The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “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 an acronym these days 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 descendents 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 Quivera.”

  “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, hyperationalized weltanschauung.”

  “Wow,” I said. Then I added, “From which native language did you draw 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?” Susannah asked.

  “It was an act of solidarity with oppressed people.”

  She did that thing with her shoulders and neck and said, “I don’t get it, Hube. How many Indians are named Sven?”

  “It was when he first moved to New Mexico from 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, Hubie?”

  “No.”

  “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,” I answered, “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,” she said.

  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, Hubie. 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, “Did you know 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 did the Indians. 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, Hubie. People who are crazy enough to bed down with livestock should be the ones who get sick. Do you think groups like AIM and 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 may sound like a beautiful dream.”

  “So why would someone who voluntarily takes the name Sven want European culture to disappear?”

  “I guess 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, Hubie. That sounds like a reason for you to be hostile to him, not the other way around.”

  “This would be 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 back when I was in high school; I watched a lot of TV back then.”

  “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 is 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.

  “I gather you two know each other,” he said. “Is he a close friend?’

  “Our chance encounter here was the first time I’ve seen him in perhaps five years.”

  “Lucky you,” he said and then quickly added, “That was unkind. The fellow seems so… committed. But also desperate. As you perhaps know, I contribute to a number of causes I deem worthy, but I never give based on desperation. I gave a small token when ARRIS was founded —call it seed money—and I was willing to give more had he convinced me that ARRIS was doing something worthwhile. But his pitch tonight was that they needed funding to avoid going under. Who gives money merely to keep an organization afloat?”

  I felt a twinge of sympathy for Sven. I can sell even a small pot or two a month and clear fifty thousand a year, but poor Sven has to beg and scrape just to make ends meet. Given what an ass he is, I should have felt good, but instead I felt sad.

  But when I got outside in the clear crisp air and walked by the adobe buildings on the two blocks back to my shop, I felt better. In fact, I felt great. The moon was just rising above the belltower of San Felipe, and the air was scented with piñon.

  And there in front of my shop was Kaylee.

  “Hi, Hubert.”

  I unlocked the door. “Come inside,” I said brusquely.

  “Hubert, I…”

  “Don’t say anything.”

  She followed me back to my living quarters and I picked up the phone and called Tristan.

  “Hi, Uncle Hubert.”

  It always unnerves me that he knows it’s me before I say anything.

  “I’ve got a young lady here who came to Albuquerque a couple of days ago with just the clothes on her back. She needs a place to stay.”

  “Is she a runaway?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Right.”

  “She’s standing there and you can’t talk?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is she younger or older than me?”

  “About the same.”

  “Is she messed up somehow?”

  “I think so.”

  “Drugs.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Abused?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  He came back on the line a few minutes later and said his neighbor, a graduate student at the University, was willing to put her up for a day or two if that would help.

  “Is your neighbor a man or a woman?”

  “A woman.”

  “Good.”

  “The girl’s sort of afraid of men right now?”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  “That’s why you don’t want her there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So will she make a pass at me?”

  “No doubt, but then most young women do.”

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t say most.”

  “This sort of goes beyond…”

  “She grabs at anything in pants?”

  “She was at the Church temporarily.”

  He hesitated at my apparent non-sequitor. “Is that important?”

  “It’s related to what we were just talking about.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Are you saying she made a pass at Father Groaz?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come get her. And I’ll warn Emily.”

  I hung up and turned to Kaylee. “My nephew is coming here to get you. He has a place where you can stay. If you run off again, then I’m not going to have anything more to do with you. If you come back, I’ll just call the police and they can turn you over to social services. Do you understand that?”

  She frowned and then nodded.

  25

  “I don’t know much about them, but from what I’ve heard, you don’t want

  to mess with these guys, white eyes.”

  Martin Seepu handed the firstNAtions card back to me.

  “Thank you, Tonto,” I said. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “Are you going to buy the pot?” Martin asked.

  “You won’t answer my question unless I buy the pot?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “Right.”

  “O.K., fair enough. I’ll buy it.”

  “You want to know the price?” he asked.

  “I assume it’s the usual, twenty-four dollars worth of beads?”

  “You want Manhattan, that’s a fair price. But the pot is two thousand.”

  “I won’t pay more than twenty-five hundred.”

  “White devil drive hard bargain. Two thousand for my uncle and five hundred for the scholarship fund?”

  I nodded and counted out twenty-five pictures of Ben Franklin, and Martin rolled them up and stuffed them in his jeans.

  “I’ll ask around about firstNAtions,” he said.

  “Thanks. How old is the pot?”

  “I don’t know. Thirty, maybe fifty years. The old man can remember everything that ever happened in his life. He just can’t remember when.”

  Martin was wearing jeans that looked like they’d survived a few too many rodeos and a western pearl-buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He’s ten years younger than me, and although he’s no taller than me, he outweighs me by thirty pounds, all of it muscle. The shirt fit him like a second skin.

  Martin’s pueblo is on the Puerco River about nine miles from town. His uncle is a gifted potter who could have become rich and famous if he had sold his pots, but h
e never let anyone see them other than family. Now he lets Martin sell a piece now and then when they need the money.

  “Same terms as always,” I said. “If he decides he wants this one back, let me know. If I haven’t sold it, you can have it back for what I paid for it.”

  Martin poured himself some coffee. He took a sip and shuddered. “Bad enough you had to steal our land.”

  “I can’t seem get the hang of it,” I said.

  “It’s the water, Kemo Sabe. You draw this from the Rio Grande?”

  “No, right from the tap.”

  “In Albuquerque, that’s the same thing. In the Pueblo, we get our water from a spring. It’s pure and sweet.”

  “Makes good coffee?”

  He looked at me over the rim of his cup. “I’ll bring you some,” he said.

  26

  After Martin left, I polished his uncle’s pot with a soft rag and granted it pride of place on a display shelf close to the counter where I could look at it. It had the cloud and lightning motif peculiar to Martin’s pueblo. Each stylized cloud had a zigzag bolt descending at an angle towards the ground.

  I wondered how Martin’s uncle spaced the patterns. It’s easy for me because I have something to copy. But Native American potters do not create standard-sized pots. Their wares are made at home by hand, not in a factory by machines. If they make ten pots like the one I was looking at, there might be ten different circumferences varying by an eight of an inch or so. And yet the background space between each design motif is invariably uniform.

  The more I thought about it, the more it puzzled me. I took the pot back to my workshop and sat down at the wheel where thinking about pot making comes naturally. If I wanted to copy it, I’d just measure the circumference and the distance between the symbols and copy them.

  But what if I weren’t making a copy? What if I were starting from scratch?

  I removed the plastic wrap from some clay I’d dug from the bed of the Rio Puerco and kneaded it into a ball. I started the wheel and pushed my thumbs into the ball, gradually exerting pressure until I had a simple pot. Then I used the parentheses formed by my thumbs and pointing fingers to make the pot symmetrical as it turned, my hand exerting gentle pressure until there were no high or low spots. You develop a feel for that over the years; it’s why the best potters in every pueblo are the elders.