The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy (The Pot Thier) Page 16

  “You mean ‘The Ukraine’?”

  “I think they dropped the ‘The’.”

  She seemed genuinely disappointed about that, so I ask her why it mattered.

  “Which sounds better,” she asked, “‘I went to Ukraine’ or ‘I went to The Ukraine’?”

  “The latter, but that’s just because we’ve always heard it that way.”

  “No, I think it’s because ‘Ukraine’ starts with a vowel. Other countries all start with consonants, so they don’t need a ‘The’.”

  I puzzled over her bizarre theory for a few seconds then said, “Italy starts with a vowel, Argentina starts with a vowel, Uruguay—”

  “Those don’t count. Romance languages have vowels everywhere. But countries where they don’t speak Spanish or Italian all start with consonants – Germany, Poland, Russia, Japan Canada, Sweden, Norway, China... You want me to keep going?”

  “How about the United States?” I said smugly. “It not only starts with a vowel, but it’s the same one Ukraine starts with.”

  “Right, and the name of the country is The United States of America. See, Hubie, you have to have a ‘The’ before a country that starts with a vowel.”

  “Especially a ‘u’,” I said, relenting. “Why are we talking about this?”

  “Because your hatter was from The Ukraine.”

  So I told her what Groaz had told me about the Rusyns, aka the Rutherians, the Lemko, the Husal, and the Bojko, including the fact that Ognan Gerstner had joined their local group and been thought to be a mole.

  “So you think that may have something to do with Gerstner’s death?”

  “Father Groaz didn’t think so, but ethnic conflicts in that part of the world have generated violence for centuries, so I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “So you wanted to find out what this Vlade Glasnost knew about Gerstner.”

  “Vlade Vlasnost… no, that’s not right either. Never mind – let’s just call him Vlad. And yes, I went to his shop to see what I could find out.”

  “So the hat was just a front.”

  “More of a top, actually. And I needed a hat anyway. Did you know skin cancer is a major problem for people who live here in Albuquerque?”

  “Yeah, I knew that, Hubert. It kills way more people around here than drowning. Are you going to tell me what you found out or not?”

  “I found out that the bottom of the Rusyn flag has five red mountain peaks, the top part is sky blue and in the middle is a yellow sun.”

  ‘That’s all you got out of him?”

  I shrugged. “That and the hat.”

  Susannah eventually had to leave for class, but I stayed to have another round. I tried to think about the Rusyns. Maybe there was a clue to Gerstner’s death there. The October air was crisp and dry, the sky dark blue above the Sandias and blood red over the mesa to the west. I decided to relax and forget about it.

  41

  Saturday broke clear and crisp, the kind of day that calls for a hardy breakfast.

  Of course, my view is that every day calls for a hardy breakfast, and huevos rancheros is definitely hardy – two cumin-laced eggs over well on top of corn tortillas liberally doused with chile, cheese, and chopped cilantro. The only question is red or green. I chose green and added a side of sliced avocados, lightly salted and sprinkled with a squeeze of lemon to stop them from turning dark. I kept the plate in the oven until the last minute to make sure the breakfast stayed warm, and I kept the Gruet Blanc de Noir in the freezer until the last minute to make sure it stayed cold. Then I moved everything out to the patio and dined under the morning sun while listening to the susurrus of the dry autumn chamisa.

  I stopped at two glasses of champagne because I was driving. I gave the dishes a bath and myself a shower and drove down the south valley.

  “Bienvenido, Señor Uberto.”

  “Buenas dias, Señor Sanchez.”

  “Consuela, she is in the kitchen.”

  She was seated at the table in an upholstered chair dragged out from their living room. Pillows were stuffed beside and behind her, and a worn blue blanket covered everything except her head.

  She pulled her arms out from under the blanket and gave me an abrazo.

  “You are thin, Uberto. You need a woman to cook for you.”

  “No woman can measure up to you, Consuela. And, anyway, you taught me how to cook for myself.”

  “But I think you do not follow my recipes. Perhaps you make everything more little.”

  “I never could keep a secret from you. But Emilio is also thin.”

  “Is true. The only one who grow fat is Ninfa, but not with a baby. I wish she would come back to New Mexico, Uberto. California is not a good place to live. She and her husband live there ten years and still no grandchildren.”

  “She thinks if Ninfa come back, she will have children,” said Emilio, “but I tell her many people in California also have children.”

  “They must,” I said, “there are thirty million people out there.”

  “You see, Consuela? Thirty million. Ninfa will have a child soon.”

  She waved away his prediction and put her hands back under the blanket. “Emilio say I cannot cook today. I must rest. So he prepares tacos al carbon.”

  I had smelled the charcoal when I got out of the Bronco. Emilio took the meat off the grill and minced it. Then he chopped yellow onions that had caramelized on the grill next to the meat and added those. We washed down the tacos with cold Tecates straight from the cans.

  I made an early exit when Consuela fell asleep, and Emilio walked me to the Bronco.

  “She grows weak, Uberto.”

  “And you stay strong.”

  “Yes. But I also have fear.”

  I thought I detected moisture in his eyes.

  “Susannah’s family had another matanza at the ranch, so I brought you some more meat.”

  “Again the box is so large. Have you kept none for yourself, amigo?”

  “You forget I have no freezer.”

  He showed a smile that was perhaps indulgent.

  “Vaya con Dios,” he said.

  42

  I removed the foil from a chilled bottle of Gruet and had the wire between finger and thumb. Six twists would loose the wire. Then two twists of the bottle – one always holds the cork steady while turning the bottle, not the other way round – would loose the cork, and my second hardy breakfast in two days would be complete.

  But the phone rang and it was Bertha Zell who said she was worried I might be down in the dumps after being arrested, so she wanted to cheer me up by inviting me to lunch at the Crystal Palate. Thinking lunch would involve wine or spirits, I returned the Gruet to the fridge and poured myself a glass of mango nectar instead. I ate breakfast with my back to the fridge to resist temptation.

  The Crystal Palate is in an old storefront on Central just east of the University and seems to draw a good crowd from the faculty and those few students who don’t think salt and grease are basic food groups. The windows look like they were painted by Peter Max, and crystals dangling from the ceiling cast rainbows around the room. Booths nest under hanging silk pyramidal tents, and Bertha was sitting under one of them soaking up its energy.

  “What do you think of the place?” she asked as I slid in across from her.

  “It looks like it was decorated by Shirley MacLaine.”

  “You’re not going to be stuffy are you?”

  “Heavens no. I’m looking on this as an adventure. How’s the food?”

  “Healthy.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You’re not wearing your ascot.”

  “This seems more a bell-bottoms sort of place.”

  “You are going to be stuffy, aren’t you,” she laughed.

  “I am not. And just to prove it to you, I’m prepared to buy you a glass of New Mexico’s best champagne, Gruet Blanc de Noir.”

  She swept her hand up to her heart and said, “How gallant of you. Would you
settle for a fruit smoothie?”

  “I would not. I had mango nectar with breakfast, and I have a firm limit of one healthy drink per day.”

  Her hand slid down and her head slumped. “I would love some Gruet, Hubert, but they don’t serve it here.”

  “All right, how about some genuine champagne from France?”

  She shook her head.

  “A crisp cava from Spain?”

  She stared at me, forlorn.

  “An asti spumante from Italy?”

  She hung her head.

  I looked around the room at what the other diners were drinking and then back at her. “They don’t serve alcohol, do they?”

  She nodded. “It’s an organic restaurant.”

  “Champagne is made from grapes. Aren’t those organic?”

  “They serve only health food.”

  “Even the Surgeon General now says drinking is good for you.”

  “In moderation,” she pointed out.

  “Well,” I said truculently, “they could serve it in small glasses.”

  “Would you prefer to go somewhere else?”

  “No,” I said, pretending to be cheerful, “this will make the cocktail hour that much more enjoyable.” I looked around for a waiter.

  I didn’t see one, but I did see Horace Arthur coming through the door.

  “On second thought,” I said, “maybe we should go somewhere else.” But it was too late. He slid in beside Bertha and said, “This is the third place I’ve looked. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t find you.”

  “Devoutly to be wished,” I said under my breath.

  “Have you decided what we’re eating?” Arthur said.

  “We?”

  “I never order in restaurants. I’m no good at it.”

  “I haven’t seen a waiter.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t seen a waiter,” I repeated as if talking to a child.

  Arthur threw up his hands. “Labyrinthitis,” he offered by way of explanation.

  “That probably explains why you couldn’t find us.”

  Bertha laughed and Arthur said, “What?”

  I shrugged and Arthur got up and signaled Bertha to do the same. When she did, he slid back in and signaled her to sit back down.

  “The doctor says the worst is over. The dizziness and nausea have gone away, and the hearing loss is temporary.” He looked at Bertha and said, “It’s not as severe in my left ear. That’s why we switched.”

  “Drat. And here I thought it was because you wanted on the inside where you could grab a quick feel without being spotted.”

  He stared at her without comment.

  “Arthur,” I said, “why do you wear those horrible glasses?”

  “They were on sale.”

  “And why does everyone call you by your last name?”

  “Because it’s also a first name, I suppose.”

  “Great,” said Bertha. “Now that we’ve cleared up those matters, maybe we can order.”

  “I still don’t see a waiter.”

  “They don’t have them here, Hubert, and if they did, they would be called waitpersons. We select from the menu board and then order at the counter.”

  The menu was written in pastel chalk and was difficult to read because of the glare off the white marker board and the crisscrossing lights from the crystals. The first menu item seemed to be either tofu scallops or tofu scallions, and I twisted my head several ways trying to make it out until I realized it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to order anything made from tofu.

  That eliminated half the menu. I was debating the vegetarian chili when a shadow darkened the menu board. I looked up to see yards of black cloth and the bottom of a scruffy beard. I couldn’t see the head because of the tent, but I knew who it was.

  “Hello, Father Groaz.”

  “Hallow, Youbird. And Hallow, Bertha.”

  “Hallow be thy name, Father,” said Bertha. “Will you join us for lunch?”

  “Thot’s very kind,” he said and squeezed in next to me, knocking the tent with his head and setting it swinging on its chain.

  Bertha introduced Arthur who responded, incredulously, “Father Gonads?”

  At first I thought he was making a crude reference to the recent scandals of the Church, but then Bertha leaned in to his left ear and shouted, “Groaz, Groaz!” Then she turned to the priest and said, “He has temporary hearing loss from labyrinthitis.”

  “He woss lost in a maze?”

  A skinny girl in the next booth with a long horsey face, big eyes, and a yard of midriff showing turned to us and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but a labyrinth is not a maze.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked Bertha.

  “What?” said Arthur.

  The girl swung around to the end of our booth and placed her elbows on the table and fixed her gaze on Father Groaz. “You should know. You’re a holy man.”

  “Waahl—” he started slowly, sounding uncertain.

  “A maze is a problem,” she said, “something to be solved. You have to avoid blind alleys and work your way out. But a labyrinth is unicursal. The way in is the way out. Its path leads you around and around and then out again. It is not a problem to be solved. It’s a journey to be enjoyed. You see,” and here she paused and looked at each of us in turn with her big watery eyes, “the labyrinth is a metaphor for life’s journey.”

  “Oh, brother,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Could we order now?” asked Arthur, and for once I felt in league with him.

  “I have some literature if you would like to have it,” said the girl.

  “Why thank you,” said Bertha, “I’d love to see it.”

  While the Priestess of the High Church of the Labyrinth dug in to her backpack for pamphlets, I tried to read the menu board, a task made even more difficult after Father Groaz wedged me in the corner of the booth causing my sightline to pass through the frayed end of his beard. The white silk of the swinging tent above my head was creating a strobe effect and giving me motion sickness. I had to get something in my stomach. “I’m going to order,” I said, and I pushed Groaz until he let me out.

  I selected a poblano pepper stuffed with brown rice, raisins, and sautéed pumpkin for myself and a plate of hummus with pita chips and steamed broccoli for Arthur since he had announced he never knew what to order.

  Evidently, everything was already cooked. After all, the object was health, not taste. I carried the food back to discover that Ms. Labyrinth had joined our table and she, Bertha, and Groaz were discussing metaphysics.

  Arthur had moved to the girl’s table, and I joined him and gave him his food. He ate it with gusto, including even the steamed broccoli.

  My dish was less successful. What I’d taken to be a poblano turned out to be a bell pepper, which would have been o.k. crisp, but it had been steamed into mush. The brown rice tasted like alfalfa, and even the pumpkin was next to flavorless owing to the absence of salt. Of course salt is an inorganic chemical, so I guess they wouldn’t use it. The paper plate and plastic fork further diminished my enthusiasm.

  “Why did you want to have lunch with us?” Horace asked.

  “Bertha invited me, remember?”

  “O.K., then why did you come?”

  I pushed the stuffed pepper aside and took a sip of my lavender and linden tea. “I’m not sure. I guess I could ask her about Frederick Blass.”

  “You want to know more about the man who stole your girlfriend?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Not now at any rate.”

  “She never was. She’s my best friend.”

  “And you want to know whether Freddie’s intentions are honorable?”

  “Arthur, I can’t tell whether you’re flippant or serious. Anyway, I don’t know what honorable intentions would mean these days.”

  “I’ve never seen him treat a woman badly.”

  “Thank you.”

  He raised my cu
p to his nose and smelled the tea. “Smells like soap. This is the first time I’ve ever had lunch with a murderer. I wonder if I might get a short story out of the event.”

  “I assume you’re being flippant.”

  “I admit you don’t seem the violent type, but you did have blood on you when you returned to the party. I told the police that.”

  Oh, great. “It was my blood.”

  “I suppose you were bleeding from a burn inflicted by your cigarette?”

  Why was I having this conversation?

  I started to take another sip of tea, but Arthur’s comment about soap spooked me.

  “I found out something interesting when the police interviewed me,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, trying not to sound too interested.

  “Actually, I didn’t find it out. I inferred it. You see, they asked me if I knew Gerstner, and I told them I did. We were on a couple of faculty committees together. So when I told them I knew him, they asked me if the word ‘hub” had any special significance for Gerstner.”