Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “So you just walked out into the middle of unmarked desert and dug up what you needed?” asked Susannah.

  “You make it sound like a needle in a haystack. The desert isn’t unmarked. You just have to know how to read the land.”

  “Like feng shui,” said Martin.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “What does that mean, anyway?”

  “‘Feng’ means wind and ‘shui’ means water. The two forces that shape the desert.”

  “But feng shui is an Asian concept.”

  “The Gobi Desert is in Asia.”

  “But you’re in North America.”

  “And you’re supposed to be an anthropologist. You never hear about the land bridge across the Bering Strait?”

  Angie brought Martin his cold Tecate in a can. She knows what brand he likes.

  “What kind of shard you find?” he asked.

  I pulled one out of my pocket and showed it to him. He turned it around in his hand and then gave it back to me.

  “Doesn’t this bother you?” Susannah asked him.

  “You think there’s bad magic in that shard?”

  “No, of course not. But it’s Native American. Isn’t it somehow, I don’t know, irreverent to dig it up and parade it around?”

  Martin put some salsa on a chip and popped it in his mouth. Then he took a sip of beer. “The lady who runs the herbal shop two doors north of here calls herself an Africanist. I saw it on her business card. On the back of the card was a word I didn’t know, so I asked her what it meant. She said it was the African word for friendship.”

  We just stared at him, waiting to see where this was going.

  He took another sip of beer. “There’s no Native American word for friendship. There’s no European word for friendship. There’s no Asian word for friendship. I don’t know much about Africa, but I don’t think the whole continent speaks one language.”

  More staring. Another sip of beer.

  “I’m a Native American because my people were here before the Europeans arrived. The people of Grand Quivira were Native American for the same reason. What we have in common is that we were on the same continent in the same time frame. The Basque and the Estonians have as much in common as we do because they’re both on the same continent at the same time.” Then he turned to me and said with a gleam in his eyes, “You want to make that one of your Premises, you have my permission.”

  “The Basque and the Estonians?” said Susannah, eyebrows raised.

  “You’re Basque. I try to pick examples that hit home.”

  “You think I’m Estonian?” I asked.

  “Probably not. You’re too short. I just thought the contrast between the two words was nice, sort of a haiku ring to them.”

  “Jeez,” said Susannah, “first feng shui and now haiku.”

  “It must be the land bridge thing,” I offered.

  “You guys think I should have a second round before class? There’s enough time.”

  “What class is it?” Martin and I asked in unison.

  “What difference does that make?”

  Martin and I looked at each other. He pointed to me, so I said, “Some classes call for less sobriety than others.”

  “It’s a seminar in surrealism.”

  “Have another round,” we said, again in unison.

  “Surrealism,” I said after Angie brought our drinks, “that’s like Dalí’s painting of the limp clocks?”

  “Yeah. That one’s called The Persistence of Memory.”

  “I don’t get the title,” said Martin.

  “I don’t either,” she said. “Seems like it should be called Loss of Memory because we don’t remember clocks as being soft. And that would also fit in with the philosophy of the surrealists.”

  “They had a philosophy?” I asked.

  She dropped her shoulders and looked at me like I should know better. “Of course they had a philosophy. We’re talking art history, not art appreciation.”

  “Sorry. So what was their philosophy?”

  “Wanting to escape reason and reality. They were fascinated with the power of dreams and the irrational.”

  “Sounds like a mental hospital,” said Martin.

  She chuckled and said, “They might even agree with you. Dalí claimed to use self-induced hallucinations when he painted.”

  “So do some Indian artists,” said Martin.

  “So the limp clocks are supposed to be an hallucination?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He called them ‘the camembert of time.’ Isn’t that a great phrase? Anyway, the surrealists wanted to blur the line between reality and fantasy.”

  I thought for a moment and said, “I’m going to attempt to blur that line myself, thanks to you.” Then I told them my plan for extracting the pot from the Valle del Rio Museum and how Susannah’s illustration of an isomorphic drawing had inspired it. She was so excited that she volunteered to help.

  “You want to be my accomplice?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I thought about it while I took another sip of my margarita. “You can go to the Museum and take some pictures of the pot and measure it.”

  “That sounds sort of boring, Hubert, like you’re giving the safe part of the plan to the girl and keeping the exciting part yourself.”

  “Not at all. The measuring part will be risky. You’ll have to take down one of the ropes and put the tape snugly against the pot at several different places. If the staff catches you, you’ll be in trouble. Of course you won’t have damaged anything, so they can hardly charge you with a crime, but they won’t be very pleasant and they might throw you out. If they find out who you are and report you to the University, you could join me as an ex-student-in-disgrace.”

  “You think the art history department would kick me out just for touching a pot in the Museum?”

  “Probably not. You could just say you needed the measurements for a paper you wanted to write about the pot. Any reasonable person would see your actions as a minor lapse of judgment. But people in the arts are not always reasonable.”

  “Yeah, remember the surrealists,” said Martin.

  “Good point. I just want you to go into this with your eyes wide open.”

  “You’re sweet to worry. But really, this is the most fun I can imagine, and we’ll be in on something together.” She hesitated then said, “But do you really need me? I don’t want to spoil anything.”

  “I need you for two reasons. First, there’s a security camera at the entrance. I was in the Museum recently and I’ll have to go in one more time. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but when they review the pictures from the camera, I think it’s better if I’m not on their film three times. Second, the tape measure you’ll be using is the cloth type used in sewing. A steel tape like carpenters use would set off the metal alarm. They look in purses and they sometimes ask patrons to empty their pockets into a little dish before passing through the metal detector. You’re a girl, so if you just happen to have a cloth tape, they won’t think that’s unusual, and you can put it back in your pocket or purse.”

  “A man could carry a sewing tape.”

  “Only if he were an art historian.”

  “That’s—”

  “Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m just trying to cover every detail no matter how minor.”

  “So we’re planning a heist. This is so exciting.”

  “In case anyone asks,” said Martin, “I was never here.”

  30

  “This one won’t make you drowsy,” he said to me.

  Usually you can’t find anyone to help you, which in this case would have suited me fine. But I had found the world’s most attentive pharmacist. He wore a white lab coat with a nametag identifying him as Brian. There were no other customers, and I guess he was bored. I told him
I wanted to browse, but he insisted on helping.

  “That’s not the one I’m looking for,” I said.

  “You have a specific brand in mind? Why didn’t you say so? I can find it in a jiffy.”

  “I don’t remember the brand name.”

  “Do you remember if it made you drowsy? Because there are two general classes of allergy medicines, drowsy and non-drowsy.”

  “All I remember is it was a spray.”

  “We have a few of those down this way.” He moved along the aisle. “Not as many as we used to have. Most people prefer tablets.” He seemed disappointed I didn’t want tablets.

  “Do they? Well, I want a spray.”

  “How about this one? It’s particularly good against the pollens we get this time of year.”

  “No, that’s not what it looked like. It was in a plastic bottle.”

  Actually, I had no idea what sort of allergy spray I was seeking because I’ve never bought one in my life. But I did know I wanted a plastic spray bottle and one with an allergy spray label on it would suit my purposes well.

  I was about to give up and try another store.

  “This one?” the clerk said, holding up a spray bottle of the sort I wanted.

  “That’s the one.”

  “I don’t recommend this brand. It’s really just a saline nasal spray to moisten the sinus membranes. That helps, of course, but it’s not going to fight antigens.”

  “That’s okay. I’m a pacifist.”

  He looked at me warily. “What I’m saying is this one is not very effective.”

  “Well it worked for me before, so I’ll just take it.”

  I reached for the bottle, but he held it away from me.

  “It also has benzalkonium as an additive, and there is some evidence to suggest it may cause birth defects.”

  “I’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

  “You’re a priest?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Oh.”

  He made no move to hand me the bottle, and I wondered how rude it would be if I just picked another one off the shelf. Maybe it would anger him, and he would refuse to ring up the sale. Since he was the only employee in the store, that would leave me with no option other than shoplifting, and I really had in mind starting my criminal career in a more spectacular fashion; i.e., by getting a pot from a museum.

  Finally he asked, “Do you want the small bottle or the large one?”

  “The large one, please.”

  After the drugstore, I went to a tattoo parlor. I expected a hirsute Harley jockey, but what I found was a skinny kid with moist eyes and floppy ears. I let him show me some tattoos because I felt sorry for him. He seemed pleased to practice his sales pitch. I wasn’t surprised by the array of designs on offer: eagles, hearts, barbed wire fencing, Marine Corps symbols, Confederate flags and busty women. What did surprise me were his suggestions about which parts of my anatomy might be the venue for those designs. The only places off limits were my eyeballs.

  I finally told him there were so many choices that I’d need to think about it. I convinced him to sell me a jar of the herbal pigments used for temporary tattoos. Their color and patina was just right for my purposes.

  My final stop was a grocery store for a box of the cellophane gloves servers use in delicatessens.

  When I got home I dumped the saline solution down the sink along with the benzalkonium and any other chemicals that might have been in there. I washed the bottle out with hot water and dried it by the simple expedient of leaving it in the Albuquerque air for five minutes. Then I poured the herbal pigments into the spray bottle.

  Tristan arrived just as I finished putting tattoo pigment in an allergy spray bottle, and how often do you get to do that?

  “Hey, Uncle Hubert. Did you call because you want a report on Kaylee?” He went to my refrigerator and helped himself to a bottle of Cabaña. “Why do you buy beer brewed in El Salvador?”

  “Because it’s five dollars a case cheaper than Corona.”

  “I think you should worry more about taste than cost.”

  “That’s because you’re not the one paying for it. And it tastes just as good as Corona.”

  “You should stick to judging champagne.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “I don’t want a report on Kaylee, but I guess I should have one.”

  “Well, she made a pass at me right after we got in my car, but thanks to your warning and my pure heart, I was able to fend her off.”

  “Not tempted at all?”

  “She’s attractive in a way. I don’t know how to describe it.”

  “Earthy.”

  “Yeah, that’s good. Earthy. But I don’t think she and I have much in common. Selena and I took her to the alternative band concert last night, and it wasn’t too big of a drag having her along. She actually has a pretty good sense of humor.”

  “How was the concert?”

  “It was great. And thanks again for the loan.”

  “It was a gift, not a loan.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you always say. But when I end up as the next Bill Gates, you’ll change your mind. Incidentally, I think I have a new favorite group.”

  “What are they called, the Concrete Banana?”

  “That’s a good one. No, they’re called SCR.”

  “Why do so many rock groups go by initials—REM, U2, AC/DC? Wouldn’t it be better advertising to say the whole name rather than just initials?”

  “Would you be more likely to buy REM if you knew what it stood for?”

  “I wouldn’t be buying a rock album in the first place.”

  “An album is what you put pictures in, Uncle Hubert. We buy CDs these days.”

  “I know that,” I said in mock exasperation. “What does it mean anyway?”

  “It means ‘rapid eye movement.’”

  “I know that, too. What I meant was what does SCR stand for? Slime-coated reptiles? So cool Republicans?”

  “There are no cool Republicans. And it stands for ‘stem cell research.’”

  “I’m sorry I asked. What can you tell me about things that will detect if someone is trying to record me?”

  “First a hidden camera and now a bug detector. Are you secretly a spy?”

  I ignored the question and listened as Tristan started to explain how such devices work. I cut him short and ask him just to get me something I could have for a meeting with someone who might try to record me. He said he would bring one by the next morning.

  31

  After refreshments were on the table at Dos Hermanas that evening, Susannah said, “I talked to my boss, and he agreed to hire Kaylee as a pot scrubber. Actually, he’s not doing her any favor. Other than mojados, you can’t find people to do that work. He’ll be happy to have her. The only question is whether she will do it.”

  “I suspect it’s either that or prostitution.”

  “Not nice.”

  “Well, what other skills does she have?”

  “I don’t know. I only spent a few hours with her before I turned her over to Father Groaz. How’s she doing with Tristan’s friend?”

  “Okay I guess. At least she hasn’t shown up on my doorstep again. But she can’t stay there long. Will pot scrubber wages pay for an apartment?”

  “I doubt it. The only one of the scrubbers I know is a guy named Arturo. I think he’s the only one who speaks English. He lives with his parents out in the south valley somewhere. The others come and go as a group, so I suspect it’s one of those eight-in-a-room deals.”

  Susannah had the pictures of the pot and its measurements. She had selected a Tuesday morning thinking there was less chance of other people being around. I started to tell her you can be alone in the Valle del Rio Museum almost any time you want be
cause they … But I’d done enough haranguing about museums for the week, so I let it pass.

  “You didn’t leave any prints did you?”

  “Oh, geez, I didn’t think of that.”

  “I’m just joking. There’s no problem with your prints being in the Museum. After all, it is open to the public, and they have a photo­graphic record that you’ve been there. The only problem would be if your prints are on the pot.”

  “Well of course they’re on the pot, Hubert. I had to touch it to measure it, didn’t I?”

  “No problem, Suze.” I smiled at her. “We’ll wipe them off after we get the pot out of the Museum.”

  32

  “Downtown Albuquerque,” said Mrs. Walter Masoir, “was charming. Mind you, some of the shops had tacky names like Teepee Tailors and Dessert Sands Coffee Shop, but at least you could find a proper dress and enjoy tea in china cups.”

  “It sounds nice,” I agreed.

  “Porters. They had porters to carry your packages to your automobile.” She breathed the sort of sigh that indicates longing for a lost age of refinement. “The malls ruined all that. I can’t imagine why anyone would shop in those dreadful places.”

  “Maybe it’s the parking,” I suggested.

  “Nonsense,” she was quick to reply. “It’s no good having parking if the shops sell shoddy merchandise. And all those young children running around like mice.” She turned to face me. “Where are their parents?”

  I shook my head.

  “Exactly. What did you say your name is, young man?”

  “Schuze, ma’am, Hubert Schuze.”

  She had come into my shop that morning wearing a tailored blue suit and a coral broach. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew the name when she introduced herself.

  “Well, Mr. Schuze, your shop is a delightful respite from the tawdry merchandise offered elsewhere in this city and especially in this venerable square.”

  The venerable square, as she described Old Town, is on a site known in 1650 as El Bosque de Doña Luisa. If Luisa could see her grove today, I fear she too would sigh. Mrs. Masoir was right. Many of the old adobe homes are now shops selling rubber rattlesnakes and prickly pear preserves. But several sell good pottery, although I’m the only purist who eschews contemporary works.