The Curse of Pharaohs
A novel
Lieutenant Desgrez

These with a thousand small deliberations

Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,

Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,

With pungent sauces, multiply variety

In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do

Suspend its operations, will the weevil

Delay?

Gerontion by T. S. Eliot

Translator Д. Григорьев

Translator Г. Иванов

© Lieutenant Desgrez, 2025

© Д. Григорьев, translation, 2025

© Г. Иванов, translation, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-7755-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Prologue

FIGARO. Pooh, our Comic Opera-Makers are not so nice now a Days.

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

FIGARO. Hem! Hem! When this is set to Music, properly accompanied, we shall see, Gentleman Critics, whether or no, I know what I am about.

Ibid.

“He put away his Browning FN Model 1910, sat in the chair in front of the man and began a conversation. “Mr. Butler, I am not employed by Scotland Yard and came here as a private individual. However, I actually represent His Majesty’s Secret Service at this time. So, I request you to tell me everything. My interest is not in your financial and trading activities or scientific endeavors in Egypt, per se. Rather, they are of interest only insofar as they related to the murder of the Count.”

“Why do you think it was a murder, Mr. Johnson?”

“I have conducted my own investigation and I am now convinced that it was a murder. My belief is that the motives of such should be sought within the Egyptian enterprise of the Count, which you managed, Mr. Butler. I will keep your confession confidential under two conditions: first, if you are personally not involved in this murder, and secondly, if you will be entirely honest with me, completely! For my part, I can assure you that I will only use the information that I receive from you for the purpose of investigating the murder, and will not harm your business interests.”

“Do you give me your word as a gentleman?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot give my word as a gentleman, as I am not the one. However, if I give a word, I keep it.”

“I am not a murderer – do you believe me?”

“I will believe you, if you provide me with sufficient evidence to do so.”

“In fact, I greatly admired that old eccentric and became attached to him. We could say that we became friends, if such a relationship between a Count and the ordinary person was possible at all. Indeed, we had a recent disagreement, and he even asked for my forgiveness. The count himself! Indeed, he was lonely and needed my assistance.… So, what do you wish to know from me?”

“Everything! What was the core business your company? How was it related to the politics? What commitments did the Count undertake and to whom specifically? What was the cause of your recent quarrel with the Count? Why was he murdered? What role did the young lady and the Countess play in all of this? What does Mr. Lucas hide? Which items was the murderer after? Finally, the most significant question: Who is the perpetrator?”

“I am not aware of the identity of the killer. Nor do I possess all the information. However, I will provide a detailed report of our company, and you may draw your own conclusions from this. I hope that my report will dispel any suspicions regarding my involvement in the crime. However, please promise to forget my confession, as the interests of numerous powerful individuals are at stake, in addition to my own. Allow me to elaborate…”

***

The editor threw back a stack of disheveled sheets with blurred typewritten text, an excerpt from which he had just read, onto a table littered with papers. Then he chewed on his bloodless lips, took off his tiny round glasses and stared sadly at Gregson:

“Yes, I read your manuscript and reflected my opinion about it in my review. Personally, this reading was very interesting and entertaining for me, but we will not publish it!”

“Why?” Gregson asked in an outwardly calm tone, although inside he was roaring with anger.

“I just read you an excerpt from your book as an example, Mr. Gregson.” The Editor ran his hand over the rejected manuscript with painful expression on his face. “I thought you would understand everything yourself. Is it still not clear to you?”

“I admit, no, it’s not clear!” Gregson was still outwardly calm, but his heart was pounding inside.

The Editor leaned back in his chair, picked up his pipe from the table, slowly lit it and blew a stream of tobacco smoke into the ceiling. “This is no good! You are not a writer yet, Mr. Gregson. You still have to study and study. I don’t see this Butler of yours right now. Give me a vivid artistic image! Then maybe I’ll believe in him.”

“What exactly is wrong with my book?”

“We usually do not honor the authors with explanations.” The Editor forced a wry smile. “But only out of respect for your military past, I will try to convey our reasons to you.”

Gregson’s lips curled slightly in an answering smile. “I would highly appreciate your clarification.”

The Editor nodded with satisfaction, covered himself in a fresh cloud of blue smoke and said. “You have almost nothing besides dialogues in your book! This is not the way we do it. Contrary to the unspoken rules, you even started right away with a dialogue!”

Gregson objected. “But Plato also wrote in the form of a dialogue. Dialogue allows you to identify contradictions much better than a simple narrative…”

“First of all, you are not Plato!” The Editor sternly raised his finger. “Be a little more modest! And secondly, Plato is currently being read by only a few bookworms, and we need a circulation!”

Gregson opened his notebook, made a note in it with a pencil, and looked up at the Editor again. “Do you have any other objections besides the form of the dialogue?”

The Editor, looking wistfully at the ceiling, blew out a smoke ring again. “Too dry. Too lifeless. You don’t have any epithets at all. Some nouns and verbs: ‘he said, they met, she passed, he fired’.”

“It seemed to me that this way the narrative would become more dynamic and capture attention… It’s a detective story!”

“You’re wrong! This is a novel, not a newspaper report. It assumes a certain artistic level. The ability to draw a picture with a word. Description of nature, personal experiences of the characters, feelings… Beautiful comparisons, epithets, tropes…”

“Do you think the reader needs all this?” Gregson chuckled. “What kind of reader needs descriptions of nature and other verbal husks?”

“He doesn’t need it.” The Editor nodded. “But he’s used to it. He would feel deprived if he does not grasp the difference in artistic level between himself and the writer. Therefore, you, being a writer, would lose his respect, the charm of mystery surrounding any artist and separating him from the crowd of nonprofessionals. Yes, the reader wants to read detective and police story, yes, he will prefer Nick Carter and the killers of Michigan Avenue to many great novels of the past – Dickens, Flaubert and Tolstoy. Nevertheless, even the story about Nick Carter, he certainly wants to read in the style of Dickens, Flaubert or Tolstoy. Our reader is a snob, even if he doesn’t always realize it.”

Gregson made a note in his notebook and, without taking his eyes off his sheet, nodded. “Any other comments?”

The Editor seemed pleased: he rarely had such an attentive listener. “Do not call the main character by only one name in the text. This causes irritation. Then, why so many numbers, dates and technical details? They distract from artistic images…”

“Please continue.” Gregson nodded, quickly making another note in his notebook.

“Add some jokes. The reader wants to relax.”

A nod, a note in a notebook, an attentive, expectant look.

Perhaps such a grateful listener deserves some encouragement. After another puff of smoke, the Editor generously decided to reward the upset author with a little candy of praise. “You have some positive points. For example, a Lord and an Earl are very good! The average reader loves books about high society. He doesn’t know it at all and therefore loves it madly. Therefore, do not dispel his misconceptions and legends! The aristocracy is our sacred cow! The reader dreams to be a part of it and such dream comes true imaginary while reading! You are on the right track here.”

Gregson made another note and looked up expectantly.

“Writing a book with epigraphs nowadays is very pretentious. Remove them!”

An entry in a notebook, a nod of the willingness to heed the age-old wisdom.

Perhaps enough of the encouragement! The Editor became serious. “But please don’t mention <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation>! Even among the aristocrats! This would disgust a significant part of the readers.”

Gregson, having made another entry, nodded, inviting further criticism.

Another puff of smoke at the ceiling. “Next. Special terminology. For example, the reader does not know and may get confused about who TG is?”

Gregson explained patiently. “TG means a temporary gentleman, that is, a person who was not an aristocrat by birth and received an officer’s rank during the war due to extraordinary circumstances.”

“But the average uninformed reader cannot be expected to know this at all! This also applies to information about other countries or scientific facts. We are not an encyclopedia and cannot afford to publish a commented edition. The reader does not like to be distracted by footnotes, he would not bother finding out all the facts and terms, thus, at the end he would get confused and angry. And whom will he be mad at? Of course, you, the author!”

“Next?” Gregson nodded, without taking his pencil off his notebook.

“I praised you for the aristocrats. However, listen to another good advice: do not have any Jews! No way!”

Gregson looked up from his notes and stared at the Editor in surprise. “I’ve heard the opinion that there should be no Chinese in a detective story, but…”

“Jews are even worse than Chinese.” The Editor waved his hand. “Believe me. No decent publishing company would take a book with Jews from you, unless they are ancient Jews.”

“Do you hate Jews to such an extent?” Gregson’s lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile.

“I just love them.” The Editor sighed heavily. “But even one Shylock is quite enough for us. We don’t need another one. You’re not Shakespeare, are you? Keep in mind: they won’t tolerate a second Shakespeare here either! This place is already occupied!”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Punishment, Gregson!” The Editor raised a pointing finger and shook it in the air. “If there is a crime, then there must be a punishment too! This is the ‘iron rule’ of the detective story, stemming from the ‘golden rule’ of ethics!”

“It seems to me that solving a crime will be quite enough for a detective story, and the punishment can be left outside the framework of the narrative.…”

“Then the reader would feel dissatisfied. People want a triumph of justice here and now and speedy retribution for the sins of the villains. This is actually the main reason why the detectives are created, bought and read. Punishment should be inevitable in the finale.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Remember: the first chapter should be stunning right away. If the reader doesn’t like it, he won’t read on. And in your novel, it’s kind of… sluggish… The first three paragraphs of the first chapter are especially important.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Anything else?”

It suddenly seemed to the Editor that Gregson was playing a waiter taking an order in a restaurant. For a moment it seemed the cooperative author would leave the office right now, only to return a moment later with a new novel, prepared this time in full accordance with the tastes and preferences of the client: “with blood’, “medium’ or “well done’. No, it is a detective story, so it should be definitely with blood! However, isn’t it too cheap for the sophisticated Editor to give away such a precious experience to a layman? Perhaps that’s enough. Let him first appreciate the boon done to him! “We can continue for a very, very long time, but let’s stop here for now.”

Gregson nodded and put the notebook in his pocket. “Now here’s the thing. I’m not going to make the first chapter stunning. There must be a certain logic in the narrative, even if the dummies cannot comprehend it.”

What? How could this be? Even if fresh asparagus was not delivered today, but where is the ostentatious grief of the servile waiter about this? “The average reader rarely knows even simple logic.” The Editor shook his head and put down his pipe. “He needs strong feelings and vivid images from you, not logic at all!”

Gregson stood up quickly and with a quick movement picked up his manuscript from the table. “And I will have logic! And there will certainly be long dialogues, scientific facts and even Jews!”

“It’s a pity.” The Editor spread his hands. “Then we’ll never print your novel!”

“So be it. But I will be able to tell an entertaining and very educational story, which according to your patterns is not worth doing. Besides this, in entertaining stories, you seem to understand as much as a pig understands in oranges! So long!” Gregson nodded curtly and headed for the exit. Being at the door, he turned around and said. “I just added a joke, as you asked.”

The door slammed shut behind him. The Editor shuddered, and remained sitting in thought. Then he shook his head, sighed heavily, put on his glasses, picked up from the table a new stack of typewritten sheets with blurred font and then began to write another internal review.

The Major

FIGARO. My Lord, the more difficulty there is to your succeeding, only adds to the Necessity of your Undertaking.

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

Major Wilkinson approached the wall and tore off previous day’s calendar sheet: today is the twelfth, Thursday. Then, tomorrow will be Friday, the thirteenth of the month and it is better not to start important things on such a day! Therefore, we should get started today and immediately!

Today’s leaflet reminded him that exactly one hundred and forty-one years ago, Admiral Rodney defeated the frogs at All Saints. Those must have been glorious times, very, very glorious times! Additionally, today is the anniversary of the Union Jack, too, a very significant day! One can say that Britain took the first step towards becoming an empire three hundred and seventeen years ago. Now it is an Empire on which the sun never sets. But… is it already about to set? It depends only on the tireless efforts of the servants of the Empire. To keep the sun from setting on the Empire everyone – the major himself and all his officers – like farmers from a fairy tale, have to sit tenaciously on a high roof, stick the pitchfork in that damn scorching sun and tirelessly, with all their might, hold it above the horizon. It is extremely hard to keep the Empire from going down, but someone has to do this job… There is a ton of slackers loitering around such an important matter, but there are damn few real helpers! And the damn bureaucracy strangles… The major unbuttoned the tight collar of his “French’ tunic and massaged his neck. He went to the window and lifted the frame. The cool April air rushed into the office with a slight smell of urban smoky burning. There was a distant Easter bell ringing, the rumble and cheerful bells of trams, the quacking of car horns. Happy-go-lucky sparrows chirped merrily: they did not need to worry about the fate of empires. Suddenly the Major realized how drastic is the disharmony between the freshness of the outside world and the dusty mustiness of his office…

A door behind him opened abruptly and he heard a familiar voice:

“May I come in, Saed-midjar?”

The major turned around. A young man, about twenty-seven years old, about six and a half feet tall, with blue eyes, straw-colored hair and a wheat-colored mustache, appeared at the entrance of the office. He was dressed in an expensive tweed plaid suit, light brown boots with gaiters on his feet.

“Finally, Gregson!” The Major walked briskly towards him and exchanged a firm handshake with the guest. “Damn glad to see you back at my place, Lieutenant! It’s been a long time; it’s been a long-long time!”

“Sabah el Khair, Saed-midjar.” Gregson bowed, putting his right hand to his heart and smiled broadly. “Long time no see. How are things going on the fronts of the Empire now?”

“The Empire is in desperate need of you again, Gregson. Sit down. Let’s get right to the point.” The major buttoned up the collar of his tunic. “But first, tell me, how did you get settled after you left the service?”

The two of them sat side by side at a table covered with frayed green baize with books and papers all over. The guest crossed his legs and answered slowly. “In different ways, Saed-midjar. I worked in various offices. Boredom is deadly over there, especially after our exploits! But after all I got lucky: I was invited to work for a detective agency. Then I stated to prosper as now everyone around is obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. I think it’s time for me to open my own private detective office: ‘Gregson and Lestrade’. So far, however, I don’t have any Lestrade in sight, and I don’t expect him, but Gregson alone is ready to perform for two and, hopefully, he would carry on.”

“That’s good!” Wilkinson smiled. “Because I just want to offer you a case. And the funds allocated are not sufficient to cut a share for Lestrade as well. However, if you succeed, it will be a good start for your own office.”

“And why do you need me, Saed-midjar?” The guest squinted.

“Stop playing coy, Gregson!”

“Don’t you have enough subordinates?”

The major sighed heavily. “That’s a damn sore point, Lieutenant. After the war, we had a lot of staff cuts. Some smarty pants concluded that since the war was victorious, Britain had fewer enemies! However, the situation is exactly the opposite! There is much more of them now! I had to part with many of my best people, because they had their own business to do and because the best people know what they are doing. Now the incompetent relatives of the big shots occupy their places. And there is no one to work! Thank God, I still have some funds at my disposal for special operations. Therefore, in special cases, we can involve experienced people from the outside. You, for example.”

“But why me?”

Instead of answering, the major got up and walked to the wall, pulled open the curtain that hid the large map, and pointed to the southeastern corner of the Mediterranean.

“The Middle East.”

“Really?” The guest was clearly excited.

The major noticed this and smiled. “The adoption of the constitution in Egypt is scheduled in a week. Big celebrations among the natives. It’s going to be fun. Would you like to take a ride to Egypt at government expense?”

“All the newspapers are talking about Tutankhamun so much right now that even I was curious to take a look.” Gregson admitted. “But not at my own expense, of course. If you pay for my trip at the rate of a private investigator, I agree.”

“We will pay a double rate, taking into account the complexity and remoteness of the place of work. Withal, for your knowledge of Arabic. Withal, for the necessary expenses. I need someone who can sort out a very sensitive matter. The one who would approach the matter informally and would achieve a real result. The one who would be able to navigate and act effectively in an Arab country where our influence is wobbling. At the same time, the one who would act delicately and quickly. And I don’t have anyone among the subordinates there right now. In short, it’s you.

Gregson nodded understandingly. “What is the timeline of the operation?”

“A week. If you don’t figure it out in a week, then no one would ever figure it out. With a round trip, a maximum of three weeks. Besides, you don’t want to be stuck there until the summer heat and Khamsin?”

“Thank you very much.” Gregson grimaced in disgust. “I can’t stand the heat and Khamsin. Explain the essence of your case.”

The major closed the blinds of the map and walked around the office. “Britain’s political situation is very difficult right now. We almost lost the War.”

Gregson smirked. “I suppose the British are the only people in the world who like to be told that things can’t get any worse.”

The major ignored the impertinent remark. “And when we were about to lose it, the Americans saved us. But the price of their help turned out to be too high. We raised a new strong adversary with our own hands. Very alarming commotion is happening in all our colonies. Damn Yankees, Frogs, and even, God forgive, Macaronis try to shit on us everywhere. And they don’t have to try too hard: alas, we are hated everywhere, everywhere! Obviously, this is the price of Britain’s greatness.” The major sighed heavily then pulled himself together and went on. “Anyway, this is just emotions. The Middle East is a key point in Britain’s foreign policy. As a result of the war, we received a mandate to govern Palestine and Trans-Jordan. It would seem like a tasty morsel? But there would be so many problems with it that we may finally regret. We still control Egypt, but there are very strong tendencies towards independence. But we cannot give up Suez under any circumstances! Therefore, we have to keep Egypt under vigilant control and promptly respond to any attempts to undermine our influence there. Now we had to play along with local nationalists and allow Egypt formal independence, adopt a constitution there and even allow some self-government. Many of us consider this a big mistake. Soon the aborigines would want the real and complete independence! They might attempt to play on our disagreements with other powers. We receive information about possible armed demonstrations against British troops, as well as about terrorist acts planned against British officials and subjects. For example, you heard about the recent strange death of Lord Carnarvon, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Gregson nodded. “All the newspapers are now trumpeting The Curse of Pharaoh Tutankhamun.”

“My request to you is to conduct your own investigation and find out who is really behind the curse of Pharaoh Tutankhamun, namely: who killed Lord Carnarvon and why?”

Gregson looked into the major’s eyes in surprise. “But why…” Here he paused in indecision. The major nodded supportively. Gregson went on with the next question in a businesslike tone. “What makes you believe that the death of the Lord was not natural?”

“This is only an assumption so far, but there are certain grounds for it. You will get acquainted with our materials in due course. There was a peculiar statement made by the son of the dead lord – the younger Earl of Carnarvon, who believes his father could have been poisoned. On the other hand, there are hints of political motives.”

“In that case, it’s most likely the Carnarvon’s’ family squabbles. So, what does politics have to do with it?”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with it.” The major nodded. “But Lord Carnarvon, a prominent British citizen, discovered Tutankhamun to the world and attracted the attention of the world community to Egypt. Because of him, Egypt is now in the spotlight. Accordingly, our weaknesses and mistakes are also clearly obvious. However, there is another important circumstance: Lord Carnarvon secretly worked for our Foreign Office and for our intelligence too. Before the War and during the War and after.

“What? And him too?” Gregson chuckled. “But he was invalid I heard!”

“What surprises you?” The major shrugged his shoulders. “There are very few real Britons in the British Empire, so everyone is obliged to serve. Even people with obvious disabilities like Carnarvon. Even if they are not formally employed, everyone, one way or another, to the best of their abilities and means, fulfills their duty to the Crown. By the way, the same applies to you too, Gregson. Lord Carnarvon liked to travel a lot. But any traveler is always a scout.”

“A spy?” Gregson raised his eyebrows.

The major smiled. “No, in our case, just a scout. In the good sense of the word. That’s how it turned out this time.”

“A professional?”

“A dilettante. In this case, I did not use the word ‘dilettante’ in a derogatory sense, but only to emphasize the independent status of the independent researcher. An amateur in the best sense of the word. The Britain is a nation of amateurs, not professionals. All our generals, diplomats, as well as writers, were amateurs. That is why we have always won wars and created the greatest literature in the world.”

“An amateur Egyptologist…”

“Not just an Egyptologist. Our Lord Carnarvon once upon a time was engaged in boxing and seamanship like a typical British amateur. However, when his health no longer allowed him to sail the seas and ride motorcycles, our aristocrat adventurer and daredevil for some reason stepped into the quiet and dusty Egyptology. It must be, I assume, out of pure sporting interest…” The major seemed to look meaningfully straight into Gregson’s eyes and after a pause continued. “And who would have thought that he could be so lucky: to find the first and only tomb of the ancient pharaoh that has not yet been looted!”

“Do you think it’s just for sports?” Gregson’s eyes narrowed. “And he had no commercial interest in the case?”

The Major laughed. “You seem to be in a hurry to remind me that you are not a proper gentleman, but only a temporary one, Gregson. Trying to move everything down to money!”

“That’s the way I am, a brazen pauper.” Gregson spread his hands and lowered his eyes with mock modesty.

“Don’t take it seriously!” The major patted him on the shoulder in a friendly way. “Dilettante aristocrats, of course, are also very good at counting money; they just rarely talk about it out loud. When they plan a grand tour for themselves or their offspring, they know perfectly well how they get their money back later. By the way, most of the first archaeologists are antiquaries behind the scenes. The cost of their collections, as a rule, significantly exceeds the costs incurred by them. Not to mention their uplift in the social hierarchy or shady incomes. I am sure that our lord’s amateurish hobby has already paid off for his excavation expenses many times, and will bring even more to his heirs in the future. So, the newly minted heirs of the lord have something to argue for!”

Gregson nodded. “All right. Let’s assume that the lord was really killed. But why do you need this investigation? I mean, what’s the point of you playing the role of the police?”

“We are not playing the police.” The major became serious. “People who actually make important decisions in British politics are in dire need of truthful information about this case. Should it suddenly turn out that it was a terrorist act inspired by certain Egyptian political forces, then, I bet, the current Egyptian constitution has no more than six months to live. Besides this, we should prevent such a terrorist act from happening again in the future. However, some other circumstances may also come to light, perhaps very unexpected…”

“But if we are talking about a secret poisoning, then this does not look like a terrorist act.” Gregson noted thoughtfully. “Terrorism implies publicity.”

“The publicity could be different. Our officers and officials periodically receive anonymous death threats, presumably from radical Muslim fanatics. Perhaps this was a reprisal after secret threats?”

Gregson thought for a while, and then asked. “What makes you think that I would be able to complete the investigation? I am not an official person; I do not have the right to investigate in a foreign country. If I ask people, they can rightfully ignore me. I am not a relative or even an acquaintance of the deceased. Besides, I don’t understand anything about pharaohs or their curses.”

“Don’t be so modest, Gregson!” The major waved angrily. “You are smart and very quick-witted. In addition, you are persistent and tenacious in achieving your goal. I would never believe that in four years after the War you could have lost all these qualities.”

Gregson smiled. “I want to believe it too, Major!”

“We will give you contacts with our people in Egypt. They will assist you on the spot. Get the dossier on Lord Carnarvon and his inner circle now and study it on the way. Necessary materials on Egypt and Egyptology too.”

“My legend?”

“You don’t need it. More precisely, you already have your own legend: you are a writer, a mystery writer, collecting material for a new book. Everybody became interested in Egyptology, which, given the current hype, is quite natural. You will go under your own name with your genuine documents.”

“How much time do you give me to pack?”

“Not at all. You have a weapon with you, of course?”

Gregson slapped his pocket. “A Browning model 1910.”

The major nodded. “That’s good, it might come in handy. Now get the money and a bag with the necessary papers. Buy everything else you need either in Marseille – before boarding the steamship – or upon arrival in Cairo.”

“But what about the necessities for the road to France?”

“You won’t need anything. You’re flying by plane to Paris in two hours. From there, take an airplane directly to Marseille. The car to the airfield is already waiting for you.”

Gregson was about to say something but paused.

The major raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do you have any objections, Lieutenant?”

“To be honest, sir, I’m not eager to fly after last year’s airplane crash over Paris.”

“A gentleman has no right to be afraid of such trifles, Gregson!”

Gregson laughed in response. “Sometimes you forget that I’m not a real gentleman, Major.”

“In that case, get your despicable money from me and carry out the assigned task, Lieutenant Gregson. I wish you success and break your leg.”

Gregson got up, nodded curtly, and headed for the exit. Halfway there, he turned around. “Major, two more questions. First, why were you so sure that I would accept your offer?”

“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?”

Information for Reflection: “The Carnarvon Case’”

BARTHOLO, READS A PARCHMENT. Whereas upon true and faithful Report, made unto us—

COUNT KNOCKS IT OUT OF HIS HAND. What need have I for all this Gibberish?

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

ROSINA. Yes, aloud I say it, my Hand, my Heart shall be for him who frees me from this detested prison, where my Person and my Fortune are detain’d against all Laws both human and divine.

Ibid.

BARTHOLO [To the Count]: It is Francinette in the Song; but to render it more agreeable and suitable to my present Circumstances, I chang’d it for Rosinetta’s. [laughs] Ha! Ha! Ha! – An’t I right – Isn’t it the Tune?

Ibid.

After breakfast, Gregson decided to delve into the case file regarding the demise of Lord Carnarvon: apparently, for now everyone around knew more about this matter than the brand-new investigator. He returned to his quarters, retrieved a substantial folder from his bag and commenced a meticulous examination of the papers, keeping in mind that the major would not include anything in the file without a reason. Many of the materials were not the documents in the traditional sense, but rather excerpts from documents and the authenticity of those had to be taken for faith. Certain names and dates have been omitted and replaced with ellipses.

Numerous newspaper articles detailing the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb and the subsequent demise of Lord Carnarvon. Gregson had previously read some of these articles, but now he was struck by the variety and diversity of interpretations. Most of them focused on the mysterious insect from the Pharaoh’s tomb and hinted at mystical elements. Nonsense! However, there were also versions suggesting a wound by a dirty, infected razor. Where the English lord might get a dirty infected razor?

Here are copies of the official telegrams. An excerpt from the medical report written by Lord Carnarvon’s personal physician, Frank McClanahan. According to it, the cause of death was pneumonia. At first glance, the cause of death appears to be quite natural… Was the practical and materialistic Mademoiselle Saad right? The image of the mocking Arabian girl suddenly appeared in his mind, and Gregson had to force it away.

So, what else is there? The personal opinion of a certain physician regarding the discrepancy between the symptoms and the nature of the disease and the diagnosis. The common cold, which typically leads to pneumonia, is not possible in the dry and warm Egyptian climate. And most importantly, the sudden outbreak of a high fever, followed by an equally sudden improvement in condition, and then a sudden recurrence of the fever. This pattern has persisted for twelve days. These symptoms are very different from those of either typical pneumonia or blood poisoning. This led to the suspicion of an unknown infection, possibly contracted in an ancient tomb. Of course, this is only a hypothesis – about the tomb, but the peculiar course of the illness is, perhaps, a fact! This has to be sorted out!

And here is the Politics that caused Saed-midjar to be so alarmed! A cablegram containing information about the appeal of Mr. Howard Carter to the Office of the High Commissioner Lord Allenby with a request to provide additional security measures for His Lordship Lord Carnarvon during his stay in Egypt due to anonymous threats to His Lordship’s life from nationalist and religious fanatics. Justification: His Lordship’s acute conflict with the Egyptian Ministry of Antiquities. A note from the Office of the High Commissioner said: “no follow-up required”. Negligence or…?

Here is a report from a secret informant: immediately after Lord Carnarvon’s death, the original letter from Carter in the office of the High Commissioner was withdrawn from the case and presumably destroyed. Sabotage? Highly unlikely! Most likely someone just wanted to cover his butt retroactively.

And what is this? An excerpt from the report of another unknown informant: “In a private confidential conversation with me, Henry Herbert Carnarvon accused his mother, Lady Almina Carnarvon, of indecent behavior and attempts to assassinate his father, Lord Carnarvon.” Oh my God, is everyone being watched like that? Or just a cream of society? But perhaps it is worth taking a closer look at the family of the deceased. If the death was homicidal, then the search for the murderer should be based on the principle of qui prodest, and all members of the count’s family might gain from the death of the count. Although the will is supposed to be revealed only after the funeral, no surprises are expected. The main beneficiaries of the property are the widow Lady Almina Carnarvon and the son Henry Herbert. The daughter Evelyn also should receive her share of the property after officially coming of age in just a few months. Moreover, Henry immediately receives the title of the Sixth Earl of Carnarvon. Maybe someone wanted to speed up the receipt of an inheritance or a title?

And what exactly is the property? How big is the jackpot?

Gregson plunged into the study of the prudently prepared reports on the Carnarvon family affairs and suddenly recalled how at breakfast Mademoiselle Saad asked if he liked The Barber of Seville? Suddenly it seemed to him that the Carnarvon’s family history would have something subtly in common with the characters of the play should the plot had turned a little differently.

Firstly, the count married the money at the time. That is, he was forced. Lady Almina married the title and not a love. So, she was forced too. Suppose that the precaution would not have been in vain and Figaro would not have arrived in time and Dr. Bartolo would have successfully realized his intention to marry the money of his ward Rosina. What would have happened next? Rosina is quiet and compliant, but she was always able to insist on her own decisions. The doctor could very well accidentally get poisoned with arsenic from his own first-aid kit and the inconsolable young widow would have rightfully regained her fortune and significantly increased it.

In the silence of the cabin, the steamship’s running engines were tapping softly:

“Rosina Almina, Almina Rosina,
Almina Rosina, Rosina Almina.”

Gregson shook off the intrusive phrase with difficulty.

The Carnarvons did not consider each other attractive partners. Consequently, there could not be a particularly warm relationship between them. Most likely, on the contrary, dislike has been maturing for a long time. A motive for murder? You never know!

Secondly, let’s assume that our hypothetical married Bartolo and Rosina have a heir. Then, in all likelihood, Count Almaviva would have become his real father anyway, and the story would have partially turned back on the common track. And again, an obvious analogy manifested itself: for a long time it was believed that the son of the Earl of Carnarvon was extramarital child of Lady Almina. After the marriage, the Countess should have immediately presented the family with an heir, but she could not. Who is to blame for this? In all likelihood, it was the Count himself, suffering from the consequences of shameful diseases caught in the brothels around the world. However, two and a half years after the wedding, Almina became pregnant safely. The real culprit of this joyful event in society was Victor Duleep Singh, a friend of the earl since his days at Eton. He often visited the count’s estate and brightened up the Countess’s loneliness there. The flirting of the son of the last Rajah of Lahore and the beloved adopted son of Queen Victoria with the young Countess of Carnarvon was quickly noticed and the high society enjoyed airing dirty linen of the Carnarvon family. When the son of the current Earl Henry Carnarvon was born, the opinion of society was split on the subject of the real father of the boy: the Count or the Rajah? The Count “covered up the sin” of his wife and officially recognized the son as his own. It is possible, however, that the son really was from him, but within the family the scars from such public scandals never heal and maintain mutual hostility between the spouses. Is it a motive? Yes, it is!

Now the sound of the ship’s engines was repeating:

“Rosina Almina, Almina Almaviva,
Rosina Almina, Almina Almaviva.”

Damn it, such a stupid sticky thing! However, perhaps the restless Figaro himself could become a father of the heir…

Finally, thirdly, who started this vaudeville? Who and why organized the strange alliance of the Carnarvons marriage? Who is that behind-the-scenes Figaro arranging the plot intrigue? It is easy to guess that in the case of the Carnarvons, the Rothschild family was behind the scenes. This marriage was the result of more than half a century of very tender and reverent relations between the Carnarvons and the Rothschilds, the product of the merging of Jewish capital and the hereditary English land aristocracy.

Here is Rosina, a girl of unknown origin, who somehow turned out to be a ‘ward’ of Dr. Bartolo. Lady Almina before her marriage was also a girl of questionable origin, who was ostentatiously patronized by Baron Alfred Rothschild. In society, Almina was considered his illegitimate daughter. Her mother Marie Wombwell allegedly hid the “secret’ of the girl’s origin in exchange for financial assistance and expensive gifts “from an unknown person.” Actually, the “secret’ besides being apparent was flaunted in every possible way. The first letters of Almina’s name matching the first letters of Alfred’s name loudly hinted slow-witted folks at the identity of the “unknown”. Baron Rothschild surreptitiously supported this legend, although officially acknowledging nothing, however not refuting it. Almina’s dowry of half a million pounds served as unofficial recognition of Alfred Rothschild’s paternity.

Indeed, everything in this story was a secret wrapped in a mystery and placed inside a puzzle. And the key to it is money interests. It’s so obvious!

Stop it! And here are some more documents… oh! As it turns out, the stake is higher than only a money. Because in fact, Lady Almina could not possibly be the real daughter of Rothschild. The documents Gregson had seen clearly disproved Rothschild’s paternity. According to those documents, should they had been officially presented to the court, even Baron Alfred Rothschild, if he was still alive, could have been imprisoned for a long time on the shameful charge of <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation>. Of course, no one in their right mind in England would prosecute Baron Rothschild or any other respected member of society for <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation> as long as such gentleman maintains external decorum, avoids open statements about his passions and does not get into public scandals. But information about this is collected and, just in case, filed by the special services. Alfred Rothschild was a <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation>, incapable of having relationships with women, he never openly admitted his perversion and tried his best to keep up appearances. Just in case, he laid straw for a soft landing. For the purpose of such a soft straw he presented to society his romantic relationship with the Frenchwoman Marie Boyer Wombwell, who had a daughter. Alfred subsequently became the guardian of the girl and started a deliberately loud story with his alleged paternity, the only purpose of which was to reliably hide from society the fact of his <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation>.

So, Alfred Rothschild is not Lady Almina’s real father. Nevertheless, for some reason he gave her a huge dowry! Monstrously huge! The amount of the dowry of half a million pounds is amazing and therefore requires a separate explanation. Lady Almina is not Jewish by her mother, so in this case it cannot be assumed that the money remained in the “family’. That’s not how they do it. Therefore, it was an investment of capital. Into what? Is it just the reputation of the Rothschild family? But why back up the family’s already strong reputation with such an exorbitant amount? In all likelihood, it was an investment in a certain venture, and late Lord Carnarvon was appointed a nominal manager and formally received the money at his disposal. What kind of venture? Under what obligations? And what if the naive Lord Carnarvon, after the death of Alfred Rothschild, considered himself free from obligations and was punished for it? Perhaps this is also a possible motive!

And what could be such a venture in which Rothschild invested?

Gregson carefully reviewed the information about the property of the deceased. Highclere Castle and a huge manor house. Vast lands. It is expensive and beautiful, but from a financial point of view it is a liability: the estate requires permanent maintenance expenses and the land itself does not provide income. Probably, the count had shares the income from which went to the maintenance of the castle and the manor. Rothschild’s money in stocks? But who prevented Rothschild from simply investing his money in shares and entrusting the management of the package to his managers, who in any case would have handled this matter better than the count and his managers? Rothschild could have invested in the steel, oil or chemical industries himself, without an intermediary. An intermediary is needed only for the venture where the Rothschilds are not allowed yet or where the Rothschilds cannot publicize their participation. Stop! What did the Count suddenly do after his marriage? Egyptology! But what is Rothschild’s interest in Egyptology? Who needs millennial potsherds and broken pots? Or are they still needed? Pure art? Is the flow of antique valuables turning into such a cash flow that even the Rothschilds might be interested in?

There is too much speculation! It was pointless to think further without new facts. The first thing to do upon arrival at the scene is simply to find out if the death was natural or violent. If the death is natural, further questions would disappear naturally and you can return with a clear conscience and write a report. If not, then… there is no point in even thinking about it now.

Then the bell rang, inviting passengers to lunch. Gregson suddenly felt hungry again: mental exertion requires a lot of energy for the brain. He put the documents in his valise, locked the cabin and went to lunch.

Egyptology and Archaeology

BARTHOLO: There are fellows up to tricks everywhere, the audacious scoundrels!

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

All the passengers gathered for lunch in the same dining room. While everyone was still sitting down, the preacher, in an attempt to restore his shattered reputation, quickly recited a short prayer, everyone listened too impatiently and quickly began to eat. The conversation at the table was incomparably easier and more lively than it was at breakfast. It was about Egypt – the country where everyone was going.

The garrulous Frenchman Lepont trilled away like a nightingale: “Herodotus in his History in the second book Euterpe dwells in detail on Egypt and says there is more extraordinary and remarkable in this country compared with all other countries. And I would like to focus on…”

The colonel’s secretary interrupted the Frenchman’s abstract historical outpourings: “Monsieur Lepont, this morning we did not come to a general agreement whether or not Tutankhamun’s tomb should have been opened. And what is your opinion on this matter as an archaeologist?”

“Absolutely necessary!” The archaeologist impulsively waved his fork, almost pricking his neighbor. “This is the greatest archaeological discovery!”

“And what is its meaning? What does Egyptology give to Humankind? What do you think is the meaning of archaeology in general?”

“The meaning of science is to expand human knowledge. History and archaeology are the greatest sciences that give Humankind knowledge about itself, about its past, knowledge that allows it to look more confidently into the future. After all, the deeper you look back, the further you see forward. A person has a measly fifty, sixty, or even a hundred years of life. Getting to know the lives of parents and grandparents can extend the experience for another fifty years. And History allows you to extend your imaginary life by five thousand years or more! Our archaeological discoveries in Egypt and Mesopotamia allow us to look back around this period. Just imagine: you have gained an additional five thousand years of life experience and memories! Isn’t the work of a historian and an archaeologist worth it?”

“The main lesson of history is that human race does not learn lessons.” The colonel noted. “So, the work of historians and archaeologists is, in fact, useless.”

The reverend objected to this: “The Holy Scripture has already given us reliable knowledge about ourselves and the world from its creation to the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Our duty is to study a Good Book and draw from it true knowledge and life guidance. But weak human understanding sometimes needs additional supports, so it is forced to use pictures of the world around us to interpret the innermost meanings of Scripture. This should be the primary purpose of historians and archaeologists: to obtain visible evidence of the information contained in the Scripture and steadily assert its validity. It would be useful for a Christian to look at the remains of Pharaoh in order to once again recall the story of Joseph the Beautiful, the exodus of the Jews from Egypt under the leadership of Moses, the escape of the Holy Family to Egypt and their sheltering under the shadow of the pyramids during the time of King Herod.”

“It is impossible to wait under the shadow of the pyramids.” Mr. Atkinson said. “Pyramids, by their geometric shape, cannot give shelter to travelers unless they go inside, which could not happen in any way.”

Mademoiselle Saad barely suppressed a giggle.

“And I don’t recall the Bible mentioning pyramids at all.” Gregson added.

“The Bible mentions pyramids!” The reverend responded passionately. “In the Good Book they are called Joseph’s granaries!”

“I suppose that’s not the case,” the archaeologist gently objected. “The pyramids could not serve as warehouses or storages. The science has reliably established that the pyramids are the tombs of the pharaohs.”

The reverend’s face began to turn red again.

The colonel raised his hand in a conciliatory manner and remarked with a smile: “None of us questions the authority of the Bible. And the absence of an evidence is not an evidence of absence. This is also true of the pyramids. Isn’t that right, Monsieur Lepont? Do you hope to reveal the infinite mystery of nature with your interpretations and penetrate into the unknown?

The archaeologist nodded gravely: “There is a scientific opinion that the recently discovered Pharaoh Tutankhamun was the son and heir of Pharaoh Akhenaten, who, in turn, may have been a contemporary of Moses. His new Egyptian religion of that time closely resembles Jewish monotheism. Some even consider Pharaoh Akhenaten to be Moses himself! Of course, we still don’t have enough facts thereby the work of archaeologists becomes more important for us.”

“The science, which deepens our understanding of the Good Book, can only be welcomed.” The priest agreed. “And a Good Book benefits not only the soul, but also the body! Let me tell you an enlightening tale. About five years ago, during the war in Palestine, British troops launched an offensive against the Turks at Jericho. One pious British commander was tasked with attacking and capturing the village of Mihmas. As befits a good Christian, our officer prayed fervently and read the Bible on the eve of the attack. And God directed him to read the fourteenth chapter of the First Book of Kings. Surely you remember what it says?” The priest looked around at his companions and with a sly smile took out a black volume of the Bible from his pocket, leafed through it and began to recite in a singsong voice:

“Now between the passes by which Jonathan sought to go over to the Philistines’ garrison there was a sharp rock on the one side and a sharp rock on the other side; and the name of the one Bozez, and the name of the other Seneh. The one crag a pillar on the north opposite to Michmash, and the other on the south opposite to Geba.

And Jonathan said to the young man that bore his armour, Come, and let us go over to the garrison of these uncircumcised: perhaps Jehovah will work for us; for there is no restraint to Jehovah to save by many or by few.

And his armour-bearer said to him, Do all that is in thy heart; turn thee; behold, I am with thee according to thy heart.

Then said Jonathan, Behold, we will pass over to the men, and we will shew ourselves to them.

And both of them shewed themselves to the garrison of the Philistines; and the Philistines said, Behold, the Hebrews come forth out of the holes where they had hid themselves.”

The priest put the Bible in his pocket and finished with a victorious look: “Our British repeated Jonathan’s trick. A small detachment of infantry marched through the gorge between the rocks of Bozez and Seneh. Then the Turks, like the Philistines, were afraid of the encirclement and hastened to surrender. Just like almost three thousand years ago, the experience of Saul and Jonathan helped the pious folk to defeat the enemies of God!””

The reaction was a reverential silence unceremoniously broken by Gregson: “I am familiar with this story and even personally made my own contribution into it.”

All eyes turned to him, and he had to explain: “It happened on the night from the thirteenth to the fourteenth of February in 1918, during our unfortunately thwarted Jericho offensive. But we still had some tactical successes back then. Indeed, Major Gilbert back then captured the Arab village of Mihmas, where we took many Turkish prisoners. This was partly the merit of our topographers. But, most of all, it was the merit of our intelligence and their good job with our Arab friends. Unfortunately, scouts are not supposed to be famous, so this, no exaggeration, brilliantly invented story was launched as a cover-up. By the way, at the time this story amused General Allenby very much, and we shortly expect its appearance in the flamboyant memoirs.”

The reverend’s face was turning beetroot again. The colonel hastened to smooth over the awkwardness: “I believe that Mr. Gregson’s addition does not in any way negate both the authority of the Bible and the benefits of studying antiquities. And even more, it emphasizes the importance of the latter in his own way, doesn’t it Mr. Gregson?”

“A perfectly fair idea!” Gregson smiled back.

The maroon hue on the reverend’s face gradually began to fade.

Mademoiselle Saad stated: “And, in my opinion, the main benefit of Egyptian archaeology is to attract world attention to my country and to rid the Arabs of their national inferiority complex. The world must reconsider the prejudice about the exceptional role of the West in world History. Our History began several thousand years before the Christian era.”

“Ancient Egypt has nothing to do with the Arabs.” Lepont noted.

“And, in my opinion.” Atkinson replied. “The meaning of history and archaeology is solely to make money. As well as the meaning of any other human activity. Excessive value is attributed to fossil shards. They sell for big money. Therefore, interest in the topic should be maintained all the time and it is desirable to bring it to an agitation, which we are witnessing today in relation to Egypt and Tutankhamun. Collectors, tourists, newspapermen, publishers would help the Egyptologists to remain in high demand, if they, of course, dig in the right direction.”

“You Americans are despicable materialists.” Verte replied. “Materialism is the trouble of our time. People became blind to spiritual values. Thousands of years of mystical secrets are hidden under the Veil of Isis and are known only to the devoted people. But even laymen sometimes feel an unconscious awe of the mystery! Our civilization is unable to repeat even the simplest achievements of the ancient Egyptians. With all our technology, we are unable to lay down the pyramids that the Egyptians erected with the help of their secret knowledge!”

“I don’t agree with you here.” The colonel laughed. “Should such a task be set, we Americans would build anything, any pyramids. But the meaning, the point comes first and the technique is secondary.”

“And what do you think is the point?” Gregson asked.

“The artist paints in order to convey his inner images to the audience. The writer creates a text to make the reader see the fruits of his imagination. Just like any person seeks to influence others. To do this one needs to learn how to imprint his own pictures in other people’s minds. Those who can impose their own picture of the world in the minds of nations are truly powerful. Achieving such power is the major point.”

“And what are the tools to create these paintings?” Gregson asked.

The Colonel laughed: “There is a variety of methods, sometimes the most unexpected. Let’s take archaeology as an example. Suppose you have a certain picture in your head that you want to broadcast to others. For example, the tales from the Bible. From the scant information publicly available you create in your imagination the picture of reality that presumably existed in those distant times. Then you make a few artistic final touches and here comes a picture you need. Next you dig up the specific area, find insignificant material fragments and put them together in a way to support your imaginary mosaic. Such mosaic brought together helps others to accept your customized reality. This is how you can control the actuality by creating your own imaginary reality in people’s minds.”

“But it would be a false picture! Something that never happened!” The archaeologist exclaimed.

The Colonel laughed again in response: “As a rule, the less truthful is a story, the more aesthetic pleasure it gives. Of course, as Plato mentioned, the creators of the myths have to be watched, otherwise they may loose boundaries. If their work is good, we would endorse it, if not, we would reject it. At our discretion, the educators would tell children only the approved myths.”

“And what would you do if the material fragments found do not match the picture you need?” Monsieur Lepont persisted.

“It’s very simple!” The colonel shrugged his shoulders. “Then you need to find or make up new fragments.”

“This is openly impudent” The archaeologist furiously threw his fork making a bang against the table.

“That is just one of the synonyms for courage!” The colonel smiled. “What is the most important thing when you run the country? The courage. What’s in second and third place? Also the courage. And at the same time, the courage is a child of ignorance and villainy. After all, only the practical result matters, so in our difficult times there is higher demand for the practical people than for the virtuous ones.”

Mr. Atkinson said: “Recently in New York I was offered to buy a unique precious Ming porcelain vase. It had a proper certificate of authenticity certified by experts. When I complained that it was too expensive for me, it was only out of deep respect for me that I was offered to buy two such identical vases at once for the price of one. In response, I joked that I would probably take a dozen with an appropriate discount. The seller seriously advised me to pick them up in a week.”

“Those are crooks and hucksters! Real scientists would never degrade to such a foulness!” The archaeologist exclaimed. “It’s disgusting and unworthy of a scientist!”

The colonel waved his hand away: “They have already degraded far below, long time ago. Here’s an example for you. In America there was a project to restore the ancient Indian pyramids, which would surpass the Egyptians and Sumerians in antiquity. Of course, the word ‘restore’ essentially means ‘build new’. New York and Chicago for a long time have been lined with artificial stone, indistinguishable from the monuments of ancient Egypt, so there was no technical difficulty in ‘repeating’ antiquity.”

“Scientists would quickly recognize your fake!” The archaeologist shouted angrily again.

“Oh, leave it, for God’s sake!” The colonel waved off. “For money scientists would confirm everything they were ordered to and would back up the whole enterprise with full appearance of scientific respectability. For now the project is on hold – not because of a technical difficulties, but because of discussions about expediency: why should America do this? Now America is so proud of its youth compared to the old Europe. But if we want to, we would surpass over Europe many times in the matters of antiquity. For example, we are very fond of the history of dinosaurs. Do you like dinosaurs?” The colonel smiled broadly and looked around the table.

Mademoiselle Saad confessed. “I remember how the whole cinema hall froze in horror when they showed the film Brute Force! I went to this film several times in a row and each time I felt terrible horror mixed with excitement.

“The Ghost of the Sleeping Mountain is much scarier.” Verte perked up. “Have you seen it? I also went to the cinema several times for it.”

“Your dinosaur is a vile dragon, one of the incarnations of the devil!” Mrs. Romney threw it in disgust.

The Reverend nodded in agreement and added pompously: “And the great dragon was cast forth – the old serpent, who is called ‘Devil,’ and ‘the Adversary,’ who is leading astray the whole world – he was cast forth to the earth, and his messengers were cast forth with him.”

“Revelation, chapter 12, verse 9.” Mrs. Romney immediately responded.

Mr. Atkinson smiled: “We Americans adore both the Bible and dinosaurs at the same time and we adore them like no one else in the world! American dinosaurs are the largest and most ancient in the world!”

“In my opinion,” the colonel noted, “America is using dinosaurs like a teenager, building its complex of historical superiority. What mean hundreds or even thousands of years of Old World history compared to the hundreds of millions of years of our dinosaurs? What do you think, Mr. Gregson? It seemed to me that you agree?”

Gregson thought for a moment and replied: “I suppose you’re not the first person to have such a cynical thoughts. But in our Old World people rarely express their ideas so openly. Maybe that’s why they started acting in complete silence much earlier than you. And, accordingly, they have already moved much further in this direction than you.”

“Perhaps.” The colonel nodded thoughtfully. “However, most likely, the same people act here and there.”

“Who are they?”

The colonel just looked up at the ceiling, shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

“I’ve heard that Freemasons played a big role in popularizing Ancient Egypt.” Atkinson noted.

“You also understand nothing about our science: neither in history, nor in Egyptology!” Lepont declared loudly and added, addressing Gregson. “Since you are going to write a book on this topic, do not try to take into account all that nonsense!”

Gregson smiled: “I would be very grateful if you help me figure out this topic.”

Lepont shrugged. “Try it and, if you have a sincere, I emphasize, sincere desire to understand this matter, I will give you some literature today.”

Poetry

FIGARO. He took the Matter in a serious Light, and turned me out of my employment, under Pretext that the Love of the Muses, and Attention to Horse affairs were incompatible.

COUNT. Most profound Wisdom!

Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

FIGARO. What Beauty, what Cunning, what Love!

COUNT. And do’st thou think she will be mine Figaro?

FIGARO. She’ll sooner come thro’ those iron Bars, if necessary, than disappoint you.

Ibid.

The book given by an archaeologist – A Thousand Miles Up the Nile by Amelia Edwards — acted on Gregson like a sleeping pill. Either from what he had read, or from the satiety after dinner, he gradually dozed off. He had horror dreams where he was chased by dinosaurs with a heads of crocodiles and birds. When he woke up, he picked up the book and went out on deck to breathe.

Mademoiselle Saad was standing near the side, surrounded by her companions: Verte with Lepont and the colonel with the secretary. Mademoiselle Saad was singing a strange song, in which Gregson could hardly recognize some familiar French and Arabic words.

Mademoiselle Saad turned to him and explained: “We were just looking at the sea and arguing about poetry. I recalled a song about the sea. I heard this song in Marseille. It was sung by a boy at the pier. I didn’t remember everything, but I liked the song. In English, it would be something like this:

A white ship on a blue sea
Thrown by a wave towards the blue sky.
And there is a blue bird hiding in the blue sky.
And there’s a white angel singing.
I smile at this miracle,
Charming my mind, eyes, ears.
I thank Allah for everything!”

“And I say that this is a real primitive!” Said Verte. “There is no real high poetry here. This is how a true poet writes about the sea.” And he began to recite in French, howling and drawling:

I dreamt the green night of blinded snows,
A kiss lifted slow to the eyes of seas,
The circulation of unheard-of flows,
Sung phosphorus’s blue-yellow awakenings!
For months on end, I’ve followed the swell
That batters at the reefs like terrified cattle,
Not dreaming the Three Marys’ shining feet
Could muzzle with their force the Ocean’s hell!

“Did you understand anything?” Mademoiselle Saad unceremoniously interrupted the recitation, turning to Gregson.

“Alas, I don’t understand French that well.” He admitted. “I only understood that it says about the glow on the sea associated with phosphorus. But I want to note that phosphoric lights in the sea are usually the so-called St. Elmo’s lights. This is not chemistry at all, but static electricity. Although, perhaps, in this case we are referring to the phosphoric glow of seaweed, which is really caused by a chemical reaction associated with some phosphorus compounds.”

The Colonel and Mr. Atkinson looked at each other and laughed loudly at the same time, and the Colonel said: “Xenophon’s Socrates says something like this: ‘I asked the poets what they wanted to express in their works in order to learn something from them. I’m ashamed to tell you the truth, but I still have to tell it. In short, poets say a lot of beautiful things, but they don’t know anything about what they are talking about.’”

“That’s what they call casting pearls before swine!” Verte said angrily. “For laymen, phosphorus is not a high poetic image, just a crude chemical element!”

He turned and walked away from the group. The archaeologist tried to follow him, but did not dare to leave so silently and stayed. To keep the conversation going, he nodded at the book in Gregson’s hands: “Very poetically written book, don’t you think?”

Gregson confirmed: “I find it very poetic indeed.”

“And what love for Egypt it shows!” Lepont happily joined in. “This is also a kind of poetry. Amelia Edwards saw everything with her own eyes and, therefore, inevitably fell in love with Egyptian antiquities! For almost half a century now she makes fall in love with Egypt her readers in various countries of the world!”

“There is indeed plenty of love and poetry in the book and the pictures are beautiful.” Gregson said. “But some places seemed… strange to me. For example, here.” Gregson opened the book where the bookmark was placed: “Do you remember a very poetic place where you talk about the monuments of Abu Simbel?”

“Of course! I remember this book almost by heart!”

Gregson read out: “‘The great statues towered above their heads. The river glittered like steel in the far distance. There was a keen silence in the air; and toward the east the Southern Cross was rising. To the strangers who stood talking there with bated breath, the time, the place, even the sound of their own voices, seemed unreal. They felt as if the whole scene must fade with the moonlight, and vanish before morning.’”

“It’s beautifully written!” Lepont even squeezed his eyes shut and kissed the tips of his fingers. “What confused you here?”

Gregson shrugged doubtfully, choosing his words. The Colonel and Mr. Atkinson exchanged glances. The colonel nodded slightly, and then Atkinson said: “If my geographical knowledge does not fail me, then Abu Simbel is located approximately at the latitude of the tropic, right?”

“Right.” The Frenchman replied suspiciously.

“The Northern tropic.” The secretary clarified.

“Of course, the Northern one!” The Frenchman confirmed irritably.

“If my astronomical knowledge does not let me down, then the Southern Cross is the polar constellation of the southern sky, located near the South Pole, give or take a few degrees?”

“This guy has a real file in his head of all the necessary knowledge!” The colonel commented smiling. “That’s why I drag him everywhere with me.”

Lepont had already figured out where his opponent was going, but still tried to stand his ground: “The stars of the Southern Cross can sometimes be seen in Abu Simbel!”

“I agree.” Mr. Atkinson nodded. “They can, but only above the horizon and only in winter, mainly during the winter solstice.”

Lepont hastened to consolidate the success. “There you go! Perhaps it was this day!”

“You’re almost right about the winter solstice, Mr. Lepont.” Gregson put in. “The book definitely says that our travelers arrived in Abu Simbel on January thirty-first and left on the evening of February eighteenth. I may have missed a lot of artistic beauties, but I usually remember the dates of events, the place of action and important circumstances of events quite well.”

Atkinson persisted “Even so, but there was no way the Southern Cross could have appeared in the east, as it says in the book!”

“That’s true!” Gregson agreed. “And that’s what confused me.”

The colonel smiled faintly through his moustache with only the corners of his lips: “In all great arts, idle talk and high-mindedness about nature are required. From here, in an incomprehensible way, that height of thoughts and that effectiveness of the word flow… This is what Socrates says in Plato’s dialogues Phaedrus.”

Lepont frowned angrily and could not find an answer. Atkinson looked at him triumphantly, smiling. Gregson pitied the frustrated archaeologist and added: “Although, if we interpret doubts in favor of the author, then I tend to understand the words ‘toward the east’ in the sense of ‘a little bit, just a little, a few degrees east of the exact southern geographical direction’.”

Lepont nodded in relief and smiled gratefully, and then Gregson finished: “In general, I would prefer that, instead of poetic beauties, books contain clear, accurate and useful information and be written in such a way that the reader could understand their exact meaning without special effort.”

“You are a scientist, Monsieur Lepont,” the colonel smiled, “you should evaluate the information from the sources critically. And what if other information from this book, say, facts about Egyptian antiquities, is as reliable as the above passage? And what if the wonderful drawings in the book (yes, yes, I am also well familiar with this book!), so what if the drawings are not made from nature at all, but, say, from other drawings?”

Lepont silently snatched the book from Gregson’s hands and, without deigning to answer the colonel, strode away. The colonel and the secretary smiled, put their fingers to the brims of their hats at the same time, and also left.

“Poor boy!” Mademoiselle Saad sighed.

Gregson did not understand: “Are you talking about Monsieur Lepont?”

“No, about our poet, who was mortally offended by you for his idol Rimbaud. A little more and he would have challenged you to a duel. With his passion for the beauties of poetry, he would never achieve true love of a woman.”

Gregson was surprised. “Why? They say women are crazy about poets.”

“Sometimes women dream of moving from poetic images to sensual reality. The feeling of love must condense alchemically and transmute into action. Go from ghostly phosphorescent glow to real phosphorus. And poetry… It takes the feelings in a completely different direction. And I am very impressed by your practical realism!”

She looked directly into Gregson’s eyes and for a moment his breath was taken away and his heart stopped.

“You are very special Arabian woman!“all he managed to say.

Mademoiselle Saad laughed: “Do you really have anyone to compare?”

“I’ve seen enough Arabian women in Bedouin tents when I was in the army,” Gregson retorted.

“Did you only see them or…?”

“Well…” Gregson hesitated and almost squeezed out. “One of them helped me learn Arabic for a long time.”

“Then you shouldn’t have prejudices about Arabian women.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Then come to my cabin tonight! Let’s improve your Arabic language.”

Gregson did not know what to say to such a frank offer and hesitated with an answer. Mademoiselle Saad looked not only extremely attractive, but also somehow dangerous.

“Maybe you have more exotic preferences?” Mademoiselle Saad egged on. “For example, like a couple of Monsieur Lepont and Monsieur Verte?”

She was openly making fun of him. Such an assumption could not be tolerated in any way. Gregson was angry: first, at Mademoiselle Saad, and then suddenly at himself. Why, unlike her, he had not figured out such an obvious explanation for the appearance and behavior of those two.

“I will come. I would hate to miss such unique opportunity to improve my language when you are teaching!”

She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes seemed to be laughing at him. “Then I’ll be waiting for you tonight. Better later.”

She turned and walked away at a brisk pace. Gregson remained standing, staring unseeingly at the sea foam. This woman seems to be gaining control over him. It is dangerous!

A quarter of an hour later a flock of dolphins appeared near the board attracting curious and simply bored passengers. Colonel Watson came up to Gregson, who was standing alone, smiling: “This Mademoiselle Saad is such a hottie, isn’t she? Beware!”

“How do you know?”

The colonel just shrugged his shoulders and smiled into his moustache: “My secretary is putting the moves to Miss Saad’s maid. It was from her that he learned about Mademoiselle Saad laying eyes on you. However, a simple observation would be enough for this conclusion. The challenges of destiny must be accepted. The one evading a challenge is at risk of not living his life. As the Romans used to say: Audaces fortuna juvat. The same rule applies to countries, states, and peoples…”

“And has your observancy told you anything about Monsieur Lepont and Monsieur Verte?” Gregson asked suddenly.

“Of course!” The colonel grinned. “These two are not your rivals in love at all.”

“You are very well informed.” That is all Gregson managed to answer.

“Yes, knowing everything is my profession.” The colonel nodded. “But knowing everything is a rather tedious trade.”

“And what do you do?”

“I am an advisor.” The colonel smiled into his moustache. “I am engaged in painting a picture of the world for big people who have power and make important decisions. Therefore, I need to present the picture of the world first of all to myself and then help others to grasp it.”

“What do you advise big people?”

“Basically, actions in politics. For example, who should be the governor? And who should be the president. On which side is it better for America to enter the war. Or how to use images of dinosaurs to benefit America…”

Gregson did not understand if the colonel was joking, and changed the subject just in case: “I think you said Fortis fortuna adiuvat. That’s the motto of the American military, isn’t it? Where did you serve in the army? Did you fight in Europe?”

The Colonel laughed: “God forbid! I am not a military man in the least. Military service completely discourages the ability to think independently. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, because you served yourself. And if you’re talking about my rank of colonel, believe it or not, I carry it with full right: in America, such a title can be obtained for the most unusual services, and not only military ones. I admit, it tickles when people call me colonel: this title always amuses me extremely.”

“And the fact that I served in the army, is it so noticeable?” Gregson was surprised.

“In your case, it’s obvious. And quite understandable because of the recent war. But what is more interesting is that you are still traveling not entirely in your own personal interests. Is that right?”

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