The Visitors Read online

  ‘No, 1935.’ My mind had strayed elsewhere. The words were out before I could stop myself.

  ‘Nineteen-thirty-five?’ He gave me a puzzled look. ‘Sorry – I don’t follow. Howard Carter discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb in November 1922. It was opened in the presence of his patron, Lord Carnarvon, later that same month. It took ten years to document, conserve and remove all the artefacts. The last of them left for the Egyptian Museum in Cairo in February 1932, Miss Payne. All done and dusted well before 1935.’

  ‘Of course. Memory failure. I apologise.’

  ‘Your memory seems fantastically good to me. If mine’s in such good shape when I get to your age – if I do, of course – well, I reckon I’ll be pleased.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘Am I missing something here? Nineteen-thirty-five? I’m not aware that… Could you be thinking of 1939, when Howard Carter died? I guess that must have been a significant date for you: the end of an era? You went to his funeral, I hear. Not too many people did. Not a well-attended departure. I was going to ask whether––’

  ‘Another time, Dr Fong.’

  ‘Hey, no need to be so formal. Call me Ben. Everyone calls me Ben.’

  It took me a further half-hour to curtail the interview. As far as Dr Fong was concerned, I was merely a source of what journalists call ‘colour’, I’m sure; an old woman who might provide the odd anecdote or aperçu he could use. I could tell he was on the lookout for evidence of Alzheimer’s, or some other depressing variant of mental decay. He cannot have expected any revelations of significance, not from someone who’d been a mere child at the time. And if he had been expecting revelations, I intended to disappoint him: I’m still bound by ancient loyalties – he’d learn nothing of significance from me.

  But I should have remembered how remorseless scholars can be: the questions were interminable. I tried everything – hauteur, old-lady vagueness, silence, even incipient tears; none of it washed. When he inserted a new tape in his machine, inspiration came at last. I produced my photograph albums. They are numerous and large. I felt sure that page upon page of faded sepia snaps would ensure a quick exit. They were taken with the Kodak box camera Miss Mack bought me in Cairo, first used on our pyramids expedition, then taken on to Luxor and the Valley of the Kings. It’s many years since I last looked at these photographs, and they tug at my heart.

  I turned the pages of the first album. There were all the distinguished men whom I had known in another country, another era, another life, acquaintance with whom explained Dr Fong’s presence now. There were their wives and children. There were the places so central to my existence then: the Winter Palace Hotel on the banks of the Nile where Miss Mack and I stayed when we travelled on from Cairo to Luxor; Howard Carter’s house in the desert; and, just a mile or so away, the house where I stayed with Frances. It had been built by the Metropolitan Museum of Art shortly before the Great War. Its purpose was to house the team of archaeologists excavating in Egypt for the Met, several of whom were co-opted to work for the Earl of Carnarvon and Howard Carter, once the astonishing discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb had been made.

  The Metropolitan House – or the ‘American House’, as it was usually known – was at the centre of social life in the Valley area at that time; it was a hive of gossip and intrigue. But the photographs I’d taken conveyed nothing of the house’s immense size, or the magnificent desolation of its position, facing out across the desert, with the crags of the Theban hills directly behind it, and behind them, hidden from view, the Valley of the Kings. My pictures had been taken from too close a perspective: all you could see were meaningless angles of walls, a fragment of window, a little segment of dome. The photographs were small, often poorly lit or slightly out of focus – yet they brought a lost world back to me. They unleashed a clamour so loud I was surprised Dr Fong could not hear it. Silently, I passed the album across. How the dead pester and beseech the living! How importunate they are.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Dr Fong, turning the pages rapidly. ‘You know, I can never get over the clothes the archaeologists wore. Ninety degrees Fahrenheit at least, more in the Valley, and much more inside Tut’s tomb – and they’re kitted out in tweed suits, vests, neckties – how did they stand it? Is that Lord Carnarvon?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Thought I recognised the hat – you can’t exactly miss it.’

  ‘It’s a wide-awake hat.’

  ‘You’re kidding – I must make a note of that. Gives him the look of a Mississippi river-boat gambler I’ve always thought – was Carnarvon a bit of a dandy? Kind of vain, maybe? Autocratic, would you say?’

  ‘He could play the English milord when it suited him. Much of the time his manner was diffident. Are you asking me to describe him?’

  ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘He was – debonair.’

  There was a silence. The tape faintly whirred. Dr Fong betrayed signs of impatience.

  ‘That’s it? Debonair?’ He peered at the tiny picture. ‘And the young girl next to him? It’s kind of hard to make people out – the pretty one, arm in arm with Howard Carter?’

  ‘Lady Evelyn Herbert. Lord Carnarvon’s daughter. She always accompanied her father to Egypt then, as you’ll know.’

  ‘Oh, right. Okay.’ Dr Fong glanced at his watch, and turned the page. He was now looking at a larger group portrait, a bevy of archaeologists lounging against the stone walls erected around the entrance to Tutankhamun’s tomb. He perked up at once. ‘Ah, now I recognise most of these. The Metropolitan Museum men. That’s Herbert Winlock – the one at the back, very high forehead, flamboyant bow tie? No mistaking him. I really admire his work: a great archaeologist and a great writer too… That’s Mace, and Lythgoe… and the man wearing breeches is Harry Burton? What a photographer! Magnificent. How he contrived those pictures in such appalling conditions, inside Tut’s tomb, cramped conditions, inadequate light – it’s astonishing.’ He paused. When I didn’t respond, I saw puzzlement again. ‘You have seen Burton’s photographs, right?’

  ‘I was there when he took them. So, yes.’

  ‘And these?’ He flipped a page, scanned the images, and shook his head. ‘No. This is new to me. I don’t recognise anyone here… ’

  I leaned across to examine the picture. It had been taken on the steps outside the American House. Mrs Lythgoe, the senior wife, was speaking to one of the servants. Harry Burton’s wife, Minnie, was wearing a long woolly garment designed to flatter her hips. Helen Winlock, who was dear to me, had been caught in a hand gesture I remembered her making a score of times a day: it indicated she had lost something and was in search of it: sometimes her spectacles, or her watercolours, sometimes a missing child.

  ‘Wives,’ I said. ‘Living at the Metropolitan House those first seasons. Several of the archaeologists brought their families with them to Egypt.’

  Dr Fong glanced down at the photograph. Mrs Winlock and her fellow Metropolitan wives merited twenty seconds. He turned a page. ‘And these two children. Who are they?’

  ‘The dark-haired girl on the right is Frances, the Winlocks’ daughter… ’

  ‘And the one on the left?’

  ‘That is me.’

  There was a silence. Dr Fong muttered an expletive. ‘You look – I guess I wasn’t expecting… what’s with the hair?’

  ‘I was recovering from an illness. Long story. Not of any interest to you.’

  ‘Sorry if I sounded rude – it caught me by surprise, that’s all. You look––’

  ‘I know how I looked, Dr Fong.’

  Reaching across, I took the album from him and handed him a different one. ‘Let me show you the pictures I took of the pyramids,’ I said warmly. ‘They’ll be of interest, I know. Most people find them absolutely fascinating. A lost world, Dr Fong.’

  If faded out-of-focus pictures of the pyramids in the 1920s did not dislodge him, nothing would. They are, in my experience, a soporific that’s guaranteed. Add in a few animated old
lady anecdotes inducing terminal ennui, and most visitors discover a pressing appointment. In less than five minutes Dr Fong again checked his watch; in another five, he produced his BlackBerry, consulted its screen and announced he must be going – forgotten a meeting, so interesting to hear my reminiscences, would make use of the invaluable insights I’d provided, privilege to meet me, would try to be in touch again, felt sure there was more I could contribute, but unfortunately had to leave…

  Result. Within minutes he was hastening down my front steps and I was able to close the door on him. I stood in the shivery hall; it was still only mid-afternoon, but in London in January on an overcast day, with snow threatening, my house exists in a permanent and sepulchral twilight. I could feel the ghosts gathering. They’re now as familiar with my house as I am. They like to cluster, especially by the stairs. Today their mood seemed amicable; it is not always so.

  I returned to my sitting room. There, too, I could sense movement, excitement: something, perhaps Dr Fong’s questions, perhaps the photographs, had caused disturbance. Sharp as the crack of a whip: electricity in the air.

  4

  ‘Farewell to the Pyramids… ’ Miss Mack said, as we climbed back into Hassan’s carriage; one flick of his whip in the air – and we were back in our rooms at Shepheard’s, bang on schedule. The louvres were closed, the ceiling fans switched on, the linen sheets folded back and the mosquito net arranged protectively around me. Miss Mack announced she’d retire to her room to write up her journal: she had literary ambitions and planned to write some form of Egyptian memoirs one day – a day I secretly thought would never come. ‘You have a good rest, Lucy, then you’ll be ready for tea and the great ballet class,’ she said, closing the door.

  Most afternoons, however tired I was, I fretted wakefully through these periods of enforced rest. I would try to read – Treasure Island; my mother’s beloved Tennyson – or I’d write in my diary, or I’d simply lie there and stare at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fans inexorably revolve. That day I fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep. So soundly did I sleep that the 4 o’clock tea-on-Shepheard’s-terrace deadline was well past when I woke. If Miss Mack regretted this lost opportunity for conversazione and celebrity spotting, she concealed it well.

  ‘Why, Lucy, you do look refreshed,’ she exclaimed in delight. ‘There’s some colour in your cheeks at last. Exercise and rest – and lots of new interests, I knew they would do you good! And since I have what I feel I may call extensive nursing experience, I know whereof I speak, dear… Now, we’ve just time to get you ready – Madame’s class begins in fifteen minutes. A quick wash and brush-up… Can you manage a little mint tea?’

  Closely supervised, I washed my face and hands and changed my petticoat. Miss Mack felt my forehead and took my temperature. Normal. I was back to Normal, and had been all day. I sipped the cool mint tea, hoping Miss Mack wouldn’t expatiate on her nursing experience. On the outbreak of war in 1914, with an impetuosity that was characteristic, she had taken the first available ship to England and enrolled as a VAD. After training in London, and a period in France at a military field station, she had been posted to Egypt, to the hospital at Alexandria where those men fortunate enough to survive the Gallipoli campaign had been transferred.

  Most were hideously wounded: over the past few weeks I’d heard long descriptions of amputations, septicaemia, gangrene – and the indomitable courage of dying British and Colonial servicemen. Miss Mack had a fascination with the gory, and a brisk manner when describing it. I wanted to hear no more. I’d had enough of death. Death had been stalking me for months and it was time he gave me up, took himself off and found some other prey. I’d imagine him hiding in my room, in its huge and sinister catafalque of a wardrobe; sometimes, at night, I’d smell his bandages, his mouldy mummifying bandages… I edged away as Miss Mack began to select fresh clothes for me, eased back the wardrobe door and peered inside. Empty apart from clothes. Nothing lurking. Death definitely not there today.

  Laid out for me on my bed was a clean outfit and yet another hat. I scowled at it, and Miss Mack sighed: ‘Now, don’t be difficult, dear. We can’t have sulks, not now. I want you to make a good impression. I thought, the Liberty print dress? It suits you charmingly. And the hat with the matching riband – now, don’t be silly, Lucy, look, I’m wearing a hat too, best bib and tucker, I hear Madame is a stickler for such things…

  ‘I wonder,’ she went on, somewhat nervously, ‘should I address her by her title? No, I guess I’ll stick to “Madame”; after all, we are meeting her in her professional capacity. People say she can be very grande dame, but the thing to remember, Lucy, is that before that terrible accident, she was a great artist, a prima ballerina, so a certain temperament is only to be expected. And then she’s Russian, and in my experience all Russians are excitable. So we can’t be sure how she’ll react, Lucy, when we actually meet her. She is very choosy as to whom she admits to her classes, I hear – I believe she’s turned down several little girls of the most – well – irreproachable background, and for no good reason that anyone could see. But if she takes a shine to you, as I’m sure she will, dear, it should open doors. It will give you a chance to meet some girls your own age, to make some nice friends in Cairo… ’

  This lengthy speech took us out of our rooms, down the great central staircase, and past the famous ebony statues of nubile, bare-breasted Egyptian maidens at its foot; Miss Mack ignored them stonily and averted her gaze. It carried us on through the lobby and into the hotel’s famous Moorish hall. This large space, surmounted by a vast glass dome, had a clubby atmosphere: it was an unofficial male preserve. Groups of English officers lounged in leather armchairs; safragis carrying trays and soda siphons moved soft-footed between tables; government officials conferred with colleagues from the British Residency, rustled the pages of The Times. Englishmen to the right of us, Frenchmen to our left… According to Miss Mack, this huge room was subject to an invisible divide: this gulf she called the Channel, or la Manche, according to mood.

  The British, who, as Miss Mack put it, ruled Egypt while pretending it was a Protectorate, were on our left: they drank Scotch whisky. The French, who ruled over all matters cultural, including the great domain of archaeology, were on our right, drinking champagne. Both sides of the Channel united at once in the face of female trespassers. The Englishmen stared with cold indignation; the Frenchmen looked upon us more mildly, then, defeated by a charmless child and a spinster who was stout, and neither pretty nor young, sighed in a philosophical way. Miss Mack, sensing this inspection, her colour heightening, marched on. I suspect she overheard the remarks about her hat, which sported a rusty bow and was worn at a peculiar angle, over her left eye. ‘Affreux,’ murmured a Frenchman. ‘Bloody hell,’ muttered an English subaltern.

  We passed into a series of dimly lit, Persian-carpeted corridors, Miss Mack talking all the while. Ballets Russes, Revolution, Count-this and Prince-that: bombarded with associations that related to Madame but meant little to me, negotiating a maze of bewildering ante-rooms, I could feel my mind fogging up again. I tried to concentrate on the few hard certainties that Miss Mack had drilled into me.

  One: I must sit still, not fidget, and watch the ballet class carefully. Two: I must not remove my cardigan, as that would reveal to all and sundry the shocking emaciation of my arms. Three: I must not remove the hat under any circumstances, because we both knew what happened when I did. Four: while I must answer if addressed directly, I should not proffer information unasked or blurt things out, as I tended to do… Yes, yes, it was true that I had contracted typhoid and that my dear mother had died of the same disease; the fact that my father was immersed in his academic work and holed up in his Cambridge college was also true, if an inelegant way of expressing it… But to add that I was here in Egypt with Miss Mack because he couldn’t decide what to do with me, though in due course I’d no doubt be parcelled up and sent elsewhere… well, that was not true. It was just plain hurtful. Tha
t kind of remark embarrassed people. It was… too much information, as we’d say now.

  Must, must not, I muttered to myself as, at the end of a long corridor, we finally came to a tall pair of mahogany doors. From beyond them came the sound of piano music, abruptly halted by a loud banging sound. It was followed by a tirade so fierce that we both froze.

  ‘Non, non, non! Fräulein von Essen, Lady Rose, this is excruciating. Never in my life have I seen such lumps. Back to the barre, mesdemoiselles! Alors, nous recommençons… Now, adage, s’il vous plaît. Stretch, stretch… No, not like some vile ostrich, like a swan… The arms, so. The feet, so. Young ladies, have you set out to make me suffer? Continue like this and I’ll throw you out of my class, every last one of you. Music! One, two, three, four – allongez, allongez… Ah, mon Dieu! Allongez, mademoiselle… ’

  Under cover of the music, Miss Mack finally risked opening the door. She crept around it and I followed her. I saw a huge room, its size doubled and redoubled and distorted by the looking glasses lining its walls. At first glance, it seemed filled with scores of small girls wearing white leotards, white hairbands, and gauzy white skirts that grazed their knees. On the count, this ghostly corps de ballet moved in unison. Then, as my panic subsided and the room calmed, I found I could begin to differentiate between the reflected and the real. To my left, beyond the gilt chairs reserved for the ranks of mothers and nursemaids, and next to the piano and accompanist, stood a woman who could only be the legendary Madame Masha: it was by this name that she was familiarly known throughout Cairo, her real name, Countess Mariya Aleksandrovna Sheremeteva, being a mouthful no one could pronounce. She was tiny and terrifying, wearing a flowing dress, her raven hair parted in the centre, slicked back against her skull and fastened in a bun, ballerina-style; she was armed with a long tapering stick, which she banged on the floor to emphasise her demands.