Neri has been an active parish for three centuries, so I guess it’s had scores of priests. How Groaz was assigned there must be a Holy Mystery. He does look like he belongs out West. With his barrel chest and bushy beard, he could pass for Grizzly Adams. But when he talks, he sounds like Béla Lugosi in those old vampire movies.
I took a seat in a pew with a view of the confessional. Murmured conversation hung in air that was cool and still with the must of old wood and incense. Swales had been worn into the aisles by the shoes of twelve generations of worshippers. A few unadorned electrical fixtures looked like afterthoughts, their small bulbs straining unsuccessfully to light the altar and high ceiling. Only the sunlight streaming through the stained glass gave any life to the sanctuary.
The last sinner left, presumably forgiven, and Groaz emerged moments later.
“Well, Hubert,” he started, but it sounded like “Woll, Youbird.”
He asked if I had come for confession.
“I’m not Catholic, Father.”
“I know that, Youbird, bot someone must do penance for sending that girl to me.”
“Where is she?”
“I put her with one of our teachers in the parish school, bot she hazz run away.”
“Susannah warned me she might do that.”
“How did she know this?”
“She said Kaylee can relate to men only through sex, so she would continue to seek someone who she thought she could attach herself to by offering sex.”
“Susannah is vahry perspicacious,” he said. Then he lowered his voice and said, “Kaylee attempt to seduce me.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Is exactly whot I said, Youbird, but in a more reverent voice.”
“Sorry, Father.”
“Is okay. I am a priest and not a handsome man, but is not the first time a woman try to tempt me. It is nothing about me. They seek help, but don’t know how to find it. Now she is gone, so we cannot help her.”
“Hmm. I’m not so sure.”
I walked back around the corner to my shop half expecting to find Kaylee there, but I found Reggie West instead.
“I saw you coming around the corner and thought I’d come say hello. My business is almost as slow as yours.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“If you’re going to make a pot,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind watching. I’m not likely to sell any gelato today, and I’m intrigued by your work.” He had a big curved smile under his perfectly level flattop.
I didn’t believe he had any interest in seeing me work. I figured he was bored or just wanted me to listen to more complaints about the alimony.
“Actually,” I told him, “my nephew brought me a satellite radio, and I’m going to see if I can figure out how to operate it.”
“Maybe another time,” he said.
There was an awkward moment while we both stood silent. Then we said our goodbyes and he left.
I started to read the manual that came with the satellite radio. It made the Pythagoras anthology seem like a John Grisham thriller. Finally I gave up and just plugged the thing in.
The plug was the only feature the device shared with any radio I had owned in the past. It had the standard little prongs attached to a cord that was too short to reach an outlet from anyplace you were likely to want a radio. The only thing I can figure is the companies that manufacture electrical appliances are also the ones that make extension cords.
I didn’t have an extension cord that wasn’t in use, so I pushed my easy chair next to an outlet and held the radio in my lap. There were no knobs, only buttons. And not a single word anywhere. Only symbols. When did all this change? Why did it change? What was wrong with a knob with Volume printed under it? At least you knew if you turned the thing, the music would get louder. Now we get hieroglyphics. I can read the ones left by the Anasazi but not the ones on my new radio.
I realized I was working myself into a snit, so I poured myself a glass of Gruet and told myself to relax. I eased back into the chair, sipped the champagne and looked at the buttons. One had a nearly closed circle with a line sticking out through the open part of the circle. The laptop had that symbol on the button that turns it on. I punched it and music started playing. The circle and line thing must be the new hieroglyphic for On.
It was on a station playing what I think they call soft rock, an oxymoron if ever there were one. There were two buttons next to the On button, one with a little arrow pointing up and another with a little arrow pointing down. I pushed the Up button and a different channel came on. I pushed the Down button and the soft rock came back. This is too easy, I thought to myself, and took another sip of champagne.
Then I started pushing the Up button and discovering there are more varieties of music than I ever imagined. I stopped on a station with music that seemed to be created with instruments like wind chimes, bamboo sticks and trickling water. Above all that a single plucked string seemed off key but in a pleasant way. The music had an Asian feel to it, and I decided to leave that station on, partly because I was intrigued by the music and partly because I was tired of pushing the button.
Then I fell asleep. When I awoke the same sort of music was playing. Sometimes technology is good. When I got up the energy to push the button again, I thought to myself, I might eventually work my way up to the music I really like.
22
I was feeling good about Tristan’s visit and my newfound mastery of technology until I stepped inside Dos Hermanas and saw Sven Nordquist, nee Steven Nordquist, standing at the bar. I tried to turn so he wouldn’t see me but failed.
“Hello, Hubert.”
“Steve,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.
Sven is tall and thin with blond hair and eyes as cold as an arctic fjord. His peculiar gait, rigid from his hips to his neck but loose of arm, makes him appear effeminate.
He aimed those cobalt eyes at me. “I go by Sven now.”
I nodded. His cologne smelled of fresh berries. He wore an expensive understated suit with a lapel pin that said ARRIS on a crest of feathers.
Steve and I were students together. UNM has a good anthropology department, so I never understood how he achieved admission. Despite devoting long hours to the attempt, he was unable to grasp the simplest basics of the subject. He couldn’t distinguish sinanthropus pekinensis from Piltdown man. Or from a French poodle for that matter. But there was an intensity about him, the kind of single-mindedness that one might associate with success as a student. Yet despite his unbending work ethic, he never mastered the topic, eventually abandoning the science of anthropology for the pseudo-science of “ethnic studies” in which received a master’s degree with honors.
“It’s been a long time,” he said in his flat Midwestern accent.
“Since what?”
“Since we’ve seen each other.”
“You didn’t come here to see me, did you?”
“No, I’m waiting for a donor.”
“An organ donor? Which one do you need?”
“Same old Hubert,” he said without humor. “I’m meeting someone who supports the Alliance for Reconciliation and Repatriation of Indigenous Societies.”
“Which I understand goes by the acronym ARRIS.”
“As executive director, I’m sure my membership will be happy to hear that you know that,” he said.
In fact, I knew it only because of the lapel pin.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It means our campaign to establish credibility is succeeding.”
“No. I meant what does ARRIS mean? No one selects a name like that unless the letters mean something.”
“In woodworking, an arris is the edge where two surfaces meet.”
He smiled broadly showing perfect white teeth. The turquoise bracelet he wore seemed out of place with the suit.
Or, given that we were in Albuquerque, I guess it was the suit that seemed out of place with the bracelet.
“The two surfaces in this case being Native Americans and whites,” I guessed.
“Precisely. We believe the future of our planet lies in that interface.”
“Holy interstices!”
He gave me his indulgent smile.
“I think you know our aims,” he said.
“Would this be a fair summary? You want the descendants of the Europeans who seized the Americas to give it back to the native peoples. You want those of us who are not native peoples to adopt the culture of the native peoples so that we can remain here with them and live in peace.”
“An oversimplification, but basically correct. We believe in reconciliation.”
“So do I win the all expenses paid trip to Machu Picchu?”
“What would you do there, steal more pots?”
I feigned hurt. “That doesn’t sound very conciliatory. And just to set the record straight, I’ve never stolen anything.”
“You forget I was there at Gran Quivira.”
“Well, I try to.”
“You are worse than a common thief, Hubert. You don’t just steal objects. You steal patrimony.”
“Patrimony is a rather Eurocentric term for the executive director of ARRIS to be using.”
He lifted his chin which emphasized how much taller he is than me. “We at ARRIS are above petty disputes. We know the traditional ways of the indigenous societies of the western hemisphere resonate with Mother Earth, and whites can be brought to understand this. We believe you and other whites will see the damage your culture is doing to our environment, and when you begin to despair of finding scientific solutions to global issues like pollution and climate change, you will be ready to peacefully lay aside your linear, mathematical, hyper-rationalized weltanschauung.”
“Wow. From which native language did you borrow the word weltanschauung?”
“You’re a clever guy, Hubert, but I am too strong to be provoked. I ask only that you remember that just as a laying down of arms can bring physical peace, so too can a laying down of European culture bring spiritual peace and harmony with nature.”
“Do you get paid overtime for the hours you spend memorizing this gibberish?”
He shook his head as if I were a recalcitrant student. Fortunately, Susannah arrived and I escaped Sven’s company.
23
“Who’s the handsome guy in the expensive suit?”
“He was Steven Nordquist when I first met him, but he changed his name to Sven. He’s a professional do-gooder working for what he considers the interests of Native Americans. I won’t tell Kauffmann you think he’s handsome.”
“Why did he change his name to Sven?”
“It was an act of solidarity with oppressed people.”
She did that twisty thing with her shoulders and neck and said, “I don’t get it. How many Indians are named Sven?”
“It was when he was still in Wisconsin, before he took up the cause of the Indians. The oppressed people he was concerned about back then were Norwegians.”
“Norwegians are an oppressed people?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Who oppressed them?”
“I think it was the Danes. Or maybe the Swedes. I’m a little fuzzy on my Scandinavian history.”
“Is ‘Schuze’ a Scandinavian name?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“Too bad, ‘Nordquist and Schuze’ would be a great name for a company, maybe a department store.”
“And what sort of store would you start under your name?”
“Susannah’s Dating Service?”
“I meant your last name.”
“Inchaustiqui’s Shepherd Service. What else would you do with a Basque name?”
The sylphlike Angie appeared unbeckoned with our drinks, chips, and salsa.
I told Susannah about ARRIS.
“Is ARRIS like firstNAtions?”
“I don’t know anything about firstNAtions, so I can’t say.”
“Judging from those two who came to your shop, I think firstNAtions must be more like the American Indian Movement.”
I hadn’t thought about AIM for years, and I found myself wondering what happened to them.
“You’re too young to remember AIM,” I said.
“I don’t have to remember. We learned about them in minority politics.”
“That’s when you were majoring in political science?”
“Actually, it was pre-law.” She shivered. “I can’t believe I wanted to be a lawyer.”
I was dredging up a few old memories about AIM. I remembered one in particular and asked her if she knew that AIM painted Plymouth Rock red.
“Why did they do that?”
“I guess Plymouth Rock is a symbol of the European invasion.”
She turned her palms up and rolled her eyes. “Geez, I know that, Hubie. I meant why red?”
“Well, the first thing that comes to mind is probably not right.”
“You mean redskins?”
“So you thought that too?”
“I did, but I didn’t want to say it.”
“Maybe the red symbolized the blood of all the Indians who were killed,” she ventured.
“Maybe. But most of them died from diseases that came with the Europeans.”
“You don’t believe that story that the Europeans gave the Indians small pox on purpose, do you?”
“The Europeans of the 15th century didn’t know any more about the transmission of viruses than the Indians did. It was just bad luck.”
“But why did it kill the Indians and not the Europeans.”
“Millions of Europeans did die from it. They contracted it from the cows and chickens that lived in their houses, but over the centuries, they eventually developed some degree of immunity.”
“So the Indians weren’t immune because they didn’t live with animals?”
I nodded.
“That doesn’t seem fair. People who are crazy enough to bed down with livestock should be the ones who get sick. Do you think groups like AIM, ARRIS and firstNAtions do any good?”
“Probably. At least they advocate for people who have been marginalized, and maybe they generate a little hope and self-respect. I remember after AIM occupied Alcatraz, federal funding for the BIA increased. They say you have to make noise to be heard. Of course their larger visions are wildly quixotic.”
“Like wanting European culture to disappear.”
“Yeah. That rhetoric seems ridiculous to us, but I guess if you’re totally downtrodden, it sounds like a beautiful dream.”
“So why would someone who voluntarily takes the name Sven want European culture to disappear?”
“That’s one downside of groups like ARRIS. They attract a lot of cranks. I suspect Sven is just working out his guilt at being white. ARRIS believes, to quote Sven, that, ‘the traditional ways of the indigenous societies of the western hemisphere resonate with Mother Earth, and whites can be brought to understand this.’”
“And he wants to lead us out of whiteness.”
“I think that’s the program.”
“Did you know him well in school?”
“Not really.”
“But the way you described your conversation just now, it sounded sort of hostile.”
“He still seems to have a lot of hostility towards me. I don’t like him because he’s supercilious and self righteous, but I wouldn’t waste any of my limited store of hostility on him.”
“Why is he hostile toward you?”
“I think it’s because he’s the one who reported me for selling pots and got me kicked out of school.”
“I don’t get it. That sounds like a reason
for you to be hostile to him, not the other way around.”
“Then this is a perfect place to insert my philosophy that he who harms another suffers more damage than the one he harms.”
“You made that up?”
“Actually, I heard it on an old television show called Kung Fu when I was in high school.
“Black and white?”
I just gave her a look.
“Just kidding,” she said. “So you think Sven is hostile towards you because he sort of feels guilty about harming you?”
“Maybe. The irony is that he didn’t harm me. All he did was report the truth to the department head. And if I hadn’t been kicked out of school, I wouldn’t have my shop.”
“And we wouldn’t be sitting here drinking margaritas.”
“Right.”
“So,” she said, lifting her glass, “here’s to Sven.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
24
Susannah left for class, and I sat at our table deciding what to do about dinner. Across the way, I saw Sven depart, his torso moving along as if on rails while his limber arms swung rhythmically.
His intended victim I recognized as Farley Ezekiel, whom I knew well by reputation as a benefactor and not well personally because he had been introduced to me only once and briefly by Layton Kent. To my surprise, he recognized me and stopped by my table on his way out.
“Hubert Schuze, am I correct?”
“I’m impressed, Mr. Ezekiel.”
He gave a hearty laugh. “Don’t be. My memory grows worse with each passing day. But it pays to remember people introduced by Layton Kent.”
“I assure you my connection with Mr. Kent is quite tenuous. Can I buy you dinner?”
“Will it involve a solicitation for a gift?”
“It will not.”
“Then I accept.”
Angie appeared the instant Farley sat down, and she took our orders. Tamales for me and Sopa de Lima for him.
The conversation eventually turned to his meeting with Sven.
Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras Page 9
