"You have done some wonderful work over the years, but I heard a hint of animosity in your voice when you mentioned 'our history'."
Vincent's face lit up slightly. He didn't say a word, but I knew he was searching me, and for words with which to express his feelings.
"Perhaps, Mr. Alexander," he said teasingly, "you may come back to visit us sometime to spend a week, and we will discuss all that I propose."
I sipped my tea and smiled gently to acknowledge the invitation. He smiled back, with a glint in his eye, letting me know that the reply had been given.
Looking down at my watch, twenty minutes had passed since the phone call and I still had to do some digging to get my car free.
"Well Vincent, June, I must thank you for your hospitality and I’m on my way. I still have some work to do to free my car."
Getting to my feet slowly and smiling at them both, I stood while Lilly ran over from where she was seated at June's feet, her tail wagging, and sat down and whimpered.
Both Vincent and June laughed, "She's trying to make you feel at home. But she is not saying goodbye, she wants your left-over cookie."
June gave me the nod for permission, and Lilly scooted off out of sight, biscuit in mouth, down the hall.
I reached over the desk to shake Vincent's hand as he slowly got to his feet, "Thank you." I smiled.
"You're welcome Brian, and come back again."
I turned and walked from the study, June following close behind.
"Thank you for the tea June." We stopped by the front door. "It was very thoughtful of you, and much needed."
"You are welcome. And do drop in again and let us know how you are getting on." She smiled again as she closed the large door behind me.
Starting down the drive, the cool damp air and the strong smell of roses drifted by my nose again. I took a deep breath of the wonderful scent and felt as if I'd met two very special people. Continuing up the drive back out to the main road, I followed the gravel shoulder back to the car.
FIVE
I couldn't help but feel that Vincent and June were a couple that I would visit again. The tea and cookies were reminiscent of visiting my grandparents’ farm as a young boy and left me with a good feeling. The conversation over the hour had been stimulating, enlightening and somewhat surprising.
Vincent had helped to lay the legal foundation for the return of artifacts to the First Nations by being liaison between the government and representatives of the First Nations dotted throughout the southern B.C. area. A very difficult feat that at times must have been like rolling a five hundred pound stone backwards up a mountain. A thankless task to undertake, in some respects, and at the best of times a precarious position to be in. There had been a number of demonstrations and threats of violence directed at the officialdom, but nothing had created any lasting hardship and therefore no legal action had been taken. A few years later a legal precedent was set by the courts, allowing First Nations to appeal and overturn custody and guardianship of their displaced relics by non-aboriginals, that began a flood of claims. From all over North America and the world, repatriation of thousands of artifacts began. Throughout the west coast, this laid down the basis for the arduous task of documentation, which in turn lead to my involvement with the Film Board. The short film featured a shrine built by the Nuu-chah-nulth whaling community on the northwest coast of the island, which was held in high regard and was scrutinized by both sides of the engagement. Vincent's name had been familiar to me, but only after our conversational jesting did I truly come to recognize who he was.
The car looked forlorn with its tail dragging on the ground. With borrowed spade in hand, I began to dig the dirt from around the airfoil to clear the way for a pull out of the ditch. Within ten minutes, there was Jufel’s (Maryes’ brother) black 'four by four' bobbing up and down in the distance swerving with the contours of the road. A smile came to his face as he pulled up beside me and saw the condition of my car.
"Well done!" he chuckled, rolling down the window, gloating at my predicament.
Maryse climbed down from the truck with a "Huneeee!!!"
The top of her head was barely visible as she walked from beside the hood of the truck; her small stature a beleaguered testament to the determination of character bubbling within.
"Are you OK?" she asked gently slipping her arm around my waist. Looking up to my face with my bruised cheek and dented forehead, she slapped my arm playfully. "What did you do?"
Limping over to the car to open the trunk for a rope, "That's not all of it hun."
"You’re limping." she screamed.
Jufel didn't say a word; certain things are better left unsaid. He pulled the truck ahead and then backed up to with in several meters of the bumper.
Crawling beneath the rear, I pulled the rope through the frame securing it with a bowline knot. Within moments the car was out of the ditch and we were heading down the road in tandem to Royal Oak Drive. Maryse sat quietly beside me tapping her nails on her skirt waiting for me to begin. It was difficult to know where to start and what to say. A lot of it made no sense and it was hard enough for me to comprehend it let alone try to explain it to someone. We spent the next half hour driving along the coast road slowly, making the occasional detour that allowed me the time to find the words to describe my circumstance. After starting the conversation a few times, I decided it was best from the beginning, and tell all. The incidents of Friday night at the University Museum, the young man, the old native man in my vision along with my dream of the blue girl, all rolled off my tongue continuously to finally end with the motorcycle running me off the road just a short hour ago.
"It sounds awfully strange to me," she mumbled not taking her eyes off the little plaza at the corner of Cook and Hillside. Turning left, we headed for downtown. "I think you'd better go see someone. These visions, or dreams you're having, sound pretty strange."
"Yeah," I sighed in agreement. "The one last night was pretty bad, more like a nightmare." Drifting off for a few moments in reflection there was silence in the car. The leather squeaking on the seat, as Maryse shifted, signaled her uneasiness. "I can't help feeling that there is a purpose to all of it though," I continued. "Everywhere I go, I am reminded of the incident at the museum; running into people like Vincent because of an accident; seeing the guy from the museum on the ferry and then hitting my head against the glass."
"Sounds like someone's trying to kill you."
The car went silent as we both looked at each other.
"Nah!" was my first response.
"What is going on Brian?" Maryse asked apprehensively.
"Don't be silly Hun, it's all coincidence," I said with a smile trying to convince myself.
"Maybe someone's putting drugs in your coffee."
The comment was not reassuring, and the thought of someone drugging me had crossed my mind the night before. But who on earth would care or be frightened enough of me to do something like that. We were silent in the car for the rest of the trip to her parents’ house.
Turning on to Leonard Ave. from Cook, I could see the empty tennis courts and bowling green where Maryse and I had spent much of our time getting to know one another. The parks colorful flower gardens and open walkways where lovers could walk meandered through the maze of water pools and canals that were host to a variety of waterfowl. The peacocks with their shrill cry, a call to romance, echoed throughout the southern tip of Victoria. Further behind are the hills of Beaconsfield Park, where we would sit on warm evenings and watch the dusk descend over the Strait. Port Angeles, which blossomed with its lights as darkness fell, sparkled in the distance.
The mood was rather quiet as I let Maryse out of the car. Her mom and dad were in the front yard digging in the vegetables. They were different, by western standards, and were the first people on the block to do something as revolutionary as putting a vegetable garden in the front yard getting direct sunlight from the south. Giving them a w
ave, I turned the car and drove off heading toward the waterfront to skirt Beaconsfield Park
Maryes’ parents were wonderful people with a lot of patience. I know for a fact that they did not understand the way we do things in this country, but then again, neither do I. They had emigrated from France just after the war, where they had lived culturally sheltered lives high in the French Alps. They came on the invitation from a Canadian soldier they had befriended while he remained on an extended tour of duty near their village. He had longed to return home to the west coast and when they too arrived, liked what they saw and with his sponsorship decided to make Canada their home.
Continuing around the park along Southgate to Government Street, I passed the Royal British Columbia Museum and knew immediately I would have to make a stop. The mystery woman from the Victoria museum, the detective had mentioned, had been in the back of my mind since the police station visit yesterday. I had a notion that if any of this were to make sense, she would be a part of it.
Looking down at my watch, the time was almost eleven. “Well, what the heck. Now is as good a time as any.”
Pulling the car around the corner to pass in front of the Parliament Buildings, I made the next left and parked a little further down past and across the street from the Vehicle License building. Dodging visitors as they milled back and forth on the lawns of the Parliament Buildings, I walked kitty-corner across to the majestic Empress Hotel. Its ivy-covered facade stood stalwart dominating the harbor front, facing westward to the Pacific Ocean. The masts of the sailing fleet stood erect in the harbor as if to salute all who milled about in the lower walkways of the harbor front. The ferry dock remained vacant, while expectant travelers crowded the paved walkway leading to the dock, and waited patiently as the distant ferry, soon to arrive, lumbered across the strait. The sun had brought the city alive, even this early on a Sunday morning.
Across the small courtyard and on to the doors of the museum, I entered not knowing what to expect of my venture or how to go about getting the information I needed. A woman, who I had never met worked here and hopefully with her help the two of us might be able to find some answers to my dilemma. I had no idea what her name was, what she looked like, how old she was, or, as a matter of fact, whether she actually worked here at all. Walking past the security guard, I came to the engraved, black marble directory and scanned the columns of the names hoping for one to jump out at me. It didn't. Riding the escalator up to the Native Artifacts section of the museum, I walked about hoping to recognize someone, or something, that might give me a clue. A young, native woman working behind a counter at a computer terminal gave me a glance from time to time, but kept working as if not to disturb. The third time I looked in her direction, she got up with a smile and came over to me from the terminal.
"Can I help you?"
Taken back by her directness and slightly stunned by her appearance in a sharply cut navy uniform, I stood motionless. Not sure how to reply, with either question or answer, I stood gazing into her eyes searching for the solution to my quandary. Was this her?
"Well yes." I stuttered. "I am visiting from the mainland and I am looking for a woman who is working with the museum."
"We have a directory in the foyer that would be able to help you."
"Yes I know. The problem is, I don’t know her name."
"Well, what does she look like?" she asked with a smile.
"I don't know that either, Shaw-Ana," I stammered, noticing her name on the tag by her lapel.
She looked up at me with a half smile. "So you do not know what she looks like."
"Nope!" I returned with a shrug.
Her forehead wrinkled, eyebrows narrowing as she frowned and stared at me perplexed.
"I realize this sounds highly irregular, but the other day when I was visiting at the Museum of UBC, there was an attempted robbery, and I got hit in the head by a man running from the museum." Reaching my hand up in sympathy to my cheek, I smiled a light grin for reassurance, "I'm alright now though, thank you. I was hoping to determine what was trying to be taken and even locate this person.
Her brow straightened and her look of concern turned into one of dismay.
"You were there?" she asked directly.
"Well yes, but not quite. I was around the back and, well, I got run over."
"By what?" A smile broke out on her face.
"Well, not by what, by whom," I replied.
Her look sobered up, and a bit of color came to her cheeks. Asking point blank, my eyes fixed on hers. "Did you make any inquiries at the Vancouver Police Station, yesterday?"
"Who are you?" she queried without answering my question? Her eyes glared, piercing deep brown, almost black, beneath the now straight line of pencil-fine brows. She did not flinch a muscle. This woman is good, I thought to myself, realizing she knew something.
"Who are you?" she asked a little louder and reached for the phone at her side.
"Brian!" I replied quickly. "Brian Alexander, and I am not here to cause any trouble." I backed off a little. " I have been doing research with west coast whaling communities and was at the museum at the time of the break in."
After a few seconds of thought, with me standing before her like an idiot with a half grin on my face, she softened her response.
"Well, Mister Alexander!" putting her phone back in its holster and looking straight back at me without a flinch, "I cannot really tell you anything, but the media have already started with the inquiries and it is only a matter of time before they publish all there is to know. The break-in came to us as a bit of a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. News does travel fast within the community, as you well might imagine; but because of the security surrounding the exhibit, the incident was to be kept quiet. The only information I am at liberty to say is that a very valuable piece was taken."
With a bit of a surprised look on my face, "How valuable?"
"Very." She directed me over to the desk where she had been working and to an extra chair by its side. She cleared the screen and shut several drawers she had been working from. I could not help but notice her sculptured beauty and fine shoulder length black hair. She was thin with fine facial features and skin texture and color that the women of her race have been so praised for. She could not have been any more than mid-twenties, but her demeanor and confidence gave the impression of a woman twice her age.
"Please, if you don't mind I would like you to fill out an inquiry report and if there is any more we can tell you at a later date, we would be more than happy to do so. OK!"
She continued to clean around her station as I filled out in brief some nonsense about the exhibit.
"Did you happen to get a good look at the guy who hit you?" she asked, not taking her eyes from her work.
I thought to myself I had not mentioned it had been a man that hit me.
"Yes." I said slowly, "Yes I did."
"Did you give a description to the police?"
Without answering, I sat and looked at her wondering how to answer. A small bead of sweat began to rise on her brow just below her hairline. She was very cool, but I knew she was nervous and it was beginning to show.
"No, I didn't." I replied, leaning back in my chair watching her for a moment and continued, "At the time I was very confused as to what actually happened and did not see any purpose in getting involved with the police. All I got was a bruised cheek and a sore back." Pointing to my yellowish cheekbone again.
The tension melted from her face as she shifted in her chair to a more relaxed position, "Mr. Alexander, the reason I cannot tell you more is because no-one knows. The piece is called ‘Pillars of the Moon’ and has only been out in circulation several times before and only for a limited number of days at a time." She shifted again in her chair to get more comfortable and crossed her legs.
"But what is it?" my voice rose slightly at the inquiry.
She tapped her finger on the arm of the chair and gave my question
some thought, "I believe it is a bowl. A small, engraved, jade bowl."
I sat back and thought for a moment, "Jade! It cannot be of west coast origin then."
"The engravings suggest Central America."
"Of what era? Aztec? Olmec? Toltec?"
"No one knows. The inscriptions are all similar but the piece has never been out long enough in circulation to study thoroughly.
"Oh, that's interesting, any photographs?"
She smiled back at me tapping her fingernail repeatedly on the arm of the chair. "There is nothing more I can tell you."
Dazed for several moments, I thought about what she had said. "Are you sure?"
"Yes Mr. Alexander."
"Call me Brian." I suggested, resting my chin on my up-raised closed fist.
"I'm sorry Mr. Alexander," she said with a smile. "I really should be getting back to work. If you'll excuse me."
She gave me a side look and knew if I pursued the issue any longer it could mean the loss of a valuable contact.
"Thank you ever so much, Shawna. I hope we have a chance to talk again."
She nodded, "You're welcome. Come again, any time."
Returning the gesture, I walked away without turning back. Passing several glass displays, I turned to the left and ducked behind a large exhibit of a wax fur trader and his sled. From between his arms, I watched as she worked away at her terminal. After several moments, she looked up to see if anyone was watching and reached for the phone. After a few moments of what seemed heated conversation and frustration, she put the phone down and continued her work.
Slipping down the escalator unnoticed, I passed the security guard again and glanced at the museum hours stenciled on the glass by the front doors. Out into the fresh air once again, I slowly walked back to the car rethinking all that she said and wondering whether she had been entirely honest with me, probably not. Why should she be?
Rounding the block in my black beauty, I headed back out past the Empress and up Government Street to Johnson and over the bridge to Esquimalt.
Pillars of the Moon Page 6
