The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy (The Pot Thier) Read online

  I thought how my own copies had fooled people over the years and felt a sudden kinship with the Ma. “Did it work?”

  “Yes and no. I’ll tell you what I already knew and what Sema told me. First, what I know. The new American administration wasn’t interested in stealing pots, so we’ll never know if the Ma plan would have worked. What the new administration was interested in was reorganizing the territory. They had surveys made of the pueblos. There had never been surveys before. Both the Spaniards and the Mexicans took whatever land they needed, but other than that, they went along with the informal boundaries recognized by the tribes. The stated purpose of the surveys was for official record-keeping, but some of the pueblos complained they ended up smaller after the survey.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “What Sema told me is they lost their kiva to the Americans. I suppose it fell outside the lines of the new survey.”

  “How could that be? The kiva is in the middle of the village.”

  Masoir shook his head. “At some point in the distant past, they had moved their dwelling area a few miles to the south. As you know, many of the pueblo tribes have done this over the years, sometimes to better defend themselves from the raids of the nomadic tribes, sometimes for superstitious reasons. Anyway, they moved, but they continued to use the primary kiva for ceremonies even though it was no longer in the center of the village. The American survey left the kiva outside their land. When they went to the lost kiva to take the pots and other sacred objects back to their village, they found the kiva had been emptied. All the copies were gone, but some of the originals were hidden well enough not to be found. The Ma still have eight of them.”

  “How many were taken?”

  “Five. Each set contained thirteen pots, one for each lunar month of the year, each bearing a design appropriate to that month.”

  “So they’re missing eighteen pots.”

  “Yes, but it’s only the five originals they want back. For some reason, they consider those pots to carry the same magic as the very first ones.”

  “And the copies lack magic?”

  He nodded.

  “Did he tell you what the thirteen designs are?”

  “No, but he gave me one example. The pot for the tenth lunar month has a corn design because it’s the month of the harvest.”

  “No other examples?”

  “No. I know it would have been helpful for you to have a complete description of the entire set, but he didn’t offer, and it would have been inappropriate to ask.”

  I didn’t want to question Masoir’s judgment. After all, he was to my knowledge the only white man who had ever lived among the Ma.

  I asked him why he’d never seen the pots while they were in the University’s possession.

  “They were a late addition to the collection, acquired only a year or so before I left. Gerstner kept them under lock and key because he said it would insult the Indians to have white men studying them. I was surprised he accepted the collection, but in retrospect, I think he did so to further his repatriation scheme. The provenance of those pots was shaky to say the least, so everyone wanted to return them to the Ma, myself included. And once you decide that, why not do the same for the other tribes? I explained why not, but to no avail.”

  “If he really feels that way about artifacts, why would he have kept them himself?”

  “Remember, I’m not certain he did. But I know they didn’t get back to San Roque, and I personally think Gerstner is a complete phony. He feigned belief in repatriation of artifacts only because that view would best advance his career.”

  “Well, I think I’ll be able to recognize the pots if I see them.”

  “Ma’tin did tell me the pots are all the same size and use the same color scheme. He even told me the three colors. One of the colors is black, but I didn’t recognize the other two color words he used.”

  “Probably shades of what we would call charcoal and sienna,” I guessed.

  “You’re the potter. I remember color words that were frequently used, like yellow and black, but I doubt I ever knew the words for charcoal or sienna.”

  “How big are they?”

  “Two hands high and one and a half hands across.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. They are made with melting stone.”

  “What is melting stone?”

  “I thought you might know. Some kind of clay?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of.”

  “Do potters ever use lava? That might be called melting stone.”

  “Some of the black-on-black pots do use ground pumice – that might be it. Anything else?”

  “Just that they want them back because they are amulets. If they have them, their treasure is protected.”

  “What treasure could they possibly have?”

  “Treasure is my loose translation of a Ma word that means something like esteemed or valued. Remember, I’m hardly an expert.”

  “You may be the only white man who understands their language. You’re my expert until something better comes along.”

  “Maybe the treasure is something abstract like luck,” Masoir speculated.

  “They don’t seem to have enjoyed much luck,” I commented.

  He was staring out across the river as we approached Albuquerque. “Do you know who San Roque was?”

  I shook my head.

  “I only know because I was curious as to why the Spaniards chose that name, so I looked it up. Roque was born in the 13th Century. Tradition says he had a birthmark in the form of a red cross on his chest. He was from a wealthy family, but his parents died when he was young. He joined the Franciscan order and gave all his money to the poor. As a monk, he devoted himself to caring for the victims of the plague. He is said to have contracted the disease. He made a miraculous recovery and went on to perform many miracles of healing. After his death, he became the patron saint of plague victims.”

  “So the Spanish named the Ma Pueblo ‘San Roque’ because the Indians had the plague?”

  “That’s the story they gave. The Ma think the plague came upon them because the pots were stolen.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t believe in amulets, theirs or ours. The pots didn’t help the Ma, and Roque’s cross didn’t help him.”

  “How so?”

  “He was arrested as a spy by his uncle who didn’t recognize him. He died in prison. When they were preparing to bury him, they found the birthmark, and only then did his uncle realize he had kept his nephew in prison until he died.”

  11

  “I can’t believe you actually visited San Roque. It looks so bleak, and you hear all those stories. There’s no bridge. How did you get there?”

  “The river bottom there is rocky, so you just drive across.”

  “And how did the old wreck do on the rocks?”

  “Rode it out with no complaint. The Bronco also did well.”

  “Not nice, Hubie.”

  “I like the old guy. His mind is sharp, and he obviously commands respect from the Ma.”

  “So you think you’ll be able to recognize the pots?”

  “Probably. Although knowing the colors would make it easier. The old man told us all three colors, but Masoir didn’t know the Ma words for two of them.”

  “Why didn’t he ask them for the English words? Don’t they speak English out there?”

  “I’m sure the young ones do. Most of the elderly ones probably do as well, but they just choose not to.”

  “So you’ll be trying to burgle something you may not even recognize?”

  “I’ll recognize them. I know the size, I know what is probably the dominant color, and I know something else.”

  “What?”

  “Gerstner isn’t a pot collector, so any pot I find in his place will almost certainly be one of the missing Ma pots.”

  “What will you do with them if you find them?”

  I thought it over while I
sipped my margarita. Before my trip to San Roque, I would have said I’d sell most of the pots to a discriminating collector and keep one for myself to admire. Now that I knew the history of the pots – or at least part of it – I wasn’t so sure. I felt like I had a duty to return any of the originals I found and sell only the copies. The copies were genuine Ma pots after all, and a collector wouldn’t know or care what the Ma thought about their lack of magic.

  “Maybe the pots will tell me.”

  “I know pots have mouths, but I don’t think they talk. And anyway, they’d probably speak Taos.”

  “Tanoan. Actually, Tanoan is a group of languages, like Slavic or Romance.”

  “Well, I don’t speak any of those, especially Romance.” She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Are you ready for this, Hubie? I’m thinking of going online.”

  “I thought you were already online. You tell me about emails you receive. Don’t you have to be online to get email?”

  “Hubert, talking to you about computers makes me know how you anthropologists must feel when you stumble across a primitive tribe. I’m not talking about email. I’m talking about an online dating service. See, you post your picture and a little write-up about yourself telling prospective dates what you like and don’t like, and then if someone is interested, they contact you via the dating service site, and the two of you can exchange messages. Then, if you’re both interested, you can make plans to meet.”

  It sounded like the worst idea I’d ever heard, but I tried not to change my expression, and I told myself to keep an open mind. After all, this was the first time I’d ever heard there were online dating services, so I figured I should at least hear more about them before writing them off as one more piece of evidence that civilization as we know it is crumbling.

  I selected the largest tortilla chip in the bowl, loaded it up with salsa and started chewing.

  Susannah looked at me expectantly, but I kept on chewing.

  “Well, are you going to say anything?”

  “Anthropologists don’t ‘stumble across’ primitive peoples. We search them out deliberately.”

  “I knew you’d hate the idea. I don’t know why I told you.”

  “I don’t hate it. I just don’t understand it.”

  “What’s not to understand? It’s just a blind date, except it’s arranged by an online dating service instead of a well-meaning aunt fixing you up with her next door neighbor’s son who’s a brilliant doctor. Except he turns out to be a pathologist with bad teeth and a comb-over, and the only people he deals with all day are dead. At least an online service screens people and you get to see a picture of them.”

  “I understand the blind date part, Suze. What I don’t understand is why you need to do that. You’re attractive, intelligent, and have a good sense of humor. Men should be lining up to date you.”

  “They are, Hubie, but the line-up looks like one you’d see down at the police station. Of the last three guys I’ve dated, one turned out to be married, one had a third-grade vocabulary, and the last one’s idea of an aftershave was something that smelled like Pine-Sol.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time with me—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “What sort of a date would I meet at five o’clock? If I don’t have a date by five, I’m not likely to meet one during the rush hour.”

  “Well, I guess that makes—”

  “And have I ever hesitated to skip our cocktail hour if I did have a date?”

  “No, but—”

  “And anyway, Hubert, people don’t have to give up friends in order to date. I actually know girls who have lots of friends and lots of dates. I just don’t happen to be one of those girls.”

  “Can I say something?”

  “Sure. Nothing’s stopping you.”

  “I think you will have lots of dates. In fact, I know you will. You’re just in a bit of a slump. Things will change, and soon your only problem will be deciding which guy to go out with. But if you think an online dating service may get you over this temporary drought, then why not give it a try?”

  I felt a little nicer, but I put some more food in my mouth so I wouldn’t say anything further on the topic of computer dating.

  12

  “Your shop next door is closed,” said Martin.

  “The white man’s way,” I said, “is to greet people with a salutation.”

  “Like, ‘Hello, we’ve come from Europe to steal your land’?”

  “You’re a quick study.”

  “But you aren’t. Your shop next door is still closed.”

  “This one is open.”

  “This one is full of fakes.”

  “I prefer to call them ‘replicas’.”

  “If you can only open one shop at a time, wouldn’t it be better to open the one with the expensive stuff?”

  “I’m gonna take business advice from someone whose people sold Manhattan for twenty-four dollars worth of beads?”

  “Those were the smart ones. The rest of us didn’t get a dime, and we gave up the whole damn continent.”

  Martin Seepu is my height but thirty pounds heavier, all of it muscle. He’s clean-shaven, a practical fashion choice since he has only about ten whiskers that need shaving. He has plenty of coarse hair on his head and he wears it in a ponytail.

  I first met him when, as an idealistic college freshman, I signed up for a mentoring program the University had created to bring together college kids and children on the reservations. How this was supposed to help the kids on the reservation was never clear to me, but I liked working with Martin. I introduced him to math and he surprised me by liking it.

  I started as a math major, but I couldn’t see a career path there, and everyone told me I should be an accountant, so I studied that for lack of a better idea. I worked briefly as an accountant after graduating, found it even duller than it sounds, and returned to UNM to study archaeology and anthropology.

  Martin dropped out of school when he was thirteen, but I’m confident it wasn’t a result of my mentoring. He just got tired of condescending teachers covering boring material. Plus, there was less social pressure in his pueblo to finish school than there is outside the reservation. The politically correct opinion is that the dropout rate among Native Americans is a national disgrace. I’m not certain about that. Education is great, but education and schooling are not always the same thing. Martin is a voracious reader and is better educated than most people who have college degrees. He made a decision early on to remain on the reservation, and the life he leads there wouldn’t be any different if he had a diploma. It wouldn’t enhance his self-esteem, which I always tell him is overdeveloped anyway, and it wouldn’t help him get a job because he doesn’t want one. He and his extended family raise horses, tend their orchard and garden, and work as artisans. His uncle is a potter. Martin works in metal. He works part time in a wrought iron shop in Albuquerque when he feels the need to be in the cash economy for a while.

  The Seepus are a close-knit, happy and successful family. Their pueblo, unfortunately, has its share of alcoholism, domestic violence, depression, and suicide. Those are the true national disgraces. I don’t think more education is the answer, but I don’t know what the answer is.

  Martin is the only person I know who walks more than I do. His pueblo is nine miles from the edge of town, but he often walks in and back if he has reason to come to Albuquerque. I figured he didn’t come in just to tell me my shop was closed. Martin often comes to sell me a pot when his uncle decides to part with one. Sometimes he comes just to visit.

  He took the carafe off my coffee maker and poured the coffee in the street. Then he reached in a canvas sack, pulled out a milk jug of water from his pueblo’s secret spring, and used it to brew a fresh pot. When the gurgling stopped, he poured us both a cup. It was good coffee.

  He pulled a pot from the bag and handed it to me.

  I spent a long time looking at it and enjoying its heft in m
y hands. The cloud and lightning motif peculiar to Martin’s pueblo ran round its perimeter, but the ratios were different somehow. The base was thicker than normal. The design had a three-dimensional quality I’d never seen before. Potters use several techniques to achieve depth. They can show some objects smaller so they appear to be further away. They can place one object overlapping another so the one overlapped appears to be behind the other. They can achieve depth with color by rendering distant mountains lighter than those in the foreground.

  The objects depicted on traditional Native American pottery are flat. They’re represented as being on a plane even though the surface of the pot is curved. I can testify that’s difficult to do. I can achieve it only by copying their work very carefully. I’m certain I couldn’t do it if I were to create a design of my own. The pot Martin brought demonstrated perfectly how a flat plane can be represented on a curved surface, but it still had an elusive, almost invisible sense of depth. I finally decided the glaze where the lightning coincided with the clouds must have been altered ever so slightly. You sensed the jagged lightning behind the cloud even though when you covered everything up except one cloud, it seemed to be of uniform color value.