Dylan did get some work done. He cataloged photos for the Larkin Archive and gradually learned his way around the museum. For hours he’d wander through the Anthropology Wing by himself, poking into odd corners and storage bins, occasionally coming back by my office to show me something he’d found—a first edition of The Origin of Species shoved beneath the leg of an ancient rolltop desk; a cardboard folder holding original photo gravures of Edward Steichen’s most famous works, the Flatiron Building and Central Park in the snow and half a dozen other images, all printed on tiny narrow bits of paper frail and lovely as dried violets; even one of Maggie’s hissing cockroaches that had made its home near a collection of Malaysian spirit puppets in the Indonesian corner.
“Keep looking,” I told him after he presented a German helmet from World War I to a bemused ornithologist. “Jimmy Hoffa’s in there somewhere, and the guy who wrote The Little Prince.”
Dylan grinned. “And Elvis?”
“Elvis is over in American History.”
One week flowed into the next. I put off calling Baby Joe, just like I put off everything else. The heat wave showed no signs of abating. Perhaps as a result of that, the threatened Post article didn’t appear. I was just starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I might get away with it. That maybe this was what it was all for—all those lost years, my exile from the Divine and the only people I had ever let myself love. That I had finally found a safe place; that I had finally found one of the Beautiful Ones. And he loved me.
Then Laurie Driscoll dropped by one morning with the latest issue of Archaeology.
“Here,” she said. She opened the magazine and tossed it onto my desk. “This just came in. Check it out.”
“What is it?”
“Just read.”
Two brief articles crowded a page otherwise filled with ads for personalized cartouches and a bonded marble replica of Queen Hatshepsut’s head. The first article noted that a prestigious Manhattan art dealer had agreed to return a collection of Middle Kingdom Minoan gold seal rings, ivory, necklaces, and faience sculptures, including two images of the so-called Cretan Snake Goddess, to the Greek National Museum in Athens. The collection was valued at over $2 million on the booming antiquities market, but before it could be transferred to Athens, the National Museum itself was slapped with a lawsuit by a feminist spiritualist group named Potnia, after the ancient Cretan mistress of the beasts.
“Oh, great,” I said under my breath. I glanced up at Laurie. “I guess you’re not interested in talking about this nice ad for Mayaland Resorts, huh?” I asked wistfully.
“Read it.”
I read that Potnia’s attorney and spokeswoman, Rosanne Minerva, claimed that the collection should neither be in private hands nor in a museum. It was “the ancient spiritual legacy of women everywhere and, as such, should be given into the keeping of a sacred trust that will administer these objects, and others like them, for all womankind.” In lieu of an expensive lawsuit, the Greek National Museum and the Manhattan art dealer agreed to donate the collection to Potnia, under Ms. Minerva’s watchful eyes. It was presumed that both museum and gallery would reap substantial tax benefits from the transfer.
This article segued quite neatly into the second, which detailed how the well-known American businessman Michael Haring had agreed to donate his private collection of Neolithic artifacts, including a Celtic Bronze Age mummy, to Potnia. This was a timely decision on Haring’s part, as there now seemed to be some question as to how he had come by many of these artifacts in the first place. Several governments, including those of Cyprus, Denmark, and Turkey, had threatened him with legal action, but the redoubtable Ms. Minerva seemed to wield a great deal of clout—more than I could easily fathom.
Until I got to the article’s last sentence, which read,
Potnia’s actions toward retrieving “sacred womanist icons” is in large part underwritten by Dr. Angelica Furiano, the noted archaeologist and author who has achieved fame through her best-selling works on women’s spirituality.
“Ouch.” I closed the magazine and pushed it away, pressed my fingers against my throbbing forehead. “Michael Haring, why is that name familiar?”
I looked up to see Laurie staring at me pointedly, her arms crossed.
“‘Angelica Furiano, now why is that familiar?’” she said, mimicking me.
I opened my mouth, shut it again, turned to stare at my computer. “Am I missing something, Laurie? I’m serious. Who’s Haring? I mean, besides being some capitalist tool?”
Laurie sighed and reached for the magazine. “Well, he’s a regent of the National Museum of Natural History, for one thing.”
My eyes widened. “No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“So you think this is what Robert’s been dealing with? Some radical feminist group demanding he return their artifacts? No wonder he seems so depressed.”
Laurie leaned against my desk, slipping her feet out of her espadrilles. “Are you telling me this is news to you, Katherine?”
“Well, yes,” I said slowly. “I am. This is the first I’ve heard of it. I mean—well, Laurie, give me a break, okay?” I finally exploded. “I haven’t been paying much attention lately, I’ll admit it! But this stuff—”
I waved disparagingly at the magazine. “It’s not my field, you know? And it sounds like all these cases are being settled out of court, so…”
Laurie stared at me as though I had suggested stomping a little bunny to death with her bare feet. “Pete Suthard said he heard they might have to shut down seven galleries!”
“Seven! That’s ridiculous! There can’t be one gallery’s worth of goddess stuff here—”
“I’m just telling you what I heard. He said these Potnia people have apparently joined up with an alliance of Native Americans’ civil rights groups, some African-American groups, the Celtic Gay and Lesbian National Congress—”
She sighed and slid back into her shoes. “Well, anyway, I just thought you might have some inside track on this. Because of—well, because of Dylan.”
“Dylan.” I slumped farther down in my ergonomic chair. “Dylan?”
Laurie snorted. “What, you think nobody here’s noticed you’re shacking up with an intern?”
I rubbed my nose, then replied a little defensively, “Well, yes.”
“Oh, please. Not that I care. I just thought, well, because of his mother—I thought you might know something about this other stuff.”
“I don’t.”
“I believe you. It’s just that whatever is going on seems to have Robert more worked up than I’ve ever seen him.” Laurie looked uncomfortable, even somewhat pissed. “You know, if they bring the ombudsman in to check out whatever it is these Potnia people want, it’s going to be a royal pain in the tush. At the least.”
“They won’t bring the ombudsman in,” I said, and tried to sound like I meant it. With Robert Dvorkin so preoccupied and the rest of the curators on vacation, I was just about the senior staff member. I had enough of a conscience to feel a vague sense of responsibility to the department, at least enough to make a cursory effort at reassuring our secretary that she wouldn’t be out of a job anytime soon. “Relax, okay, Laurie?”
“I am relaxed. I’m going to Hatteras in a few weeks,” she said smugly, and headed for the door. “I just thought you should know. Since with Robert so tied up, you’ll pretty much be in charge of everything.”
“Gee, thanks.” I watched her go. For a moment I thought of chasing her down, to retrieve that magazine.
Then I decided I just wasn’t going to think about it. For one thing, it wasn’t any of my business. I didn’t want it to be any of my business. I had invested almost my entire adult life into being a drone, a suit in Washington, a Videodisc Project Supervisor Grade 9, Step 4, and that’s how I liked it. The museum wasn’t paying me enough to think—that was Dr. Dvorkin’s job. I didn’t want to think, especially now. I wanted to believe this was all just some odd coincide
nce. I wanted to believe that Angelica had no reason to be thinking of me, or the museum, or even her own son, no reason at all beyond her own career concerns, whatever the hell those might be. I wanted Dylan, that was all. I wanted Dylan, and I didn’t want to be reminded of anything strange in my past that might have led to his being here with me now.
And Dylan obviously didn’t want to think about it, either. We had reached a sort of unspoken agreement about his mother. If he wanted to talk about Angelica, I’d listen; but I learned not to question him.
“Don’t you think you should at least give her a call?” This was after we’d been together for a few weeks. I was on my way to Eastern Market to get some ribs for dinner. “I’ll be out for a while, you could—”
“I already called her,” Dylan said shortly. He was wearing tight frayed cutoffs and nothing else, sprawled on the old Castro Convertible with those impossibly long legs dangling over the sofa’s edge. “She knows how to find me if she needs me.”
“Fine,” I said, and left.
I wondered about that. At Dr. Dvorkin’s request, I’d been going over to the main house nearly every day after work, to water the orchids and feed the cats and gather up the mail. That evening my heart skipped: under the stacks of magazines and overseas correspondence I found an envelope with Dylan’s name on it, written in Angelica’s lovely handwriting with peacock blue ink. My hand shook a little as I picked it up, and the rest of the mail slid to the floor.
“You got a letter,” I said when I got back to the carriage house, trying to sound nonchalant as I handed it to him. Dylan glanced at the envelope and tossed it aside. I went out onto the patio to check the grill. When I came inside again, the letter was gone—I know, because I looked for it when Dylan was in the bathroom. It finally appeared again a few days before Dylan’s birthday, shoved beneath the kilim that covered the sofa. The envelope was still unopened. When I picked it up I could smell sandalwood, like incense clinging to the heavy paper—sandalwood and oranges and the odor of ground coriander seed.
Annie Harmon stared at the ranks of black and grey limousines lined up in front of the Javits Convention Center. Behind the soot-colored monolith, the Hudson moved sluggishly, streaked black and orange from where the sun was dipping behind the Jersey skyline. If she inhaled deeply enough, she could smell the river, rank with spilled gasoline and dead fish; but Annie didn’t want to smell it. She didn’t want to be there at all. The out-of-towners disgusted her, there wasn’t a decent place to eat within ten blocks, and she didn’t believe that Justine was going to show up in a limo with a very rich John.
Actually, Annie could believe that; she just preferred not to. If she looked closely at the vehicles pulled alongside the river, Annie could see heads bobbing up and down in most of them, TV and TS whores taking care of the tourists and bridge-and-tunnel regulars. But she didn’t want to see that any more than she wanted to smell the garbage barge drifting past, with its clouds of gulls and blowflies; any more than she wanted to think about the message Justine had left on her hotel room’s voice mail. So she sat on the convention center steps and tried not to think, that week’s unread Voice balanced on her knees. Tried not to think at all.
It had been three weeks since Baby Joe’s death. Pulmonary failure, said the coroner’s report. Not as uncommon as you’d think at places like Chumley Peckerwood’s; although at thirty-eight, José Malabar was still pretty young, even with the extra weight and cigarettes and peripatetic sleep habits. It made for a sordid little story nonetheless, a few inches of newsprint glorifying the death of a minor New York character in a strip club. The usual HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR kind of stuff, a few halfhearted attempts at suspecting foul play; then someone from Newsday took over Baby Joe’s column and that was the end of it. Annie had been afraid to go to the funeral in D.C. or even to call his family. Instead she’d had Helen send some flowers and a card with both their names on it. Later, after she’d gotten all this other screwed-up shit taken care of, she’d come up with a more fitting memorial for her murdered friend.
Because if Angelica di Rienzi didn’t have something to do with Baby Joe’s death, then she, Anne Marie Jeanne Harmon, was a Carmelite nun. And Carmelites don’t hang out on the Manhattan riverfront, waiting to meet transsexual prostitutes early of a torrid July evening.
“Annie! I’m he-ere—”
Annie turned, and grinned in spite of herself. Justine had, indeed, arrived by limo. She watched as her leggy friend flowed from the back of an endless silvery vehicle, patting demurely at her carefully arranged coif and then striding across the street, skirting steaming puddles and rubbish-filled potholes with her size-thirteen platform shoes.
“Hi, Justine,” said Annie. “Wanna go see Cats?”
“Uh.” Justine swept up beside her and looked around disdainfully, adjusting a pair of gold-framed sunglasses on her aquiline nose. “I hate this place—c’est a cochons.” She lifted her chin as someone on the other side of the street shouted her name and an epithet. “Eat moi, asshole! Girlfriend, you look terrible,” she added, looking down at Annie.
Annie shrugged. A streetlamp clicked on, showering the steps with violent light and making Justine’s shades glow taxi yellow. Annie could see herself in the lenses: her buzz cut growing out in sloppy tufts, her eyes shadowed and face blotched. No chance anyone would recognize her as last week’s Heavy Rotation. “Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “I look like shit. Pardon me—merde. So let’s cut to the car crash. What did you find out?”
“I found your friend.”
“You did.” Annie took a deep breath, forgetting about the toxic air, and closed her eyes very tight. “I wasn’t crazy. You really did.” For a moment she thought she’d cry, from relief or exhaustion or maybe joy.
“She is in London—” Justine rummaged in her Day-Glo vinyl purse, spilling a wad of bills and Technicolor condoms onto the steps. “Ooops, wait—here it is—”
Justine stooped to sweep up the money in one hand, in the other flourished a piece of paper. “Was in London. Her roommate said the last time he saw her was several months ago. This is where she was until then. Sorry—there’s no forwarding address.”
Annie took the paper from Justine’s enameled fingers and stared at it. A name she didn’t recognize, an address on the Camden High Street. For a long time she said nothing. Justine stood above her and smoked a cigarette. The sun disappeared behind the river’s western shore, the number of hired cars in front of the convention center dwindled to the occasional Yellow Cab or livery driver.
“Okay,” Annie said at last. She folded the paper and put it carefully into her filo-fax. “Was there—was there anything else? I mean, do you know what she’s been doing all this time?”
Justine took a final drag on her cigarette and tossed it away. She exhaled, then said, “She went to Southeast Asia. I think maybe Thailand, for a long time. No, wait—Taiwan, maybe? I don’t remember. Her roommate said she had some problems with junk for a little while but she’s clean now. Her doctor was there, Bangkok or someplace, that’s why it took me so long to come up with anything for you—everyone I know sees someone here, or maybe in Stockholm. Not Taiwan.”
“Bangkok’s not in Taiwan,” Annie said. “It’s in Thailand.”
Justine twisted her head and peered out above the rim of her sunglasses. Annie had a glimpse of kohl-rimmed eyes and pupils so dilated it was like staring into the empty sockets of a skull. “I will tell you something, chérie. Sometimes, people who do this don’t want to be found—”
“No shit,” Annie snapped, but Justine raised a hand warningly.
“I was going to say, sometimes they don’t want to be found; but I think your friend will find you, Annie. She found you once already. She will again—”
“But—”
“But I have to go now, chérie.” Justine stretched her arms and yawned loudly. “I have a date.”
“Wait—” Annie stumbled to her feet, yanking her knapsack after her. “Look, Justine. I know
you’re a friend of Helen’s and all, but I thought—well, I feel bad, you going to all this trouble. So—can I write you a check or something—something to reimburse you for your time?”
Justine dropped her arms, staring at Annie with those huge black eyes, and burst into laughter. “Pay me! No way, girl—”
“Aw, Justine, you made all those overseas phone calls! I know this was more trouble than you thought—”
Justine grabbed Annie by the chin. “Chérie! You and Helen are both my friends. Just remember me when you’re rich and famous—really rich, and really famous.
“Besides,” she said, letting go of Annie’s chin and leaning down to kiss her noisily on the cheek, “I charged those calls to a client. And—”
She laughed again, swinging her vinyl bag through the hazy air. “You could never afford me, girlfriend.”
“Justine…” Annie took her hand and squeezed it. “I can’t thank you enough. Really.”
Justine nodded. “I know.” She clattered down the steps, stopped and looked back. “It is sad about José Malabar, uh? I will miss his columns in the Beacon.”
“Me too,” Annie sighed. “Me fucking too.”
Waking the Moon Page 49
