Читать книгу: «The Curse of Pharaohs. A novel», страница 2

“The second question?”

“What happens if I fail to find the cause of Lord Carnarvon’s death? Or if the cause of Lord’s death turns out to be trivial? Won’t you blame me for that?”

The major smiled. “No, I won’t because I know you too well. This is also the answer to your first question.”

Lieutenant Gregson

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

BEAUMARCHAIS The Barber of Seville.

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.

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

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.

The general conversation at the table did not go well. If it were not for the occasional requests to pass the salt, one would think that deaf-mutes had gathered here.

“What is it about Egyptology that interests you so much, Mr. Gregson?” Colonel Watson suddenly broke the general silence, pushing his plate away.

Gregson noted that he did not hear an American accent and smiled in response: “The same as the rest of the public: secrets!”

“It’s dangerous to dig into someone else’s secrets. Lord Carnarvon, who died the other day, is an example of this. He shouldn’t have opened the Pharaoh’s tomb.”

Gregson answered: “But the public loves other people’s secrets and is even willing to pay to find them out. That’s how journalists and newspapermen make living. As well as writers do.”

“And spies.” The secretary suddenly remarked, casting an appraising glance at Gregson. The colonel casually glanced sideways at his secretary and lightly patted his hand. Then, looking directly at Gregson, he remarked. “Yes, people are curious like monkeys and many enjoy sticking the nose in someone else’s business.”

The poet suddenly joined the conversation: “The curse of the pharaohs will befall them for this, and punishment will not be slow to fall on their impudent heads! Why do ignorant people, like moths on fire, meddle in something they cannot understand?!”

Mademoiselle Saad declared loudly. “There is no such a thing as curse of the pharaohs. It’s all superstition and nonsense.” She spoke English with a strong French accent.

The reverend said mockingly. “Are you an atheist? I did not expect this from a Muslim woman. I thought they should know their proper place.”

Mademoiselle Saad looked at him with contempt: “I am a modern educated woman, brought up on Arabic and French world culture. And your ridiculous preachings are outdated for several centuries, if not millennia. And I doubt very much that the Sudanese Negroes really need them.”

The clergyman blushed, stretched out his hand over the table in the direction of Mademoiselle Saad and angrily intoned: “The foolish woman is clamorous; she is stupid, and knoweth nothing. And she sitteth at the entry of her house, on a seat in the high places of the city, to call passers-by who go right on their ways: Whoso is simple, let him turn in hither. And to him that is void of understanding she saith!”

The reverend’s wife broke into a smile and croaked in a raspy voice: “The Book of Proverbs of Solomon, Chapter 9, Verses 13 to 16.”

She and her husband exchanged glances, pleased with their victory.

“Only the noble reveres women and only the scoundrel humiliates them!” Gregson remarked and caught the surprised and grateful look of Mademoiselle Saad. Then he smiled back and added, already addressing her: “If you are God-fearing, then do not show tenderness in your speeches, so that someone whose heart is afflicted with an illness does not desire you.”

“The Book of the Prophet, Surah al-Ahzab.” Mademoiselle Saad announced and surprisingly clapped her hands cheerfully.

The clergyman’s already red face was even more bloodshot. Gregson thought he was going to have a stroke. The prolonged ominous silence was interrupted by the colonel’s laughter: “It seems to me that you, Reverend, do not need to go to preach to the distant Sudanese Negroes: You have a lot of work here among the lost souls.”

“In Montaigne’s opinion, women are not to blame for sometimes refusing to obey the rules of behavior established for them by society, because these rules were composed by men, and moreover without any participation of women.” The archaeologist said it in French and immediately translated this phrase for the rest.

The Reverend and his wife exchanged glances, silently got up, noisily pushed back their chairs and, wishing the others a pleasant appetite, stepped out of the table and left the dining room. Without those two, the tension at the table eased and the conversation went on more cheerfully: everyone told a little about themselves and about the purposes of their journey.

It turned out that Mademoiselle Saad studied medicine in Paris. She said that she was going to work as a gynecologist, obstetrician or pediatrician in her homeland. Regardless of her fascination by Boulmiche and love to French literature, now she urgently needs to return home for family business.

Archaeologist Gaston Lepont said he was going on a short business trip to study ancient inscriptions on Egyptian monuments on the spot in order to prepare his dissertation.

Maurice Verte could not clearly explain what he needed in Egypt, but only vaguely hinted at something unknown and mysterious beyond the understanding of laymen.

Gregson noticed that only Colonel Watson had not yet said anything about the purpose of his trip to Egypt and asked him a direct question.

The colonel smiled into his magnificent moustache. “As one of my friends said, ‘I went to this land of lotuses for a month to think in silence while indulging in idleness’…” Then he immediately changed the subject of conversation, turning to the only lady at the table. “Mademoiselle Saad, did you say you do not believe in the curse of the pharaohs?”

“I don’t believe it at all!” The girl said decisively.

“In that case, how do you explain the strange death of Lord Carnarvon?”

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently in Gallic manner: “No way. To explain his death, you need to look at his medical history, perform an autopsy and then make a final diagnosis. Then we won’t find any reason for miracles.”

“But the strange circumstances of illness and quick death! The newspapers say he was bitten by some kind of poisonous insect sleeping in the tomb for several thousand years.”

Mademoiselle Saad shrugged her shoulders contemptuously again. “The usual tabloid crap! Everyone knows that insects do not live for several thousand years. I have been to Luxor myself and, as far as I know, there are no particularly poisonous insects there at all.”

Gregson said at random. “Maybe a common malaria mosquito?”

“In those places, as I remember, there are not even malaria mosquitoes. In addition, malaria usually does not kill in one month.”

Lepont intervened in the conversation: “Of course, the story of the insect is a crap. I read that Lord Carnarvon just accidentally cut himself while shaving and died of blood poisoning.”

“As we can see, the cause of death is quite natural!” Mademoiselle Saad smiled.

Verte, who was silent until now, broke into the conversation: “We can’t see anything! We do not see the true causes, those that lead to the visible ones. What caused the infection or what brought poison on the razor blade? What drove the hand of Lord Carnarvon to slash his own flesh with the poisoned steel? Invisible threads of curse entwined the wicked, who touched the mystery without due reverence and pulled this hand like a puppet’s hand!”

Lepont replied thoughtfully. “In that case, it could have been the hand of an envious person, an archaeologist, for example, who worked without result all his life, envious to the unjust success of an amateur who made the discovery of the century.”

The colonel smiled: “You must be judging by yourself, Monsieur Lepont.”

Verte proclaimed loudly: “At the moment when Lord Carnarvon departed, the electric lights suddenly went out all over Cairo and the city submerged into Egyptian darkness! What do you think it was? A coincidence? No, this was an obvious Sign, revealed to us from the Other Side!”

“I suppose it’s a common concoction of reporters.” Atkinson said. “They had to embellish the scene somehow to entertain and intrigue the readers. Then everyone began to rewrite each other’s successful fiction, so that there are no ends to be found now.”

Lepont laughed. “The Russians call it kluqua, that is, cranberry, a fictional beautiful implausible detail, a piquant berry grown into a lush palm tree of the Arab traditional exaggeration.”

“What if the true cause of the lord’s death was Love?” Verte interjected again.

“Lord Carnarvon was already 57 years old.” Atkinson casually remarked. “The rumors say he had so much fun in his youth that should have calmed down long time ago.”

Verte explained: “I read in the newspaper that Lord Carnarvon opposed his daughter Lady Evelyn in her affection to Mr. Howard Carter, the archaeologist who unearthed the tomb of Tutankhamun. This disagreement escalated into a quarrel of the count with his daughter and Carter.”

Atkinson snorted: “Then, we have a rare case of gerontophilia: Mr. Carter himself is about fifty now and the Earl’s daughter is not quite of age yet. And why should there be such African passions between them?”

“Why not? The presence of a young woman and the old age might drive old men crazy, is it right, Mr. Gregson?” Mademoiselle Saad looked at Gregson slyly.

“Why are you asking me about old men?” replied Gregson.

“I just wanted to know if you agree with Figaro, whose words I just quoted? I love The Barber of Seville very much! And The Marriage of Figaro too! Do you like Beaumarchais?”

“I really don’t know what to tell you.” Gregson shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

Verte announced pompously: “Love arises at any age, in the most unexpected circumstances and in a variety of people! People often die because of tragic and mainly because of forbidden love! Could it be that someone’s forbidden love caused the death of the Earl of Carnarvon?”

Gregson caught another tempting glance of Mademoiselle Saad and looked away in embarrassment.

Here the archaeologist rose up from the table and announced: “Lady and gentlemen, thank you for your pleasant company. Shouldn’t we continue our enjoyable conversation on deck?”