Free The Egyptologist by Arthur Phillips Page A

corrupted state. I showed him how to shelve the book, and then I led him back to the office. He was not such a fool as to turn down food, proba• bly more than he saw in a week, more than he could steal in days. Oh, yes, have no illusions, he was already stealing at that age. The rich need thieves, Mr. Ferrell, and they are careful to breed them young. 'It's customary to thank someone,' I told him. He managed to mutter a 'thank you, ma'am,' as he stuffed his face.
    "Ronnie and I discussed it next day, and we were of one mind. As charitable people, we would do what we could for this little one God had sent our way. As political people, we owed it to him and to the future to prove that the working class had as much brain and worth as the moneyed. And as educators, well, there could be no question: this one wanted learning as much as he wanted food. We would feed him, Ronnie and I, and split the expense."
    (Ronald's words on the matter: "Cassie decided, Cassie dictated. The Pyg• malion Fallacy, if you ask me, but she didn't. Party warns against this.")
    Ask me, Paul Caldwell didn't have a chance to escape her lures, Macy. He met Catherine Barry when she was probably twenty-six, and he was a little boy. I met her in 1922, and even at forty-five or so, she was a powerful charmer, smelled nice, smiled sweet. I was a man of the world, had my choice of lady friends, you know, and I knew just how her sort used its wiles for nefarious purposes, but even I found her something potent to sit near, nearly found myself begging her to dis• cuss my questions with me over a supper. Her smile—of course, I could resist it, but a little boy? No hope. It's a very certain smile, the smile of someone who thinks they're so much smarter than you that they think they can see and steer your very thoughts. They toy with you, make you jump to amuse them. Women have it. Reds have it. Red women are the worst.
    " 'Home doesn't appeal? Is that why you sit here at all hours reading about
    pyramids?' I asked him a few days later when he was back, still shy. He had run up to me and asked for the same book without looking me in the eye, as if he'd never met me. I gave him the book, and after he read, I fed him again. And I of• fered to see him home, it was late, but he said no, and was off.
    "After three or four weeks he had come a dozen times and read nearly every• thing we had on ancient Egypt, which was hardly so very much. Each time he would read until closing, and then I would feed him, and each time he refused to be walked home. He was growing friendlier, but not quickly. Whatever had been done to him was enough to keep him suspicious of people for some time. I asked Ronald to find his address from the school, and I went round to see his home my• self. Oh, you've been there recently, Mr. Ferrell? I wonder if it's much changed. When I saw it, it was the scene of a crime, a rape of the worker by the capitalist, and nothing less. That humans were treated like this, and especially a little boy of his quality and promise. Well, the closest I ever come to forgiving him is when I think of how he was raised. Experiences like that make you either very strong or very weak, and in Paul's case, it weakened his moral fibre beyond anything that could be done to repair it. I believe everyone can improve themselves, but the last I heard of him, he was still a selfish sentimentalist.
    "He looked up and saw me standing in the doorway of his dreadful home, and I am certain my face revealed what I thought of the scene. I think it was the first time he ever looked me in the eye. Up jumped the little boy, ignoring the chaos and noise around him, and he took my hand. 'Why did you come here?' he asked, pulling me out the door and walking me as fast as he could up the street, while his family stuck their heads out to gawk. 'So I could see if you were all right,' I said, 'because I worry about people I am fond of.' I'm fine,' he said, 'but you shouldn't come anymore.