Nick Drake - Nefertiti.he book of the dead

You will be enlightened when you meet the head of the new Medjay there, Mahu. You know him by reputation?' I nodded. Notorious for his zealous application of the letter of the law.

Ahmose noisily swallowed the last of his pastry, and leaned towards me. 'But I have contacts in the new capital. And I hear it is a question of a missing person.' And he grinned ominously again.

Tanefert held herself still, her expression tight with fear. She knows as I know that if I fail to solve this mystery, whatever it may be – and Ra knows it cannot be other than a great mystery involving great figures and great powers – there will be no mystery about my fate. I will be stripped of my position, my few honours, my belongings, and set to death. And yet I did not feel afraid. I felt something else I could not acknowledge at that moment. 'Say something.' I looked at her.

'What do you want me to say? Nothing will make you stay with us. You actually look excited.' Which was true, though I still would not admit it. 'That's because I am trying not to look worried in front of the girls.' She did not believe me. 'How long will you be away?'

I couldn't tell her the truth, which was that I had no idea. 'About fifteen days. Perhaps much less. It depends on how quickly I can solve the mystery. On the state of the evidence, the existence of the clues, the circumstances… '

But she had turned her head away and was staring without seeing out of the window. Suddenly, the way the afternoon light struck her face pushed my heart into my mouth, and silenced me. We sat like that for a little while, not speaking. Then she said, 'I don't understand. Surely the city Medjay there should investigate the mystery? It's an internal issue. Why do they want you? You're a stranger, you have no contacts, no-one you can trust… and if it's supposed to be so secret why are they commanding an outsider? The local police will resent you for trespassing on their territory.'

Everything she said was true, as usual; her nose for the simple truth is smart and infallible. I smiled. 'There's nothing to smile about,' she said. 'I love you.' 'I don't want you to go.' Her words caught me out. You know I have no choice.' 'You have a choice. There is always a choice.'

I embraced her, felt her shaking, and tried to soothe her. She calmed herself, and gently placed her hands on my face.

'I never know, every morning, whether this is the last time I will see you. So I memorize your face. I know it so well, now, that I could carry it perfectly to my grave.'

'Let's not talk about graves. Let's talk about what we'll do with the Lord's gift I will receive when I solve this mystery and become the most famous detective in the city.'

She smiled at last. 'Some gift would be welcome. You haven't been paid for months.'

The economy is a mess, the harvests have been poor for several years running, there are even reports of looting; and the waves of immigration from beyond our northern and southern borders, drawn by the promises of the great new constructions, have created a rootless and hopeless unemployed constituency with nothing to lose. Grain is scarce, they say, even in the royal granaries. No-one has been paid. It is the talk of the town. It has made everyone even more anxious. Everyone has mouths to feed. People fear the shortages. They wonder when they will be forced to barter their good city furniture on the black economy for a side of meat and a basket of vegetables from the countryside.

'I can take care of myself. And every moment I will be thinking only of coming back to you. I promise.' She nodded, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 'I must say farewell to the children.' You're leaving now?' 'I must.' She turned away from me. As I came into their room, the girls stopped what they were doing. Sekhmet looked up at me from her scroll. Her topaz eyes under her black fringe. A hard choice between reading the next words of her story and a proper greeting. I stood her on a chair and put our faces together. I smelled the familiar sweet milkiness of her breath. She draped her weightless arms around my neck.

'I have to go away for a while. Work. Will you look after your mother and your sisters for me until I come home?' She nodded, and whispered seriously into my ear that she would, that she loved me and would think of me every day. 'Write me a letter,' I asked.

She nodded again. My little sage. She is self-conscious this year: her voice has a new and careful refinement in it.

Next, Thuyu, grinning, her teeth all there now, making a silly face. She wanted to bite my nose, and I let her. 'Have fun!' she yelled, and dropped to the floor.

Nedjmet, the baby, 'the sweet one' as we call her, hopefully; a determined creature, her absoluteness so shockingly like mine. Her night weeping has given way to an utterly serious consideration of the world around her. I can no longer fool her at breakfast, when I try to persuade her a sweet roll is fresh when it is left over from yesterday's bake.

And lastly my Tanefert, my heart, with your hair the black of a moonless night, and your strong nose and long eyes. Forgive me for leaving you. If I have done nothing else with my life I have at least made this family. My bright girls. May they be given back to me at the end of this story. I will lay anything on the libation table for this. One knows the things one loves when one must leave them.

As is my habit and working method, I will keep a journal through the time to come. I shall record at the end of each day or night what I know I know, and also what I do not. I shall record clues and questions and conundrums and enigmas. I shall write what I please and what I think, not what I ought to write. In case something happens to me, per-haps this journal may survive as a testament, and return to its home like a lost dog. And perhaps the mystery will unfold from the bits and pieces, the shards and apparent irrelevances, the dreams and chances and impossibilities that make up the evidence and the history of a crime, into a successful, well-ordered and, who knows, sensible, logical, brilliantly deduced conclusion. But it would not be true. In my experience, things do not add up so easily. Things are, in my experience, a mess. So in this journal I will record the digressions, the thoughts that do not fit, the unrefined, the nonsensical and the inscrutable. And see what they tell me. And see if, from the broken evidence (for I normally deal in what is unredeemable), the outline of truth will emerge.

And then I did the hardest thing I have ever done. Dressed in my finest linens, and with my authorizations in my case, I made a brief libation to the household god. I prayed, with unusual sincerity (for he knows I do not believe in him), for his protection, and for the protection of my family. Then I embraced my girls, kissed Tanefert, who touched my face with her hands, put my feet into my old leather sandals and, with shaking hands, closed the door on my home and my life. I walked away towards a future where nothing was certain, every-thing at risk. And I am ashamed to write here that I felt more alive than ever, even though my heart was broken glass in my chest.

Great Thebes, your lights and shadows, your corrupt businesses and your chattering parties, your shops and your luxuries; your rotten, squalid quarters and your youthful, fashionable beauties; your crimes and miseries and murders. I never know whether I hate or love you. But at least I know you. Above the low rooftops of my neighbourhood I can see the blue, gold, red and green of the temple facades, their colonnades and pylons standing to the sun. The holy sycamore groves around them like dark green candles. Orchards and hidden gardens. And next to them rubbish in piles between dark shacks, and in dangerous passageways. Behind the costly villas and great palaces and temples lie the shanties made from the cast-offs and detritus of the rich where the multitudes scrape meagre livings. The niches of the house-hold gods, each dish with its daily offering. They say there are more gods than mortals in the city, yet I have never seen one that was not shaped from the materials of this world. No, I do not hold with gods. They are selfish, in their temples and heavens. They have too much to answer for, in their relish of our sufferings and misfortunes, and their neglect of the petitions of our hearts. But this is sacrilege, and I must silence my thought – although I will write it here, and who reads this must honour my stupid trust.