I had never heard of The Honorable Dorothy Eugenie Brett until I read D. H. Lawrence in Taos. Between his two stays in New Mexico, Lawrence traveled back to England where he spent most of his time disparaging his native country much to the delight of the café crowd he was running with. I have never figured out why intellectuals never like their own countries. At any rate, Lawrence proposed that they all abandon England which was dead anyway in his view and start a utopian society in New Mexico. All his chums thought this a splendid idea while they were having drinks, but in the clear sunshine of the next day, they found excuses to delay. All except The Brett who turned her back on her home and the privileges of the peerage and went to live on the Ranch. D. H. and Frieda lived in the two room cabin I was standing in. The Brett was in a one room cabin not far away. And these were the citizens of utopia, the son of an English coal-miner, a German woman who left her husband and children to marry him, and an English dame.
The Brett was almost deaf and carried a sort of horn that she would hold up to the mouth of anyone who wanted to speak to her. It sounded almost comical when I read about it. Lawrence would propound some grand philosophical thesis in a room full of painters and writers, and The Brett would make the rounds holding the horn in front of each person in turn to hear what response they had to the Great Man’s utterance. Of course all conversation had to cease while she did this. She was a frail and shy thing, and it must have been painfully awkward for her to pass round the room with the horn, but she never complained.
The horn was sitting on a shelf to the right of the sink just above some mismatched wooden chairs around a roughhewn table.
Before The Brett came to America, D. H. and Frieda had spent a winter in this cabin with two Danish painters, and I tried to imagine four people holed up inside the small cabin in the sort of winter weather you get at 8,600 feet. I couldn’t understand why anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to it, but apparently there was singing and loud arguments about art and life, and a good time was had by all. And they didn’t spend all that time in the cabin anyway because they had to spend hours every day gathering enough firewood to keep from freezing to death.
I walked over to a small side table and saw an assortment of things that had belonged to Lawrence, including a typewriter and a fountain pen, the old-fashioned type you filled from a bottle of ink. And underneath the table, in a position that suggested it had been used as a spittoon, was the Taos pot Lawrence had described in his letter to Witter Bynner and I had seen in two photographs, one when Fidelio Duran took it to Lawrence on his arrival in New Mexico and one on the day Lawrence left the state forever. There was something fatalistic about those two pictures closing a circle. I half expected Fidelio Duran’s spirit to speak to me. Goose bumps rose on my neck.
Probably just from the cold.
I sat down at the desk and read an original page in Lawrence’s own hand. Next to it was a typed poem by Bynner:
There is an island where a man alone,
Alive beyond the selfishness of living,
Knows the whole world around him as his own
Without resenting and without forgiving.
Maybe that explained how they lived in this cabin.
Or maybe not.
I turned the pot upside down and saw ‘Fidelio Duran’ henscratched into the clay. I nestled the pot down into the Styrofoam peanuts and returned the box to my backpack. In Bynner’s words, the pot would be gone “without resenting and without forgiving,” because it was obvious that no one among those who were now running the Ranch had the slightest idea of its meaning and value.
23
I arrived back at the Conference Center just before three in the morning.
The storm had not abated, and it took me ten minutes to clear the drifting snow away from the main door so that I could force it open. Once inside, I walked over to the massive fireplace. Only embers remained, but the residual heat felt good. I placed the Duran pot on the hearth and studied it.
Duran was not a skilled potter. The thickness of the wall varied wildly. The burnishing had not been completed. The top rim kilted to one side. Yet there was something charming about the piece, almost as if a child had made it. I’m always happy to grasp an old pot in my felonious fists, but the feeling running through me that cold night was new. So new, in fact, that I couldn’t put a name to it. The best description I could come up with was a feeling of well-being, but that didn’t quite capture it.
I buried my face in the pot and inhaled deeply. I fancied I smelled the spicy stew Duran had taken to Lawrence as a welcome to a newcomer. In point of fact, the pot was still so cold that had there been skunk jerky in it, I wouldn’t have been able to smell it.
I stripped off the clothes I had taken out of the Bronco and went back outside to put them back inside the truck along with the box containing Duran’s pot. I locked the truck, re-entered the building, hung my coat and hat on the rack, went to my room, took off my sweater and trousers and climbed into bed in my shorts and tee shirt.
Then I climbed out again because as soon as I began to get warm, I had to go to the bathroom. I traipsed down the hall in my skivvies, used the facility, returned, eased myself back down onto the floor and under the sheet and blanket and fell immediately into a deep sleep.
I dreamed I was in the Iditarod, except in this version there were no dogs and the contestants had to push the sled through the snow for the entire 1150 miles. The dream me didn’t want to be in the race, but somehow I was in it and had no choice but to keep trudging forward. A newspaper reporter was walking alongside me on the trail and interviewing me, and he asked me what “Iditarod” meant. I couldn’t answer and he laughed at me. Then I was watching the evening news and there was the tape of me looking foolish and swaying back and forth during the interview because that’s the way you move when you walk through deep snow. I was rocking back and forth and pushing my sled and starting to feel motion sickness, and the reporter was calling my name, except now it was a girl, and then it was Susannah and she was shaking me and telling me to wake up, and I finally did and was glad to be out of that dream.
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s light. Look at this, Hubie.”
I stood up groggily, holding the sheet around me like a sari. Getting up was difficult because the muscles on the inside of my thighs were sore.
Susannah pulled the curtain back from the window, and snow was packed against it to the very top pane.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Hubie? I think we should have some Christmas music.”
“It’s April.”
“Well, you have to grab a white Christmas whenever you have the chance. I’m going to ask Maria if she has any eggnog.”
“Who’s Maria?”
“The caterer. You know, the cute one with the short dark hair.”
I added her to my memory drive by placing her in Maryland because of her name. Baltimore, to be exact. It’s one of three cities I can name in Maryland, the other two being Annapolis and Frostburg. She didn’t look like a midshipman… midshipwoman? And she was way too warm and cute to be in a place called Frostburg.
“The plump girl is in Maryland,” I said.
“That’s not nice, Hubie.”
“What’s wrong with Maryland?”
“I meant the ‘plump’ part.”
“I thought it was better than ‘fat’.”
“She’s not fat.”
“What is she?”
“Big-boned?”
“Dinosaurs are big boned, Suze. Maria is plump. That doesn’t mean she isn’t attractive. In fact, she is. And she’s not all that plump. I’d say she’s ‘pleasingly plump’.”
“Well, don’t say that to her.”
“I’m not planning to say anything to her. You’re the one who wants the eggnog.”
Susannah went off to see Maria and I went off to shower. I was planning a long hot one but got a short cold one instead, and I have to say I was wide awake afterward
s despite getting only four hours of sleep. The building was a bit chilly, so after shaving, brushing, and flossing, I donned heavy cotton trousers and a dark green crew neck sweater and hobbled down to the main room where I found Don Canon and complained about the lack of hot water. He said he already knew it was out, but didn’t know how to fix it. Since the electricity was working fine, I assumed the water must be heated by some other source, probably propane, and I was hoping a simple change of tanks would solve the problem. But Canon didn’t know anything about the water heating system, and I didn’t feel like going outside to search for propane tanks.
One thing I did know was that the kitchen must be electric because the smell of coffee made me realize I was famished. Unfortunately, the only food was last night’s cheese and crackers along with some overripe fruit. Even the bean dip was gone. A thin young woman about my height with lank brown hair and a long pale face asked me if I wanted coffee, and I avowed that I did.
“I don’t think I met you last night,” I said as she filled a mug.
“I was off duty,” she said tonelessly.
“I guess the leftovers from last night are all we have for breakfast?”
“You’ll have to ask the caterer,” she said and walked away. It’s hard to find good help. I put her in New Jersey. I’m not sure if New Jersey is actually next to Maryland, but it was worth skipping a state to put whatever her name was there.
Maria the caterer came over to ask me how the coffee was and to apologize for the lack of breakfast food. The original plan, she said, had been for her to drive back to Taos and spend the night in her own place and then come back in the morning with the breakfast supplies. I remembered that Betty had told me all the rooms were taken, and I wondered if that was because the caterer had to stay.
“You’re lucky they had a room for you,” I said.
“They didn’t. I had to room with Ms. Shanile.” She angled her head and her eyebrows seemed slightly arched. She was definitely plump. But cute. She reminded me of Dolly except she was shorter. And less plump than Dolly in her current incarnation. And, I thought, less moody. Then I felt guilty for the thought. Something was bothering her, and instead of trying to help, I was complaining.
Maria had a round face with a turned up nose, a small mouth, and a slight overbite. Her coarse hair was cut short, revealing small perfectly formed ears. Her clear eyes peered out at me over prominent cheek bones and seemed to be asking a silent question.
I didn’t have an answer, silent or otherwise, so I just kept looking at her, a pleasant enough pastime.
“Would you join me for a cup of coffee?” I asked.
She smiled and sat down. She turned over a mug, and the girl who had filled my mug came and filled Maria’s then walked away sullenly.
“I guess she’s not expecting a tip,” I speculated out loud.
Maria laughed. Then she said good help is hard to find, and I told her I’d had the same thought, and we both laughed. Then we fell silent and she gave me that sort of expectant look again. I liked that look. She looked attractive looking that look. But it also made me a little apprehensive because I didn’t know what it meant.
“We had a back-up plan,” she said.
“Huh?”
“In case you came to the room.”
I must have had a blank stare.
“Ms. Shanile came to me while you were freshening her drink last night and said you might come to the room, and if you did, I was to take your room.”
“Oh.”
“But you didn’t come.”
“No.”
Her fawn skin looked clear and fresh-scrubbed. There was no hint of make-up except for what I thought was lip gloss. Then she ran her tongue over her lips, and I decided their sheen was natural. Her head was canted again, her mouth ever so slightly ajar, perhaps because of the overbite.
“Why?” she said.
“Why?”
“Yes, why?”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you come to Ms. Shanile’s room?”
“Uh...”
“Am I being too forward?”
I thought she was, in fact, but I didn’t want to say so. I liked her and I liked talking to her, and I didn’t want to pull the plug on our conversation.
“It’s not that,” I said, fumbling for words. “It’s that I’m not really sure what the answer is. I mean, she didn’t actually ask me to come to her room.”
She smiled at me. “Ladies don’t ask gentlemen to their rooms.”
“Oh.”
“But they might signal that you would be welcome.”
“Um.”
“Did you pick up any signals from Ms. Shanile?”
“Well, um, I’m not certain.”
“Ms. Shanile thought you had picked up the signals. That’s why she asked me if I would mind moving to your room. But when she came to the room, she said you were sleeping with that young woman you picked up at the Rogers Museum, so we girls would just have to enjoy a slumber party without men unless I could find one. She’s a funny lady. Nice, too.”
“She is,” I agreed. “Listen, I’m glad you brought this up because the whole thing is a big misunderstanding. The girl’s name is Susannah Inchaustigui, and I didn’t pick her up at the Museum. She rode up from Albuquerque with me. She and I have been friends for several years. We had to share a room because there was no place else for her to sleep, but we’re just friends.”
Maria called New Jersey over – her name turned out to be Adele – and asked her to get us some more coffee. She did so, but it was clear she considered it an imposition.
Maria observed that Susannah must be Basque because of her last name, and I said she was correct, and she asked me if I were Basque, and I said I wasn’t. She asked me what I was, and I said American, and she laughed. Then she asked me if I knew what she was.
The answer, from my point of view, was that she too was American, but I knew that wasn’t what she meant, and I didn’t want to make a boor of myself by getting into a debate about how we divide ourselves into races, tribes and clans, and why I think that obscures the most basic truth about the human species; namely, that any human being, no matter his or her genetics, can belong to any culture.
In fact, I have a list of beliefs I call Schuze’ Anthropological Premises, abbreviated SAP, which is what some of my cynical friends say you have to be to believe them. That any human can practice any culture is SAP #1.
In a recent interview, Scott Simon, the National Public Radio host, was talking about the two daughters he and his wife adopted in China. A caller inquired whether they felt guilty taking the girls out of their culture. Simon replied that they were better off with him in a good home than in an orphanage in China. A good answer. But a better one would have been that he and his wife didn’t take the girls out of their culture because infants do not have a culture.
You aren’t born with a culture. You learn it. The Simon girls will be part of American culture because this is where they will be raised. They will not be adept at using chopsticks simply because they were born to a woman in China. If they start learning Chinese in college, it will be just as difficult for them as it would be for any other native English speaker. Your skin color and eye shape do not determine your culture.
Am I ranting? Well, I certainly didn’t want to do that to Maria, so I studied her looks again. My original assessment had not changed - she was plump. I would guess maybe a hundred and forty pounds on a 5’ 2” frame, but none of it flabby. She was definitely pleasingly plump. She didn’t look like a pueblo Indian. I cringe when I say or think things like that, but if you decide to play the game, you have to play it by the rules that exist. She was not Hispanic despite her name, so by a process of elimination, I had a pretty good guess to make.
“You might be a Jicarilla Apache,” I said.
She gave me a big smile. “Why do you say ‘might’?”
“Well,” I said hesitatingly, “you’re kind of...”
“Short? That’s because my mother was a Navaho.”
“You don’t mind me saying you’re short?”
“Why should I? It’s true. You’re pretty short yourself.”
“That’s also true.”
“You know much about the Jicarilla?”
“Not much,” I admitted. The Jicarilla make great baskets, but I sell pots, so my dealings are mostly with the pueblo tribes.
“Would you like to know more?”
I hesitated while I worked up a little nerve and figured out the best wording. Then I said, “Are you sending me signals?” I was hoping she was. I had a strong desire to squeeze her just to see if she was as firm as she appeared.
She smiled and excused herself because Carla Glain had arrived and was standing next to our table asking about breakfast. After Maria went to find Adele the Serving Wench, Carla plopped down at my table without being invited and said, “I see you’re a liar and a phony like most men.”
“Good morning,” I replied. Talking to Maria had put me in a great mood. She was perky, bright, and fun. I wasn’t going to let Carla Glain rain on my parade.
“You want to know why you’re a phony?”
“Not really. I just want to enjoy my coffee.” Then I added, “How are things in Alabama?”
“You’re a phony,” she said, ignoring both my response and frivolous comment, “because you pretended last night to be a feminist when you agreed with me that women have been excluded from the workplace and marginalized economically by being limited to handicrafts.”
“I do believe that.”
“Maybe, but you are no feminist. There you were making a fool of yourself staring at Betty Shanile all evening, and then when a young girl is suddenly available, you drop the mature woman without so much as a backwards glance.”
How did I get into this conversation? I didn’t want to make a scene. I was here to entertain the dignitaries. I decided not to be provoked.
“The young girl is a friend of mine. We shared a room only because there was no other place for her to sleep.”
The Pot Thief Who Studied D. H. Lawrence Page 8
