The Pot Thief Who Studied D. H. Lawrence Read online

  I looked up at Tristan inquisitively.

  He shrugged. “I’m dating an English major.”

  “She gave you this?”

  “Loaned it to me. I told her you were going to the Lawrence Ranch, and she said you might like to know what D. H. himself said about it. She attended the annual writer’s conference they have up there every summer and is sort of hooked on Lawrence. She’s thinking of writing her MA on him, but her advisor is against it. He says too much has already been done on Lawrence, and she’d be better off to pick someone less well-known where there’s at least some chance of doing something fresh.”

  “She have anyone in mind?”

  “Witter Bynner.”

  “She should qualify as lesser known. I’ve never heard of her.”

  “It’s a him, and I’d never heard of him either until Emily told me about him. She picked him because he had a connection with Lawrence, and she didn’t want to get completely away from that. She’s fascinated by the whole Taos Circle thing.”

  “I think I’m developing the same fascination. What was Bynner’s connection with Lawrence?”

  “Well, they may have been lovers.”

  “What! Lawrence was married.”

  “Come on, Uncle Hubert. Even you must have heard of bisexuals. Anyway, Bynner was definitely gay. He taught poetry at the University of California around the time of the First World War and often held his classes in hotel rooms. The University took a dim view of that and dismissed him. He ended up in Santa Fe sharing a house with Spud Johnson.”

  “There’s a name,” I said. “I read about him in D. H. Lawrence in Taos. He was Mabel Dodge’s secretary.”

  “Right. He introduced Bynner to Dodge, who eventually accused Bynner of single-handedly introducing homosexuality into New Mexico. Emily said she isn’t sure if Dodge meant that remark as an insult or a compliment. Anyway, it was through her that Bynner met Frieda and D. H., and he traveled with them to Mexico where it’s rumored he and Lawrence had an affair. Emily says that Bynner and Spud Johnson are two of the characters in the novel Lawrence set in Mexico, The Plumed Serpent.”

  That sound you just heard was my jaw hitting the piñon floor. “Unbelievable. Just this morning Emilio told me he had to read the Plumed Serpent in secondary school in Mexico.”

  “Emily says it’s Lawrence’s greatest work.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Nah, I don’t read much. But I’m getting a great introduction to lit from Emily. It’s a lot more fun hearing her talk about Lawrence than it would be to read him.”

  “Easier too.”

  “Definitely. Two more things about Bynner.”

  “What?”

  “First, the house he lived in in Santa Fe is still there, and it’s now a gay bed and breakfast.”

  “What does that mean? Straight people can’t stay there?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think the object is to exclude straights. It’s more a matter of creating a gay-friendly environment.”

  “Oh. And the second thing?”

  He handed me the second book, another collection of Lawrence’s letters. The guy was a letter-writing machine. The letter Tristan directed me to was on page 48 and was addressed to Bynner and dated 19 July, 1924.

  It read, “Dear Bynner, we are at the height of the New Mexico summer. We bake during the day and freeze at night. Poor D. H., perfectly miserable. I would trade for steamy Mexico and the dirty Zocalo peddlers. We rode yesterday to Mabel and Tony but did not stay. She was ranting and at least it is cooler up here. The ranch is primitive but stirs me. The only refinement is a new pot brought by a Mexican named Duran. It was full of a beef stew too hot to eat, but the pot is beautiful. It is what they call an ‘olla’ and is signed. Mabel was furious with jealousy when she heard the news.”

  Tristan said, “I thought the reference to a pot would interest you even though it was Mexican instead of Indian.”

  “It isn’t Mexican. Lawrence is wrong. Duran was a potter from the Taos Pueblo.”

  I told Tristan I needed a crash course on Lawrence in New Mexico, especially anything having to do with the cabin. He arranged for me to meet with Emily the next day, and we spent four hours going over the materials she had collected for her thesis.

  After the four hours passed, I had learned three things. First, writing a thesis must be excruciatingly dull work. Second, judging from all the questions she asked, Emily was more interested in Tristan than she was in Lawrence. Finally, the pot had been in the cabin on Lawrence’s last day there. Among the many copies of photos Emily showed me was one on which someone, probably Frieda, had scribbled, “D. H. departing again” and the date of his last trip from New Mexico. A venture from which he would never return.

  Unless you count his ashes. After Lawrence died, Frieda had a memorial for him built at the Ranch. Then she sent Angelo Ravagli, her Italian lover and later third husband, to Europe to have Lawrence’ body exhumed and cremated. Ravagli was supposed to bring the ashes back to New Mexico, but rumor has it that he dumped them in the Atlantic.

  But he did bring some ashes back, and Frieda planed to place them in the memorial. The Brett and Mabel Dodge Luhan wanted to scatter the ashes over the ranch. Perhaps because she always had to compete against those two for Lawrence’s attention, Frieda dumped the ashes into a wheelbarrow containing wet cement and said, “Now let's see them steal this!” The cement was used to make the memorial's altar.

  I stared at the photo. Lawrence looks impatient. There is a knapsack in his left hand and a walking stick in his right. And on a table behind him the pot – or one very similar to it – sits next to an oil lamp.

  Lawrence kept the pot for two years. But that was eighty years ago. Perhaps Frieda threw it out, gave it away or accidentally broke it. But there was also a chance it was still there.

  16

  I walked over to Dos Hermanas at five eager to tell Susannah about the Taos pot.

  But while I was trying to signal our favorite dark and sultry waitress, Susannah started telling me she had decided to give up computer dating and let love come to her rather than she to it.

  “So there’s a big event at the Millicent Rogers Museum and all the art history faculty and students are invited, and I’ve decided to go. I’ve got to get out and mix, Hubie. Are you definitely going to the event at the Lawrence Ranch?”

  “I am.”

  “Then maybe you can give me a ride to Taos? The reception is this Friday night. Isn’t that when your event starts?”

  “Actually, its starts at noon with a lecture on Lawrence, but I’m skipping that part and showing up for the cocktail party Friday night. My dog and pony show is the next morning at 10:00, but I won’t be coming back until Sunday afternoon. Will you be in Taos that long?”

  “Just overnight. You remember Ellie?”

  “The ditzy blond with all the turquoise jewelry?”

  “She’s not ditzy, Hubie. You just say that because she’s blond.”

  I shrugged.

  “She’s from Taos and she’s already up there. I’ll stay with her and then come back on Saturday, so I only need you to take me up there.”

  “I’ll enjoy the company. You know how I hate to travel.”

  “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

  “None at all. The ranch is about thirty miles north of Taos, so I have to pass right by the Rogers Museum on the way.”

  I told her what Lawrence had written in his letter to Bynner. Then I told her who Bynner was and that he had lived in Santa Fe with Spud Johnson who was Mabel Dodge’s secretary. She told me Millicent Rogers and Mabel Dodge had a stormy relationship during their years in Taos, two fabulously wealthy heiresses from back east, each wanting to be the Queen Bee. Susannah told me that Rogers described her relationship with Dodge as a “fight with a knife in each hand.” Then she asked me what was so special about the pot Lawrence had described.

  “Traditional Taos pots were not fancy, so no one collected them. Finding
one made prior to 1970 is rare. Finding an old one that is signed is unheard of.”

  “Why is it shiny?”

  “Taos potters used clay with mica in it. That’s why the pot glinted in the sunlight.”

  “Do you think the pot is still there at the ranch?”

  “I have no idea. The letter to Bynner was written eighty years ago.”

  “But it could still be there?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “And you’d like to find it.”

  “I would.”

  She gave me that enigmatic smile. “How much would that pot be worth?”

  I had been thinking about that ever since I read the letter, but I didn’t have an answer. “There are no actual sales to base an estimate on because there aren’t any for sale, so I don’t really know.”

  “But you could make an educated guess?”

  “Like everything else, the rarer a pot, the higher the price. I would have to find out how well Duran was known as a potter, how much work he did, things like that. But any eighty-year-old Taos pot signed by the potter would have to be worth twenty-five thousand. Maybe more.”

  “You’ve had other pots worth that.”

  “True. But what I just said was ‘any eighty-year-old Taos pot signed by the potter would have to be worth twenty-five thousand’. But this is not just any pot. This is a pot associated with one of the most famous writers of all time.”

  “Or infamous.”

  “Right. A five-carat diamond is worth a lot. But a five-carat diamond worn by Mae West is worth even more.”

  “So how much would the Lawrence connection add to the price?”

  “I’m over my head here, Suze. But it could be double.”

  “Fifty thousand!”

  “Of course I couldn’t sell the pot. I’d have to give it to Cyril Duran. But the three Dulcineas he promised in return would be worth even more.”

  “Why are hers more valuable than his? Are they more authentic in some way?”

  “No. In fact, they’re less authentic because they were made on a wheel rather than by the traditional method of moving your hand instead of the pot.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would an inauthentic pot be worth more?”

  I thought about that for a minute. “It shouldn’t be. You know I deal only with traditional designs, so authenticity is important to me.”

  “Even in your fakes?” she chided.

  “Especially in my fakes. If they don’t look totally authentic, no one will buy them.”

  She laughed, and I said, “You’re the art historian. I should be asking you about authenticity and the value of art.”

  “Well, there is an important issue about how a dominant culture or class determines what art should be produced.”

  “The Golden Rule,” I quipped.

  “Right, he who has the gold makes the rules. Unfortunately, it’s true. You know about the Pachamama?”

  “Only that she’s a South American mother earth and fertility goddess.”

  “Right. When the Spaniards converted the natives to Christianity, the Indians saw the Virgin Mary as the white man’s Pachamama. The priests didn’t object because it made the conversions easier if you didn’t force the Indians to give up all their former images.”

  “O.K., but what does that have to do with authenticity?”

  “Pre-Columbian renderings of the Pachamama show a female-like character in the shape of a mountain. But after the Spanish came, the Indians painted her with a halo and western clothes. And those are the ones that sell today.”

  “Same type of thing here,” I noted. “Some of the designs on the Indian rugs they sell right here in Old Town are of European origin and were introduced to the weavers by the priests.”

  I noticed we were out of chips and salsa, so I waved for Angie. The replenishments must have spurred Susannah to another train of thought because when they arrived, she said, “It’s not just in art. The first server job I had was at the Chew Din Café. I admitted to the owner when I applied for the job that I didn’t know anything about Chinese food. He said, ‘That’s O.K. We don’t serve Chinese food,’ and then he cackled. He explained that their recipes were designed to please the locals and didn’t taste anything like the food in China.”

  I loaded a chip with salsa, lofted my margarita and made a toast to authenticity.

  17

  The New Mexico spring was doing its yo-yo routine, and the day had been surprisingly warm. Dolly showed up at seven that evening in a colorful broomstick skirt and a white loose-fitting blouse. When we hugged, I could tell there was no other clothing under the blouse. Her hello kiss portended a pleasant evening.

  We went to the kitchen, and I offered her a chilled flute of Gruet.

  She took a sip and said, “Nice and cold.”

  I smiled.

  Then she said, “But your house is like an oven.”

  “It must be from the cooking. But I turned on the air conditioner, so it should cool down.”

  She held a hand up towards the vent. “Why isn’t the air colder?” she asked in an assertive tone.

  I sensed another argument developing and decided to head it off by being agreeable. “I guess because my air-conditioner is an old-fashioned evaporative cooler.”

  “Why don’t you get refrigerated cooling?” she challenged.

  Agreeable wasn’t working. So I tried humor. “I’m trying to maintain a small carbon footprint.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I shrugged and smiled.

  “I’m going outside,” she said.

  “It’s warm out there, too.”

  “I know that. I just came in from out there, remember?” Then she walked out to the patio.

  Dolly likes salads, so I prepared a large one with frisée, cucumbers, tomatoes, diced poblano peppers, fresh cilantro, sugared pecans and dried cranberries. Not my usual New Mexican cuisine, but light with a touch of the Southwest. The dressing was avocado oil and lemon juice. I was putting the salad on the table when she returned.

  “Well, it feels a little cooler in here.”

  Of course it does, I was tempted to say. You just spent five minutes with the desert sun blasting you from the west. It’s the feeling-cooler version of the feeling-better method of hitting yourself with a hammer because it feels so good when it stops hurting.

  The salad course went well.

  When I brought the hot tray of chicken enchiladas to the table, Dolly took off her blouse. I, too, thought they smelled terrific, but I didn’t realize the aroma was that good.

  She saw my jaw drop and explained she was hot again. “Do you mind if I sit here like this?” she asked in a tone halfway between defiant and flirtatious.

  Frankly, I thought it was a bit odd. Dolly and I had been sleeping together for almost a year, so there was no reason for either of us to feel uncomfortable because her blouse was off. But I did feel uncomfortable.

  I know “topless” women draw men like trailer houses attract tornadoes. How else do you explain “topless” barber shops, “topless” shoeshine stands, “topless” sports bars, etc? I think the entire concept is bizarre. I like seeing a woman “topless” or – even better – completely nude. But why would I want a woman with bare breasts to cut my hair or shine my shoes? Wouldn’t she be embarrassed? I know I would be.

  And that was the way I was feeling at that moment even though it was Dolly and not some total stranger.

  After dinner we went to bed where we were both properly attired in nothing. She was sweating like a Swede in a sauna, and caressing her felt like being a contestant in one of those greased pig contests. I know that sounds terrible, but that’s what came to mind.

  Evidently no other thoughts came to mind, especially no romantic ones, because the same thing that happened the last time I was at her house happened again at my house.

  Or didn’t happen.

  She started crying. “You don’t find me sexy anymore.”

  �
�Don’t be ridiculous. I know you’re hot and uncomfortable, and that distracts me. I’m worried about you.”

  She sobbed for another thirty seconds, and then looked at me with a little-girl smile and asked, “Do you want me to go home?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You really don’t think I’m too fat?”

  “You’re just the same as when we first met. I liked you then. I like you even more now.”

  18

  Yesterday’s heat had disappeared on Friday morning. A chill wind was blowing from the north.

  Tristan came by at noon to make sure everything was set up for my PowerPoint. After he checked the computer and the projector, he gave me a spare bulb and showed me how to change it in case the one in there burned out. Changing the bulb looked easy, but technology has a way of turning on me without warning, so even the mention of a burned out bulb made me uneasy. The most complicated piece of machinery I normally operate is my kiln which has only an on/off switch and a dial to set the temperature.

  I loaded the equipment and my bag, pillow, sheets, and a box full of peanuts. The Styrofoam sort. Nestled inside the peanuts and protected by them was a twelve-hundred-year-old Anasazi pot I found without digging in the ground. It had been partially buried under a lot of bat guano in what I am pretty sure was a grain storage bin in an ancient cliff-dwelling that no one knows about other than me and the original inhabitants who no longer had need of the pot since they’ve been dead for over a thousand years.

  Tristan told me he would be in his apartment in the morning before my presentation, and I could call him if I needed any help. I told him the brochure the University sent me about the Ranch said phone service tended to be intermittent, so he handed me a cell phone.

  “You don’t expect me to use this, do you?”

  He chuckled. “I’ll program in my land line number. Even you can use it then.”

  All I had to do was push one button. I accepted the contraption with misgivings. It startled me by ringing just after he left, but I quickly realized it was my own phone. I picked up the receiver, and Dolly said she was outside and just wanted to wish me luck in Taos. I invited her in, but she said she was in a hurry, so I went out to the curb where she was parked with the engine running and the air-conditioning on despite the fact that the air had again plummeted into the frosty range.