Speaking of which, Felix has returned to Seaboard to my great relief. But he can be a strange bird. Rio, he told me, “is tush city, derrière central, butt capital of the world. Talk about neck pain. What I mean, Norman, is don’t ever go there for a honeymoon.”
4
That I had yet to tell my friend and colleague Lieutenant Tracy all that transpired on the night of Heinie’s murder provoked in me an unease that shadowed and sharpened everything I did. In all honesty, I felt like an impostor. Even as I met with Dr. Harvey Deharo and Professor Thad Pilty to discuss the Neanderthal problem, I kept recalling what had happened on that fateful evening. And what I had not told the police.
I managed to be plausibly attentive when I sat down with these two eminent scientists along with Emmanuel Quinn, the representative from Humanation Syntectics, the firm that designed and manufactured the animated mannequins we use in the Diorama of Paleolithic Life.
As I have mentioned, in an attempt to render the models in “postracial” hues, we had tinted them a light grayish brown, a complexion that may be the future of the human race but apparently wasn’t that of our Neanderthal antecedents.
I let Thad, who personifies gravitas with his Amish-like beard and stolid squareness of stature, delineate the problem. He pointed out that the issue had also arisen several years before while planning the diorama. He admitted he felt troubled then about resorting to a kind of non-tone for the skin color of the models. All the same, he emphasized that the real purpose of the diorama — informing the public about life among these extinct humans — had been very successful. He conceded that perhaps it was time to review the whole thing.
Mr. Quinn, one of those salesmen who believe in what they sell, took the opportunity to tell us about a new line of models with up-to-date robotics that looked and acted so real, they scared people.
“That would be quite an investment,” I put in.
“Big bucks,” said Mr. Quinn. “But worth it. I mean from a revenue point of view.”
Harvey Deharo nodded thoughtfully. He is a Harvard-trained specialist in genetic anthropology. Of Caribbean origins, he claims Spanish, African, Converso, Irish, and French antecedents. A regular salad, he called himself at a dinner party where the host had been pouring drinks with a generous hand. His pale eyes, set in a long, strongly sculpted face, remain in one’s mind a good while after one meets him. He is tall, graceful of movement, and articulate in at least three languages. The man could get by on looks and charm alone, but he combines his worldliness with competence in his field and with an offhand managerial flair I marvel at. We’ve had Harvey and his delightful wife, Felice, over for dinner and have been to their farmhouse, which is located some miles out of town. He is gracious and subtle toward me in his gratitude while I, mellow with his good wine on one occasion, told him, “It is you, sir, that makes me and the museum look good.”
Now he cleared his throat. “Perhaps, if the investment was not too great, we could consider updating the whole exhibit.” In that easy island accent of his, he pointed out the cost would also have to include revenues lost during the time the diorama was closed to the public.
I ventured the possibility that we could, given the latest research, gradually phase in lighter-skinned and more fair-haired models into the diorama.
The others, including Mr. Quinn, looked dubious. He noted the expense. “These are top-of-the-line units. You can’t just paint them a different shade until you get what you want.”
“It’s going to be expensive anyway,” Professor Pilty put in.
I said, “We could just leave things the way they are. At least for the time being. As for the pigmentation issue, we could put a placard explaining …”
Harvey Deharo shook his head. “No. The exhibition has to represent the best and current research. If Neanderthals looked like Irish from Roscommon, then so be it.” He paused. “Let’s not temporize on this. To duck this issue for the sake of political correctness would be unworthy of the museum and what it stands for.”
Thad Pilty agreed with him. “What we can’t lose sight of is the issue of historical accuracy.”
I found my own backbone stiffening. We concluded that Mr. Quinn would get back to me with several alternatives and their costs, including how much time it would take to install the new mannequins and how long the diorama would have to be shut down.
The whole thing took less than half an hour. If only meetings of the Oversight Committee were as brisk and efficacious. Sadly, those exercises in patience and credulity are usually a waste of time and spirit. And while I have often mentally composed a letter of resignation, I remain on the committee in an ex officio capacity mostly to keep an eye on things. Because it does like to meddle. Certainly the next meeting, held mostly in my honor, if I can be droll for a moment, lived up to my low expectations.
All the usual suspects and a few new ones showed up to discuss “a range of concerns involving the Museum of Man.” Since the agenda directly involved the museum and since there are facilities available in the Twitchell Room, I agreed to hold it there. My good friend Professor Izzy Landes, ageless in his aging, his nimbus of white hair more ethereal than ever, his bright eyes full of secret amusement, his bow tie like a Nabokovian butterfly, took me aside quietly before the meeting to ask how things were going with the investigation.
“Marvelous,” I said. “It’s starting to look like something out of a book.”
He laughed. “Someone should do a book on that.”
“On what?”
“On the entertainment value of murder. Where would we be without it?”
Tall and clerical in an offhand way, Father S.J. O’Gould, S.J., whose Paragon of Animals continues to create a stir, asked when we would have another meeting of The Group. Along with the Reverend Alfie Lopes, Izzy, Professor Thad Pilty, Corny Chard, and one or two others, we hold a dinner about once a month to go over issues of some weight.
Corny Chard sported a new leg he claims is better than the original. He also has a prosthetic arm and hand he manipulates most wonderfully. Corny, of course, made news a couple of years ago when he survived partial dismemberment at the hands of cannibals whose rituals he had gone to observe in a remote part of the Amazon basin.
He remains as cocky as ever with a grizzled short beard beneath his red face and balding, close-cropped skull. His best-selling account, A Leg to Stand On, has formed the basis of a two-hour television documentary, the public opening of which Diantha and I have been invited to here in Seaboard.
Ariel Dearth, the Leona von Beaut Professor of Situational Ethics and Litigation Development, sat there like a man with better things to do. He has been so successful in being universally despised, I sometimes wonder if I should pretend to like him, if only to disconcert him.
He was flanked by Professor Randall Athol of the Divinity School, a staunch ally of Professor Brattle in whatever foolishness she indulges in. He is of the same stripe as Professor J.J. McNull, who, with no books or original research to his name, has made a very successful career out of committee work.
One pleasant surprise at the meeting was the transformation of Bertha Schanke. Now civilly united to the woman she had been living with for some time, she is no longer an active member of BITCH, a coalition of complainers, as someone put it, and is obviously pregnant. She has also lost weight and has let her rich brown hair grow out. She greeted me warmly as “Norman,” and said it was good to see me after such a long absence on my part.
Professor Constance Brattle, the well-known expert on blame and chair of the committee, introduced Professor Laluna Jackson, chair of Wainscott’s recently established Victim Studies Department, as a new member of the committee.
Professor Jackson stood for a moment and said she was honored to be joining the committee, “whose work I have found both stimulating and necessary in an age when so many vulnerable groups continue to suffer the agonies of victimization.”
I was very taken with her voice. Its locutions were those c
ommonly associated with people of African American descent. And, despite a decided if strangely dark tinge to her complexion and her hair done in what are called cornrows, she could have passed for Caucasian quite easily. Not that these things matter much anymore.
Chair Brattle shuffled some papers in front of her, furrowed her brow in an accusatory frown, and said, “It seems that the sad spectacle of murder has once again turned the spotlight of sensationalism on the Museum of Man. I realize that, until the murderer is brought to justice, no specific blame can be assigned for this criminal act.
“But the community in general and the museum in particular cannot escape the aura of what is called diffuse blame. What we need to question about the museum is its genius loci. What, in short, makes it such a place of murder? What is it that makes it so conducive to such crime? More to the point, what are our responsibilities as those in leadership roles in creating a venue amenable to more normative behavior?”
“Are you saying that Heinie Grümh’s murder was the fault of the museum?” Izzy Landes asked.
Despite the scattering of smiles, the oblivious chair took his question seriously. “No. I wouldn’t go that far. But I am saying that what has happened at the Museum of Man is of overweening concern to this committee, enough so that I am going to move that we appoint a subcommittee to examine in depth the situation at the museum and to come up with a series of recommendations including specific initiatives and active modes of implementation.”
Professor Jackson raised her hand off the table. “I would like to second the chair’s motion. Because … while actual murder is the ultimate victimization of an individual, there are other, more subtle kinds of murder that, together, we must all struggle against.”
Again, she evinced a deliberate, not to mention portentous, articulation.
Thad Pilty said, “I think we should go slowly on any such idea at this time. I move we table the motion.”
Izzy Landes snorted. “I move we wastebasket the motion.”
To my astonishment, Bertha Schanke led the murmur of ayes with a smile in my direction.
Flustered, Professor Brattle rapped the table as though calling for order when in fact no disorder existed. She moved quickly on to other business on the printed agenda, which involved the committee’s role in choosing Wainscott’s next president. It seems that George Twill, the current incumbent, will be stepping down at the end of the next academic year.
Listening between the lines of the chair’s remarks, I surmised that the recently formed search committee had decided to limit any oversight functions on the part of the committee to little more than “suggestions from individual members,” that is, the same privilege accorded everyone in the greater university community.
A deal of time and words were spent on the issue before Professor Brattle succeeded in appointing a subcommittee chaired by Laluna Jackson to “investigate ways and means by which the responsibilities of the Oversight Committee can be brought to bear on the matter in an effective manner.”
After a couple of other items, we came to what the chair called “the issues surrounding complaints about the sexual abuse of fellow primates.”
There followed some preliminary fussing with electronic gear. The lights in the room dimmed and a rough, grainy image appeared on a large television screen attached to the wall. It showed the inside of a commodious cage and two chimpanzees. The male, Alphus, squatted in one corner, his member pinkly erect, while a female, her hindquarters inflamed, moved about as though uninterested.
A few moments passed before the female, Madon (don’t ask me where these names come from), approached Alphus and with no preliminaries proceeded to squat on his lap. From their grimaces, I assumed there were vocalizations. It was over in a matter of seconds before the couple went back to the boring life of being caged chimps.
The lights came back on. The chair, speaking from a prepared statement, said, “This and similar scenes appeared both on a Web site called Different Strokes and on the university’s site. So we have before the committee not merely the issue of invasion of privacy and that of animal rights in general, but the spectacle of animal pornography appearing on Wainscott’s window to the world, cybernetically speaking.”
Corny Chard started in with little ceremony. “If people are getting their jollies watching that kind of stuff, they must be pretty desperate. But I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
“I disagree with you,” said Professor Athol flatly. “It is not the kind of thing you want broadcast, not when the public is starting to take a critical look at universities and their culture.”
“Not to mention their expense,” Professor Pilty added.
“Why are cameras there in the first place?” Attorney Dearth asked me in a hostile tone.
“Security,” I answered. I avoided looking at him because to look at him is never a pleasant experience. “In the wake of the Bert and Betti incident we equipped each cage with monitors. But, also, a graduate student was conducting research on the sex life of chimpanzees in captivity.”
“And any number of people have access to these visual records?”
“I presume so.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“I don’t know for certain.”
It was an answer that appeared to puzzle the learned counsel. In the lapse, Izzy Landes said, “I think the university has to be aware of its reputation. I mean if the best Wainscott can do for pornography is a couple of copulating apes, we are sure to get a bad name.”
“That remark smacks of speciesism,” the chair sniffed with a significant glance around the table.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” Professor Athol asked of Izzy.
Professor Landes beetled his brows in feigned seriousness. “I think we could ask the students and the junior faculty to come up with something better. Something arousing and yet tasteful. Perhaps we could get the Visual Arts Department involved.”
“The real question,” said Corny Chard, who is always ready for silliness, “is whether the students would get course credits.”
Keeping my voice deadpan, I kept up the badinage with, “You mean give courses?”
“Yes. Something like An Introduction to the Theory and Practice of Pornography.”
Izzy demurred. “No, no. Let’s keep it dignified. More like, The Theory and Practice of the Erotic Arts. Then, Advanced Erotic Technique in Film. The History of Erotica. The Erotic Imagination: A Survey Course.”
“But not a degree?”
“Not at first. More like a specialty in graphic arts.”
“Lots of workshops …”
“With hands-on instruction?”
“Absolutely.”
“A graded course or just pass–fail.”
“Lots of passes.”
Chair Brattle bit heavily into the facetiousness. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for either the student body or the junior faculty to get involved in production of pornography.”
Corny shrugged. “It would prepare them for the real world.”
Professor Jackson shook her head. “I take very strong exception to this kind of attitude. Pornography in any form constitutes victimization.”
“Of whom?” Bertha Schanke asked.
“Of those participating in it. Of those who watch and encourage it. Of everyone.”
“Even if they’re consenting adults?”
“I think we should agree that we need to question the whole concept of consent. Consent is a fiction used by the power elites to maintain their control over all of us.”
Professor Athol said, “Well, these two chimpanzees certainly did not consent to have their … intimacy broadcast to the world.”
“They didn’t complain.”
“Do they even know?”
Professor Jackson held up both of her hands. “We don’t know if they knew. Nor do we know what it might have done to their self-esteem. It is always safe to assume suffering.”
I felt like a stiff drink
by the time I sat down in the sanctuary of my office, the more so to find Lieutenant Tracy there waiting for me.
“We’ll have to fetch our coffee,” I said, prematurely cheery, you might say. “Doreen won’t be in until later.”
The officer, in a light, well-pressed chino suit and plaid tie, nodded noncommitally. “Let’s go down and get some.” He added, in a tone that took me aback, “We need to talk, Norman.”
I do not shrug very easily, but tried to indicate the moral equivalent thereof. In fact, his demeanor made me quite nervous, and I grew talkative as we wended our way down through the exhibits.
“As you can see, our Greco-Roman Collection is really quite small,” I pointed out. We were on the fifth floor, not far from my office and just under the delicately ribbed, domed skylight that crowns the atrium around which the collections are arranged both on the overhanging balconies and in the adjoining rooms. Most of the time I am soothed and reassured by the precious and beautiful objects on display from far and near, from recent and ancient times. And I remain proud of how we transformed Neanderthal Hall, the ground floor, into the Diorama of Neanderthal Life.
None of which availed me as we went down the marble, open stairway at a businesslike pace. I feared the worst — that he would confront me with what I had not been frank about.
The somewhat stark cafeteria, which is open to staffers and the public, was nearly empty and thus provided us with a privacy for which, under the circumstances, I was grateful.
For hardly had we sat down with our coffees, when the lieutenant launched right into it, saying, “Norman, we have it on good authority that you were in a bar with von Grümh not long before he was murdered.” He let that register. “We received an anonymous tip, which we followed up on. Both the bartender and the waiter who served you recognized photographs we have of you and the victim.”
I nodded and avoided his eyes. “Yes. I should have told you.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
I sighed deeply. I said, “Around seven fifteen on that evening, I met by arrangement with Heinie, Mr. von Grümh, at the Pink Shamrock. It’s the gay pub down on Belmont Avenue. That venue signifies nothing. It was handy to the office and I was working late when he called.”
The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man Page 5
