The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras (16 page)

I had asked Tristan to come by, and he arrived just as I finished putting tattoo pigment in an allergy spray bottle, and how often do you get to do that?

“Hey Uncle Hubert. Did you call because you want a report on Kaylee?” He went to my refrigerator and helped himself to a bottle of Cabaña. “Why do you buy beer brewed in El Salvador?”

“Because it’s five dollars a case cheaper than Corona.”

“I think you should worry more about taste than cost.”

“That’s because you’re not the one paying for it. And it tastes just as good as Corona.”

“You should stick to judging champagne.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “I don’t want a report on Kaylee, but I guess I should have one.”

“Well, she made a pass at me right after we got in my car, but thanks to your warning and my pure heart, I was able to fend her off.”

“Not tempted at all?”

“She’s sort of attractive in a way, I don’t know how to describe it…”

“Earthy.”

“Yeah, that’s good. Earthy. But I don’t think she and I have much in common. Selena and I took her to the alternative band concert last night, and it wasn’t too big of a drag having her along. She actually has a pretty good sense of humor.”

“How was the concert?”

“It was great, and thanks again for the loan.”

“It was a gift; not a loan.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say, but when I end up as the next Bill Gates, you’ll change your mind. Incidentally, I think I have a new favorite group.”

“What are they called—the Concrete Banana?”

“That’s a good one. No, they’re called SCR.”

“Why do so many rock groups go by initials—REM, U2, AC/DC. Wouldn’t it be better advertising to say the whole name rather than just initials?”

“Would you be more likely to buy REM if you knew what it stood for?”

“I wouldn’t be buying a rock album in the first place.”

“An album is what you put pictures in, Uncle Hubert. We buy CD’s these days.”

“I know that,” I said in mock exasperation. “What does it mean anyway?”

“It means ‘rapid eye movement’.”

“I know that, too. What I meant was what does SCR stand for? Slime coated reptiles? So cool Republicans?”

“There are no cool Republicans. And it stands for Stem Cell Research.”

“I’m sorry I asked. What can you tell me about things that will detect if someone is trying to record me?”

“Wow, Uncle Hubert. First a hidden camera and now a bug detector. Are you secretly a spy?”

I ignored the question and listened as Tristan started to explain how such devices work. I cut him short and ask him just to get me something I could take to a meeting with someone who might try to record me, and he said he would bring one by the next morning.

31

I met Susannah at Dos Hermanas.

After the refreshments were on the table, she said, “I talked to my boss and he agreed to hire Kaylee as a pot scrubber. Actually, he’s not doing her any favor; other than mojados, you can’t find people to do that work, so he’ll be happy to have her. The only question is whether she will do it.”’

“I suspect it’s either that or prostitution.”

“Hubie!”

“Well,” I pleaded, “what other skills does she have?”

“I don’t know; I only spent a few hours with her before I turned her over to Father Groaz. How’s she doing with Tristan’s friend?”

“O.K. I guess. At least she hasn’t shown up on my doorstep again. But she can’t stay there long. Will pot scrubber wages pay for an apartment?”

“I doubt it. The only one of the scrubbers I know is a guy named Arturo; I think he’s the only one who speaks English. He lives with his parents out in the south valley somewhere. The others come and go as a group, so I suspect it’s one of those eight in a room deals.”

“I’ll have Tristan bring her to meet your boss. Maybe he might have some ideas about temporary lodging?”

“Maybe. He has a lot of low wage workers and high turnover.”

Susannah had the pictures of the pot and its measurements. She had selected a Tuesday morning thinking there was less chance of other people being around. I started to tell her you can be alone in the Valle del Rio Museum almost any time you want because they...but I’d done enough haranguing about museums for the week, so I let it pass.

“You didn’t leave any prints did you?”

“Oh geez, I didn’t even think of that. Should I …”

“I’m just joking. There’s no problem with your prints being in the Museum; after all, it is open to the public and they have a photographic record that you have been there. The only problem would be if your prints are on the pot.”

“Well of course they’re on the pot, Hubert; I had to touch it to measure it, didn’t I?”

“No problem, Suze.” I smiled at her. “We’ll just wipe them off after we get the pot out of the Museum.”

32

“Downtown Albuquerque,” said Mrs. Walter Masoir, “was charming. Mind you, some of the shops had tacky names like ‘Teepee Tailors’ and ‘Dessert Sands Coffee Shop,’ but at least you could find a proper dress and enjoy a watercress sandwich with tea served in china cups.”

“It sounds nice,” I agreed.

“Porters,” she said. “They had porters to carry your packages to your automobile.” She breathed the sort of sigh that indicates longing for a lost age of refinement. “The malls ruined all that. I can’t imagine why anyone would shop in those dreadful places.”

“Maybe it’s the parking,” I suggested.

“Nonsense,” she was quick to reply. “It’s no good having parking if the shops sell shoddy merchandise. And all those young children.” She turned to face me. “Where are their parents?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly,” she said. “What did you say your name is, young man?”

“Schuze, Ma’am, Hubert Schuze.”

She had come into my shop that morning wearing a tailored blue suit and a coral broach. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew the name when she introduced herself.

“Well, Mr. Schuze, your shop is a delightful respite from the tawdry merchandise offered elsewhere in this city and especially in this venerable square.”

The venerable square, as she described Old Town, is on a site known in 1650 as El Bosque de doña Luisa. If Luisa could see her grove today, I fear she too would sigh. Mrs. Masoir was right; many of the old adobe homes are now shops selling rubber rattlesnakes and prickly pear preserves. But several sell good pottery, although I’m the only purist who eschews contemporary works.

Mrs. Masoir struck me as the sort of woman who preferred to be called Mrs. Masoir and who used words like ‘venerable.’ She had parked directly in front of my shop, and I had gone outside to warn her she couldn’t park there. She turned her face up to me, a round face with sparkling blue eyes and a small turned up nose, and said, “Nonsense, I can park anywhere.”

Then she pulled a handicapped parking permit out of her purse and hung it on the rearview mirror of her old Chrysler, twenty feet of russet steel with a white vinyl roof, vintage sixties. Her vintage was considerably earlier.

“The State gave me this permit because I use a cane.” She shook her head as if to indicate the State was run by ninnies. “I’m certainly not disabled, but I kept the permit because those handicapped spaces are the only ones that accommodate my automobile. Do you think they make parking spaces smaller these days because of all those imported cars?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but you can’t park here even with a handicapped permit; this is a fire lane.”

“Nonsense. The nearest handicapped space is two blocks away. I’d never make it that far if there were a fire.”

While I parsed that logic, she lifted her cane off the passenger seat and held out her hand. I took it and helped her out of the car, and that’s how she came to be in my shop admiring my wares and questioning me. She had asked for a place to sit down, and I had retrieved a kitchen chair from my residence behind the shop. From that perch, she had been holding forth on the decline of Albuquerque in particular and Western Civilization in general.

“Are you an archaeologist, young man?”

It was a simple question. I did study archaeology, but I never received a degree in it, so how should I answer?

Honesty is always best, so I said, “I studied archaeology at the University of New Mexico, but they kicked me out before I graduated.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Did you know my husband?”

“He retired before I became a student. I knew of him.”

“He didn’t retire. He was forced out.” She stated it matter-of-factly with no hint of anger or regret.

“So was I.”

“So you said and quite forthrightly. I suspect Walter would have enjoyed having you as a student.”

“The pleasure would have been mine,” I replied.

She looked behind the counter. “Is that a genuine María?”

“It is.”

“How long have you had it?”

“About fifteen years.”

“My husband needs to buy me an anniversary present. Perhaps he will come to see it.” She rose to her feet. “Help me with my shawl, Mr. Schuze.”

33

“Guess what I did all day?” It was several days after Susannah had brought the pictures and measurements, and the pot selling business remained as slow as continental drift.

“You worked on our project,” Susannah answered.

“How did you guess?”

“That’s the way you are, Hubie. Once you start on a project, you’re like a dog with a bone.”

“An interesting metaphor, Suze, but dogs bury things. I dig them up.”

“It’s not a metaphor, Hubie; it’s a simile.”

“Who cares?”

“Mrs. Chisholm cares, Hubie. She was my seventh grade teacher and she was a demon on that topic.”

“Another metaphor?”

“No, it’s a simile. She actually was a demon—little horns, a tail...”

Her head turned towards the door and her eyes lit up. “Hubie, I forgot to tell you; Kauffmann is here.”

He strode between the tables with a championship gait—head up, arms relaxed, a smile affixed to his face. He was six feet tall but seemed even taller, and he had shoulders as broad as the west mesa.

Susannah introduced us, and he gave me a firm grip and an even firmer smile.

“Great to meet you, Hubie. My little Susannah thinks you’re super.”

Hubie? My little Susannah? For all his perfection, there was something grating about this instant familiarity. Then I told myself not to be so quick to judge. Susannah likes him. Be a nice guy, I told myself.

“She tells me the same about you,” I replied. “Join us for a drink?”

“Sorry, mate. We’ve got reservations at Zia, and they hold a table for no one.”

Mate? I told myself again to be nice. They said their goodbyes and left, which was just as well, because even though I was telling myself to be nice, I don’t think I was listening. I didn’t like him calling me Hubie when we had just met. Then I felt guilty for being so churlish and asked myself whether I was jealous. And of course I was. I was jealous because my friend was with someone else, and I was alone at Dos Hermanas when I should have been enjoying her company.

Rather than sit there feeling sad and small, I decided to work. Susannah is right; when I start a project, I become a dog with a bone. Or a cat with a ball of string. Or a Guinea pig with a wheel. Or...

There are many varieties of ancient southwestern pottery, and almost everything we know about the people who made it is guesswork. Archaeologists find some pots with handles in one site and some pots without handles from the same era but at another site, and they assume they are dealing with two different groups. But for all we know, they could have been relatives who sat around the fire arguing about whether it was worthwhile to put handles on pots. Or they may have been enemies with different languages and cultures. We use the meager evidence we have to construct a theory, and then we adjust as new evidence becomes available.

The pot I was working on had a curved handle on one side that ran from the lip to the broadest part of the body of the pot. The shape was like the pitcher you see on Kool-Aid ads. Instead of the smiley face, however, my pot was decorated with the geometric patterns of the Mogollon. Some people believe these patterns were chosen simply as decoration. After reading about Pythagoras, I have come to think these designs probably had significance for the potters. Pythagoras was assigning meaning to numbers fifteen hundred years earlier, so I think it’s a natural assumption that the Mogollon might have done something similar with shapes. Maybe the sides of a triangle represented earth, fire, and wind. Or man, woman, and child. Who knows?

The early potters didn’t have pottery wheels; they built their pots from sheets and strips of clay. I did the same. I have a theory about their method, and it’s the one I use when making replicas, also known as fakes. I build the basic shape by weaving the thinnest willow branches I can find. Then I cover the shape with damp cottonwood leaves, tearing them to shape so that the irregularities of the willow frame are smoothed out. I then roll out sheets of clay and form them around the mold. The key to success is keeping the clay at the right level of moisture and plasticity. Get it too wet and it slumps. Let it get too dry and the sheets won’t adhere to each other. Stretch the clay too far and you get a hole you can’t fix. Stretch it too little and you have thick walls that won’t contour properly. It’s not an art; it’s a skill acquired through practice.

When the pot is dried, I fill it with leaves and set them on fire. This burns away the willow mould and gives the inside of the pot the black tint typical of Mogollon pottery. Then I decorate the outside of the pot. The designs are not painted; they are done with slip, thin clay with pigment in it. Slip decorating techniques have existed almost as long as ceramics. Modern glazes may shift and move in the firing, but a slip becomes part of the claybody and stays where you put it.

I worked hard on the pot because it had to fool someone who, although not an expert in pots, certainly had a trained eye. The hardest part was incorporating the shard from Gran Quivera at just the right place. When the pot was completely finished, I did something I normally don’t do; I broke it. Just a small chip off the rim. I etched a line around the area I wanted to break off and then held my breath as I tapped it with a mallet. The piece came away exactly as planned, exposing only the edge of the embedded v-shaped shard.