There are still three whole days of paid sweet idleness ahead! Gregson fell back into a dream and was awakened by the first breakfast bell. Go to hell! Gregson closed his eyes and fell back into a half-doze, but after only a few minutes, the steward knocked insistently on the cabin door and courteously invited the forgetful passenger to breakfast. It is a great honor: a person was sent for him personally. Perhaps it is worth going anyway.

Gregson put on a light white linen suit he bought yesterday, a white hat and canvas shoes. It was cool on the deck, and in the open areas where the airflow from the movement of the steamship ran in, it was even a little chilly, but still no need to put extra clothes. The smoke from pipes drifted to the decks of the third class. The sea was calm, but the skin was chilled by the incoming airflow caused by the movement of the steamship. The turquoise sea merged with the blue sky in a distant haze. Seagulls flew screaming over the deck. Gregson thanked a fortune for the unexpected opportunity to escape, at least for a short time, to the blessed Mediterranean paradise from the gray sooty city, from pale green England, reminiscent of boiled spinach with its landscapes. He stood and breathed deeply for a long time, peering at the horizon, until suddenly realized that he had missed the start of breakfast a long time ago. How impolite.

Breakfast for first class passengers was served in a separate small room decorated with wooden panels and sparkling gold brass. The headwaiter ceremoniously escorted Gregson to the table and introduced the latecomer to the passengers sitting at the table: a traveling writer collecting material on Egyptology. Then he introduced the other companions to Gregson, one by one.

Colonel Watson, an American with a dry, tanned face, a bushy gray mustache and sharp blue eyes, dressed almost exactly like Gregson. Only his hat, hanging on a hook nearby, was wider-brimmed. Looks like he took it off only when he sat down at the table. The colonel was silent at the table, occasionally glancing ironically at the others, smiling slightly at his thoughts.

Next to him sat his secretary, Mr. Atkinson, a tall broad shouldered young man, with a same type of tenacious attentive gaze and dressed very similarly to a colonel. He has just taken the chewing gum out of his mouth and now was vigorously grinding bacon, scrambled eggs and toast instead.

In front of them was sitting Mademoiselle Zainab Saad, a rich Egyptian young woman with delicate features, returning from Paris with her maid. A white closed loose dress hid her figure, and a white headscarf completely hid her hair. Her maid, dressed in black, as expected, did not sit down at the common table, despite the steward’s insistent offer, but did not leave the dining room and humbly huddled in a corner like a piece of furniture, quietly watching what was happening.

Reverend John Romney, in a black suit and tie, looking like a mortician and his wife Sarah, also black clad like a crow, were on their way to Sudan for missionary work. Both were thin, with chiseled features, they sat in silence, straightened their backs, as if they had swallowed a broomstick and diligently chewed an omelet. Their jaws moved from side to side like grazing sheep.

Two young Frenchmen Gaston Lepont and Maurice Verte, presented as an archaeologist and a poet, also chewed in silence. They seemed upset about something. Gregson was surprised seeing those two here: such an audience does not fit first-class service.