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The Egyptologist Who Would Be Pharaoh
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February 2, 2005
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by Jennifer Pinkowski
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In their wrapped corpses with their organs bottled in canopic jars, and in their picture-alphabet and in their beast-headed gods, the best
Egyptians lived with the certainty that they were owed eternity, that they
lived and would live forever in a present of their own choosing, unhaunted
by the past, unthreatened by the future, luxuriously entertained in a
present they could extend as long as they wished, releasing these savoury
moments on their own terms, not at the imperious demand of mere days,
nights, suns, moons.
How does a life exist beyond its allotted heartbeats? Is immortality the
continuation of your genes, or the remembrance of your name? If the story of
your life outlasts you, is it a story that someone else tells? Would you
still recognize it as your own? Questions about the nature of existence and
identity lie at the heart of Arthur Phillips' The Egyptologist (Random
House: New York, 2004; $24.95; paperback release this June), and Phillips
astutely recognizes that they are as at home in archaeology, with its
millennia-long view, as they are in philosophy. Phillips, author of Prague, the well-received 2003 novel about the phenomenon of American expatriates living in Eastern Europe in the 1990s, mines archaeology's ability to comment on these ideas through our putative hero, Ralph M. Trilipush, a fringe Egyptologist with an Oxford education and a dubious translation of
ancient erotica to his credit, who devotedly digs for the tomb of a pharaoh
who probably never existed. The result is a beautifully written novel that
is mournful, slapstick, lewd, sympathetic, and bitterly funny.
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The novel is structured in the epistolary form, that is, as a series of
letters and notes rather than a continuous narrative. The majority of these
are the 1922 letters and excavation records of Trilipush, which he sends to
Margaret Finneran, his fiancée and the daughter of his financier, shortly
before he disappears in Egypt that same year. Most of the others are written
some 30 years later and are the recollections of Harold Ferrell, an
Australian gumshoe, to Margaret's nephew, who is researching his family
history and turns to Ferrell to fill in the blanks on Trilipush's connection
to his aunt.
Ferrell investigated Trilipush in 1922 through a case that, as he recalls in
his first letter, "started as an odd-duck inheritance task, then it was a
missing-person case with a dozen different clients, then a double murder, a
prenuptial background investigation, then a debt-collection case, and
suddenly quite a different double murder." The spark for this many tentacled
investigation was the 1918 disappearance of Paul Caldwell, an Australian
soldier and autodidact of all things Egyptian who went missing in Egypt with
Trilipush's Oxford chum (and fellow Egyptologist) Hugo St. John Marlowe just
after Armistice. The Egyptologist has a huge set of characters--among them a Bolshevist librarian, a crooked circus clown, a drug-addled socialite, a
Boston Irish mobster, and a crude department-store magnate--and its structure
is far too complicated to convey easily, so suffice it to say that as
Ferrell investigates his Medusa-like case, he becomes convinced Trilipush
had something to do with Caldwell's disappearance.
Ferrell is shamelessly self-promoting, freely concocts bits of decades-old
conversations when he can't fully recall them, and has no problem changing
the facts to fit his view--an altogether unreliable source. But he's not the
only character we need to be wary of. Phillips makes clear from the start
that Trilipush, too, isn't all he says he is. There are questions about his
Oxford education and his time in the British Army. Though he has a post at
Harvard, he is clearly considered a crank by mainstream Egyptologists and
can't get institutional support for any fieldwork. And despite his
lovey-dovey letters to Margaret, he may be stringing her along until her
father sends the money to fund his search for a pharaoh's tomb (in one
letter, he flubs, "You are such a marvellous girl, Margaret. You are
everything I have ever wanted in a wire").
This pharaoh is equally suspect. Three papyri fragments of The
Admonitions of Atum-hadu--the last discovered by him and Marlowe in 1915 in
Deir el-Bahri--form the basis for Trilipush's belief in Atum-hadu (amusingly,
"Atum-is-aroused"), the pharaoh-poet of the 80 surviving quatrains written
on them. Yet the nearest Atum-hadu can be nailed down is: "Atum-hadu (?)
reigned (?) circa 1650 B.C. (?) at the tail end of the XIIIth Dynasty (?) ,
of which he was (?) the final king (?)." (It from these papyri that
Trilipush compiles verse for Desire and Deceit in Ancient Egypt, the
aforementioned translation of erotica, a copy of which he pushes into the
hands of everyone he meets.)
Phillips wisely places Atum-hadu's rule in the archaeologically hazy Second
Intermediate Period (ca. 1800-1500 B.C.), when Egypt, in disarray from
Hyksos invasions and a lack of consolidated rule, had a series of pharaohs
only briefly in power and of whom few records exist. This gives him the room
to imagine Atum-hadu as he will. It would have been much more difficult to
convincingly place him among the well-documented rulers of the 18th Dynasty,
for instance.
Phillips sought help for such narrative decisions. As he recounts in his
funny afterword--inexplicably and disappointingly, included only in the early
edition sent to reviewers (see the novel's website for a less interesting author interview)--he plagued a
curator at the British Museum with research questions when he was unsure if
his details were historically convincing, and "in the darkness, without
fail, every single time, I was met by my loyal British Museum staffer,
flashlight in hand, ready and willing (if not precisely delighted) to
wrangle me and my proliferating characters spanning 3500 years back to the
well-lit halls of plausibility."
As our intrepid hero hires a field crew of criminals and amateurs and begins
to dig without a permit, Ferrell sows seeds of suspicion in the minds of
Trilipush's financial backers (particularly Margaret's
department-store-magnate father), who then withhold their money. But
Trilipush does find something in the sands: a door. His triumph soon fizzles
as Howard Carter discovers the tomb of Tutankhamun. He seethes, scathingly
dismissing the 18th Dynasty, famous for the pharaohs Hatshepsut, Tuthmosis
III, Amenhotep III, Akhenaten, and Tut, as "the kitsch New Kingdom,
imitative, luxurious but false, the prancing ground of pudgy-bellied
androgynes and the research pool of equally soft scholars...." After a visit
to the tomb, he writes to Margaret that its bevy of richness is excessive:
I heard the Times called the chariot wheels "haunting" and the gold "blinding" and the statues "magnificent" and the tomb itself "unlike
anything ever seen in this land." It is not true, it is simply not true,
Margaret, it is just a room stuffed without logic or story, just a room of
eye-catching mishmash, and of course, the untrained tourist oohs and aahs and practically drops her own jewels at the sight of these semiprecious relics, but for an expert eye, I really feel a certain amount of pity for Carter and a general sense of disgust, as if I had just been forced to eat sweets and sweets and sweets in the most sweltering weather.
His own dig is going less well. That door has led to an empty room, and then
to another empty room, and then to a third. His crew defects to work on
Tut's tomb, so he excavates alone. And through the next couple hundred
pages, he does indeed find Atum-hadu--in a manner of speaking. That's about
as much plot as I can give without spoiling it.
What sort of pharaoh is Atum-hadu? Carter describes him as "King Arthur
imagined by de Sade." As Trilipush conjures him, he is a warrior-poet,
equally skilled at ravishing lovers and skewering enemies, sexually
voracious and righteously violent. He has a crude sense of humor, thin skin
about his commoner origins, and a tendency to write cringe-inducing
metaphors (expect to groan at hilarious, god-awful puns about Isis' Nile
Delta and the like). As the last pharaoh of the 13th Dynasty, his court
undercut by betrayal, his borders besieged by Hyksos barbarians, Atum-hadu
is a "fighter for honour," the last vestige of a unified Egypt that would
divide for the next few hundred years (and be restored by the founders of
the 18th Dynasty that Trilipush so reflexively disdains).
As a marginalized figure in his field, Trilipush clearly identifies with his
pharaoh, and that identification allows Phillips to put Trilipush's
character on display as well--his peevishness, his professional jealousies,
his increasingly apparent incompetence. But we might also have sympathy for
Trilipush, because the resonance ancient Egypt has for him is familiar to
anyone entranced by archaeological discovery. There's an imaginative
generosity to archaeology, an openness to alien cultures and ways; or,
alternatively, a recognition of our common humanity, which transcends
different eras and cultures (and taste, considering Atum-hadu's crude
verse). For all of his failures, Trilipush's sincere devotion to the
woefully ludicrous Atum-hadu is touching.
However, the study of material culture has its limitations. It's difficult
to find a single individual in the archaeological record, unless he or she
is a famous personage. Even then, an individual's singular qualities--the
ones those who love (or hate) us would describe as uniquely our own--are lost
when we die. Of course, this isn't archaeology's problem. It's just the way
things are. Phillips portrays archaeology a sort of mourning for all things
lost, an attempt to recover the unrecoverable--compelling, humane, but doomed
to fail.
The world is littered with the arcs de triomphe and such-and-such
juniors, the chattering artists nervous to know their work will last, poets
committing suicide to assure their fame, last wills and testaments trying to
control heirs, names annually read out in churches and synagogues, ornate
tombstones and deathbed I-love-yous, bequests and named donations, money
left to political parties and charities. We are all plenty Egyptian still
and no debate.
Inevitably, Ferrell comes to Egypt to confront Trilipush with accusations of
blackmail and murder. More than that I can't say, because there is a
"surprise ending" that I don't want to give away. But I will offer that the
last 20 pages or so are less shocking for any narrative twists than for the
turn the novel takes to a darker, more cynical place, where the vast
privileges of wealth and the brutal limitations of poverty are equally
corrosive to the soul. And, Phillips bleakly implies, archaeology can attest
that it has always been so.
Jennifer Pinkowski is associate editor/reviews editor of ARCHAEOLOGY.
© 2005 by the Archaeological Institute of America archive.archaeology.org/online/reviews/egyptologist.html |