Before the Term Begins

Wednesday, 2nd January 1929.

The terrible headache from yesterday has gone. The museum’s director does not work on the 1st and thus we spent the day a little worse for wear; one cannot ignore the advice of a good friend.

I have never been so consistent in taking my meals as I have been here. Georges will have none of the forgotten breakfasts I am prone to at home. I shall have to take a few jars of the marmalade back with me to Edinburgh, as well as the coffee.

It was considerably warm walking to the museum this morning; the northern breeze off the sea well welcomed. Without it I doubt it would be bearable; I soon shed my jacket once we reached the museum and Georges left me to my ordered studies.

All morning I spent inspecting again lest I had missed anything before the new year. The chips in the stone hinder making out the inscription properly, some letters are fortunately clear. I have made out a few R’s.

As suspected it is Latin. Examination under a better light was of little help, neither did brushing away dust and grit; the soot stains are too strong. I strongly suspect the stone has been reused. What yielded most favourable results was turning the stele against the light to catch the shadows in the cuts; a few more letters appeared but no whole words unfortunately.

Georges came to fetch me for lunch; an omelette and two oranges, one to take with me. If he had any thought of the speed with which I devoured my lunch, he knew to keep to himself; by now he should know the eagerness to get back to one’s latest examination. I was in no way impolite; we both had work to get back to.

All measurements correspond to the catalogue that Georges provided, the size of the stone, the height of the letters, line spacing, and margins; all are as expected. Yet the lower characters are cut shallower than the rest. The edges show mortar staining; it has surely lived a second life in architecture.

Around two’o’clock, a young student, local, came bearing coffee, courtesy of the museum. The coffee was strong and most welcome; tea would not have bettered it. I doubt I accomplished much work thereafter.

His French was exceptional. Too natural to be merely learned; far removed from the careful French of the lycée, but the French of home and street.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the company of the boy. His eyes were filled with curiosity, the same curiosity I still possess, even at my age. He was certainly eager to know of the stone, and absorbed every word I said like a sponge; in an instant he had understood it was Latin. Not only did he listen, but followed my every move as I traced the letters; learning cannot be done purely through listening, but seeing and doing for oneself.

Before I left I had managed to acquire a few odd letterforms. The stele is badly damaged; I suspect only a fragment can be recovered.

In the Kasbah I found a repair shop where I had the most peculiar encounter. The dealer, whom at first I thought a visitor such as myself, was not: a native he is and entirely so. It was as if I were back home, or looking into a strange mirror. The man was tanned, yes, but had pale eyes, freckling across the nose, and striking red hair.

I thought he must be a descendant of the Icelanders carried off in the 17th century Barbary raids, though he knew nothing of it. He was more than happy to converse in Arabic rather than French; I find my Arabic far more serviceable in inscriptions than in conversation. During my entire stay here I have encountered no one else who does not fit the common appearance of Algiers.

Cold is not enough to describe how it will be arriving back home, and colourless by comparison. Term begins within two weeks. I had best try to leave in a week; five days of travel should suffice. I am sure to be sorrowful to leave the warm accommodation of Georges. I must convince him to visit me and give a lecture as I often did for him in the years before his directorship; it must be easier to leave for a short while as a director than a professor. He can make the sacrifice I hope.

Dinner was most satisfactory; the French are in the highest ranks when it comes to cuisine. Georges provided a dish of fish, were it any fresher it would have sprung from my plate, delicious vegetables cooked in the French manner, and bread as always. It would not be a meal with one Monsieur Marçais if red wine were not offered. The figs and dates offered afterwards I am sure to smuggle back home with me.

At Georges’s request I was to leave work at the museum and was not to think of the stele nor speak of it. He would be available for discussion of the stele during work hours only; at home I was to relax as he does. He gave me a book of his to borrow, to soothe my racing mind while he smoked his evening cigar, yet my mind could not fix upon a single word; my thoughts belonged wholly to the stele.

Thursday, 3rd January.

For the entirety of the morning I made an attempt at a transcription of only what I was certain of, which was not much. IMP C[AES]: the most useful writing I have found. Only a few more words I have made out, yet tell me little of its importance. Is it funerary or a boundary marker? Nothing definite.

Lunch was short. Another omelette was served and again I was given the fruit of the day, three today. I suspect Georges thinks me near incompetent regarding meals; he told me of a bureaucratic dinner he has to attend this evening. I fortunately do not have to be in attendance this time, hence I will have to remember dinner myself.

All afternoon I spent making a paper impression; I made two copies in case of any mistake. Again around two the local student came with coffee for me. Today his lesson was to make paper impressions, rubbings and paper mâchés. All went well except the time it took, which was entirely my fault; professorly habits are persistent even outside the classroom.

The sun had already set when I left the museum, Georges long gone. I could not accept a responsible position such as his; polite political conversations and endless dinners for the benefit of higher-ups I cannot endure in such measure.

I must bring dear Mrs. Stewart a small trinket, though I think she was only too happy to look after Arthur over the holidays rather than be by herself. I must try to find the same tea I brought her from my last visit. I can only hope the small tin should present itself were I to walk past, for I cannot seem to remember the name; hopefully a stroll will jog my memory.

Perplexedly I did manage to find what I hope is the same tea, a small tin filled with loose leaves of what I was told was black tea. But in case it should not be to her taste, I thought it best to obtain some cinnamon sticks and nutmeg; I hear it goes remarkably well with rice puddings and mashed potatoes as well as custard tarts. It seems as if I have gone blind to cloves, for I did not see any, despite my somewhat thorough searching.

Once I arrived back home, my mind was set on only my paper impressions. Fortunately it was still early enough for Georges to not be back from his dinner. I wasted no time to resume my study of the stele, so much so that I managed to cut myself on the paper. Funny how the tiniest of injuries cause the utmost of pain. That paper cut was not alone for long.

Despite the lasting sting I soon became engulfed in the analysis before me, as my discomfort grew into frustration for I could not seem to make out a sufficient amount of information. For sheer luck (as it presented itself at the moment), I had forgotten to remove my jacket before sitting down with my work, in which pocket I found my extra orange I had been given at lunch; at that moment I had not eaten for a considerable amount of time and the sheer sight of the fruit awoke a hunger in me that had been dormant when not having it in my eye sight.

As soon as I had bitten into the citrus, my supposed luck revealed itself to be what it was: Georges arrived. I felt like a child, with my hand in the cookie jar. I cannot have been a proper sight to behold; paper cuts, plural, devouring an orange like an animal, back bent over my impressions. The shock of the sight must have rendered him speechless, for he soon disappeared. Tomorrow I will have to try to convince my dear friend that the sight was a drunken illusion; disappointed looks I get enough from dear Mrs. Stewart.

Friday, 4th January.

Georges seemed in perfect health and memory this morning; he has never been one to not hold his liquor; anything but would be unsuitable for a man in his position. The silence from the breakfast table elongated to our walk, not uncomfortable per se; there have often been moments spent in silence between us.

I seem to have forgotten to note that the stele is of limestone. All morning was spent cleaning my earlier notes and transcription; a neat draft has been made although a small one. I have yet to find a formula which points towards its meaning; funerary, dedicatory, boundary marker?

For lunch Georges could not join me due to a prior commitment, some meeting or other. Instead, my lunch hour I spent with the young student; we are not so different, he and I, both colonized long before our births yet in different situations. From this visit, as all others, I intend to take away with me as much knowledge as I give; I must learn as much from him as he can from me. I can offer academic learning, he instead can offer domestic understanding.

My favourite activity of domestic understanding: card games. And so we spent more than what was allowed of my lunch hour playing a game called Basra. Basra is a fishing game, similar to Cassino, although much swifter and favours clearing the table in a single hand; a play I have yet to make.

It was nearing closing-time when I finally had broken out of the time-stealing trance the card playing had put me in, both of us in. It was as at least fifteen years were stripped from my person; a child I felt again, a feeling that seems to become scarcer with each year. I felt once more as a little boy, again at home, before the war. The boy’s competitiveness only fuelled my own; I almost laid blame on faulty game-rules or made-up ones, which only fed the boy’s laughter. Laughter which reminded me all too much of Robert, like a mirage the boy had been replaced by him, yet for much too short of a time. After all that time I had managed to win a few games, yet seemed barely any in comparison to the quantity of those lost.

The weekend will be spent hunched over my transcriptions and impressions, whatever Georges says. I expect I shall have to seek refuge in the outdoors to continue my assignment; I cannot be expected to leave without having made some breakthrough.

Dinner was simple. Quiet. Mutton and French vegetables, bread and wine. Dark comes quick during this time of year, and tiredness even more so; both Georges and I retired early into the night.

I am starting to get slightly homesick, although I do not miss the freezing cold. My mermaid does provide some consolation, as always, but I do find myself missing the university, the lively endless chatter of the students, and the warm embrace of Mrs. Stewart and Arthur; of Georges I have no complaints at all, yet one always misses home and at home one misses travels.

Saturday, 5th January.

The sun rose comfortably before me. Breakfast was as usual with the addition of a boiled egg. My late start to the day made me return immediately to my impressions and transcriptions. All morning was dedicated to comparing copies and rechecking measurements. After eating cold meats for lunch, I was once again devoured by my work.

By tea nothing new had revealed itself. The light was poor, and moving to the window was of little help. Having spent the majority of the day with my work undisturbed, only occasionally ignoring Georges’s disapproving look, he was well within reason to lug me away. A walk, he thought, was necessary.

The sun had begun to diminish its rays, yet did not retract much of their warmth. When we were comfortably inside the Kasbah, we heard the call of prayer, Adhān; I had only heard it faintly through walls before. A drawn-out melodic chant, liturgical, most of it I understood, the repeated phrases. I half expected a dramatic vanishing, yet it was not. Some men did turn toward a nearby mosque, most of the children kept playing and the shopkeepers haggling, the Europeans only turned their heads.

Our walk was not long, only enough to breathe in the fresh air, and clear one's head; Georges certainly does know the best medicines when it comes to study. We had soup for dinner, accompanied with light conversation that elongated into the evening. The stele I gave no more thought today, I had managed to find peace in the book Georges lent me; at last a study I could solve. Hopefully tomorrow may bring some clarity, and if not, so be it.

Sunday, 6th January.

Again a boiled egg was served with breakfast. I expect its absence will be noticeable tomorrow; the fruits, I am sure, will make up for it.

Like yesterday, most of the day was occupied by the stele. By lunch: nothing from the stele, but cold meats from Georges. By tea, again nothing, but a short walk.

It was already dark when I made a marvellous discovery: the script type. At long last I have made measurable progress. Tomorrow shall uncover the rest of what will provide a satisfactory departure.

By then dinner was even more satisfactory, knowing I shall be able to depart home with considerable information gathered, if not a confirmation; everything tastes much better when one is faring well in life.

Monday, 7th January

As soon as I awakened, so too did the skies, As I grew more alive, so did the clouds. By the time Georges and I took our steps to the museum the stones were already wet, and our walk became one of haste.

Today’s work moved along as easily as a young boy’s dinghy under fair wind. Having identified the script type, all else fell into pattern. From the lack of a known funerary formula D M (Dis Manibus), I formally exclude the possibility. Given the spacing, surviving letterforms, and the shallower lower cuts, I conclude it to have been dedicatory; a conclusion supported by Georges.

I am most certain, although I cannot make out the name of the emperor, that once referred to Trajan. A Hadrianic inscription would be far more distinctive, and I can say with certainty that a lone L does not make an appearance. In conclusion it must be a High Imperial inscription, and therefore early second century; all roads lead to Trajan. To have found it belonging to L. SEPTIMI SEVERI would have certainly been more rousing.

Imperial inscriptions dedicating buildings were extremely common, and this stele may easily have stood in the forum or another civic building of Icosium; it was the height of Roman urban development in North Africa.

Over our luncheon omelette, we discussed the discovery. All that I had to report Georges agreed with. After I had gone over all once more I was content to take my leave; I, of course, took all my spare notes and impressions with me; they may yet prove useful in class.

My two’o’clock coffee was again brought by the young student as before, and I spent most of the remaining afternoon showing him both the discovery and the path toward it; how such conclusions are reached. He took great interest in it as I did when I was his age, the only difference was the atmosphere; his calm, whereas mine had been distressing.

The rain had stopped for our walk back, only for it to begin again during our last steps. I am sure, had we taken our dinner outside, the fish would have sprung to life from the familiar drops.

Tonight Georges and I went over the conclusion of my study and stay; tomorrow I must pack my things and inquire about ship schedules across the Mediterranean. I expect I shall spend most of the working day at the museum, answering small inquiries and offering minor consultations. How pleased I am to leave in good conscience.