The Murder in the Museum of Man

by Alfred Alcorn

  Yes … Where was I? Yes, the article. Upon arrival this morning I went directly to the library. As I was about to enter the stacks in search of Frederick Hummer’s My Years at the MOM: A Life Preserved, I noticed the shelves of National Geographic lining one of the reading areas. I resisted perusing them long enough to find the Hummer book, which is a trove of information about the museum in the early years of this century. But once out of the stacks I began a feverish browsing through the Geographic, starting in late 1969. Usually I never get very far in this worthy publication, the way its pictures and prose open up worlds so distant and various. This time I scanned only the tables of contents. In early 1971, I found what I was looking for. “Re-creating the Past in Loa Hoa.” I nearly expected to find the article razored out. It wasn’t. There was the island in all its pristine beauty, the plugs of extinct volcanoes standing like sentinels, the lush, deeply clefted valleys, the lapis sky. I flipped to the next page and a picture of a younger though still aggressively bald Raul Brauer, girded in a loincloth, his upper torso flamboyantly tattooed, his right hand holding a formidable blade worked in jade. I think my heart stopped for a second or two. For flanking him, also in loincloths, were a beardless Thad Pilty and a grinning Corny Chard. I read the caption to confirm what I could scarce believe. Sure enough, along with a few others it listed Assistant Professor C. Chard and graduate student T. Pilty. Corny’s smile had something demonic about it, and there was a feral aspect to Thad’s expression I have never seen before. Perhaps it was the long hair tied back in a swaggish ponytail or the intentness with which he looked into the camera.

  I photocopied the article and brought it up here, where I have gone over it several times. Asked about ceremonies involving the eating of “long pig” (a Polynesian euphemism for human beings), Brauer is reported to have answered, facetiously it was assumed, that “short pig would have to suffice for the present.” Needless to say, I feel plunged right back into the whole sordid business. Perhaps I should just call Lieutenant Tracy on Monday and show him this. Not that it constitutes, when you think about it, anything like proof.

  Ah well. I did get some reading done in the Remick archive. It’s a bit dry — business and family most of it — but I found George W. Remick’s letters to his mother from the Union Army quite touching. Extraordinary how fervent he was in his patriotism, how ready he was to die for his country. I have also unearthed the log of the Silver Fleece, a Remick trader active about the time the museum was founded. It was captained for ten years by Reuben Remick Riley, a cousin from the Boston branch of the family. I suppose I should fly to Boston one of these days and see what’s there. Which reminds me, if I’m going to drive up the Newhumber to Remsdale for a look at the old Remick homestead, I should have Don Tartley over at Bud’s Garage give my old Renault a tune-up.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 3

  It is not very professional, it is even unseemly, to become obsessed with one’s suspicions. But since finding that article in the National Geographic, I cannot escape a morbid fascination with the possibility that a deeply entrenched, highly dangerous cannibal cult exists among outwardly respectable people right under our noses here at the Museum of Man. Yesterday, as I was going into the archives on business having solely to do with the history, I ran into (not literally) Raul Brauer just as he was leaving. What a deadly look he gave me! And Mrs. Walsh seemed more flustered than ever, so I didn’t pursue the matter of the missing files. Indeed, when I returned to my office I locked the door, unlocked my desk, and took out my father’s revolver. Just feeling its precisely balanced heft in my hand reassured me. Perhaps I should take it out into the woods for a few practice shots, although, frankly, I cannot imagine myself pointing it at another human being, even at a bunch of ravening cannibals, let alone firing it.

  Speaking of which, there was another meeting today of the Oversight Committee. The whole circus might have remained little more than that were it not for this pall of dread, which thickened palpably for me when Corny Chard started in with his particularly gruesome contribution to the proceedings. Randall Athol, his blond whiskers bristling around his precious pink mouth, set the tone for the meeting when he asked Thad Pilty if the models would be wearing furs. It took the good professor a moment to realize that the man’s question was serious and another moment to realize it was hostile. Bemused and then amused, Professor Pilty replied, “Of course, but not furs in the sense of fur coats, rather clothing made of animal skins, including bits of fur.” Well, that made Professor Athol rap his pencil on the table like a prosecuting attorney and say, “Then they will be wearing fur?” Before Thad Pilty could answer, Izzy Landes, God love him, interrupted with, “What do you expect them to wear, tuxedos and evening gowns?” But Athol, with that capacity for absorbing rebuttals that would silence better men, went on with some nonsense about promotion of the fur industry and all that that would imply.

  Professor Pilty pointed out in response that the making of clothes from animal skins was undoubtedly a major step in man’s (Professor Brattle: “and woman’s”) physical and social evolution. Without clothing, he said, we would have had to restrict ourselves to warm climates or grow thick fur all over our bodies. That image sent Mr. Onoyoko off into quiet laughter and caused Professor Landes to speculate on the amount of time one would have had to spend in barbershops as a consequence. Not to mention, Father O’Gould said, the cost of shampoo and treatments for dandruff. Corny Chard joined in, and you can imagine the rest of the persiflage — pattern baldness in sensitive areas, flea and tick problems, spring shedding, fur envy, postnuptial molting — until Professor Athol had only Ariel Dearth defending him with a portentous “I think Randy’s trying to make a serious point here. We are assuming at least that the skins and furs will be synthetic?”

  Professor Pilty conceded that they would be, if only because synthetics last longer, being resistant to the kinds of vermin that typically infest museums. Ms. Parkers of the Office of Outreach sensibly suggested that the signage could indicate that while “cave men,” as she put it, wore animal skins, these particular furs were artificial. Athol said that would satisfy him and added that the informational material should point out that “these people wore furs because that was all they had to wear.”

  Dr. Gordon, after checking her watch, excused herself, and the meeting turned to talk about signage and signs, giving Professor Athol an opportunity to display all his specious expertise on the subject. He told the gathering that any informational plaques contemplated for the diorama would have to conform to the Wainscott Language Code. He said any use of the word man would need special scrutiny. Not to be outdone, Professor Brattle proposed that any literature about the diorama use the term preherstory instead of prehistory. In noting her remarks, I wrote her term down as “prehair story,” which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I interrupted to ask for a clarification, and Professor Brattle explained, with a certain amount of condescending patience, the difference between history and herstory. Izzy Landes sat sputtering all through this before erupting into erudition. Eyes snapping over lowered half-frame spectacles, he pointed out that history derives from the Latin historia, meaning “narrative or account,” which derives in turn from the Greek histor, meaning “wise” “a quality I still take to be gender-free.” On the other hand, he continued, the singular masculine possessive is from Middle English his and has nothing to do with the word history or its etymology.

  A kind of chastised silence settled on the meeting then, into which lull Professor Murdleston, speaking down his chin, began mumbling about depicting a “communal John.” Murdleston, the occupier, as one wag put it, of an endowed stool, is known for his excavation of the Oberscheiss “latrine” not far from where the first Neanderthal was found in Germany. According to Murdleston, true civilization began with communal defecation. Site analysis showed, he said, the equivalent of a “four or five holer” that helped “foster a bond of trust and intimacy that allowed early man (“and woman” — Professor Brattle) to develop true ci
vilization.” I had the feeling that John has been bothering Thad with this idea, and Pilty probably told him to bring it up before the committee. I think Thad was surprised when no one objected to Murdleston’s suggestion that several of the models be depicted “tunics up and squatting discreetly at one side of the camp.” In fact, I think there was some murmured approval for the daringness of it all. Father O’Gould demurred, saying that showing the models at some form of prayer would be more edifying. Professor Murdleston replied that communal defecation may well have been an early form of prayer. Izzy Landes rejoined that sometimes it still is, however solitary. Personally, I don’t know what it would add other than a kind of spurious realism for its own sake.

  From defecation, the discussion moved to food. Professor Pilty mentioned quite casually that there would be a wild boar roasting over a simulated fire in the middle of the encampment. Professor Brattle asked if a man or a woman would be shown turning the spit. When Professor Pilty said they hadn’t decided, Professor Brattle pointed out that to have a woman doing it would reinforce stereotypes that a woman’s place was in the kitchen, however rudimentary the kitchen. Izzy Landes countered that to show a man tending such an impressive culinary chore might reinforce the impression that most of the great chefs of the world were men.

  His remark set off a lively discussion about model roles and role models in the course of which Professor Dearth told Professor Pilty that he objected to the representation of a wild boar on the spit as it “would strike a very strong Gentile note.” Professor Landes guffawed at that, saying, “Ariel, be serious. You’ll want to show them observing kashrut next.” An incredulous Professor Pilty asked Professor Dearth if he were really suggesting that the Neanderthals be portrayed as members of the Jewish faith. Undaunted, Professor Dearth responded that he was concerned about the impact the sight of a roasting pig would have on Jewish children visiting the museum. Izzy Landes wondered aloud whether Professor Dearth was thinking of the Neanderthals as a Reform or an Orthodox congregation and, if the latter, would they not have to wear yarmulkes made of fur, which Professor Athol would no doubt object to. This time Mr. Onoyoko’s amusement reached the table-pounding stage. When Professor Pilty remarked that he understood many Jews eat pork, Professor Dearth replied that whether or not that was true, the presumption of “depicting a roasting pig shows precisely the lack of sensitivity that has this committee very concerned.” Professor Pilty, with a shrug of helplessness, said that to show them roasting a bovid would offend Hindus. Professor Landes, who seemed nearly as amused by all this as Mr. Onoyoko, added that a butchered horse would offend some important alumni. Professors Dearth and Athol said nearly in unison that they failed to see the humor in what was being discussed. Professor Landes made a face and said, “Oh, for God’s sakes, Ariel, we are descended from Gentiles.” For that matter, Professor Pilty added, we are all descended from apes. In an aside that most of us heard, Professor Dearth said, “The apes I don’t mind.”

  The matter might have ended there had not Professor Chard, with utter seriousness, proposed that “we show them eating another Neanderthal.” He said there was good evidence from the Krapina excavation, a site in Croatia, “that Neanderthal man” (Professor Brattle: “And woman …”) “yes, yes, of course, and woman, practiced systematic cannibalism.” When Professor Brattle asked him if he was being serious, Professor Chard said that the diorama should be realistic, that it shouldn’t distort man’s … and woman’s past. He said it would be instructive to show them butchering a body, perhaps cutting off strips to hang up for drying as jerky. He went into such gruesome detail — “the heart would be cut out and eaten raw by the priest-god in the manner of the Rangu on Loa Hoa or burned in an offering to the insatiable gods in the manner of the ancient Aztecs” — that we all listened in a rapt, horrified silence. I couldn’t help thinking, as the bandy little man prattled on, that he was describing what he and perhaps others had done to Dean Fessing. Even the irrepressible Mr. Onoyoko stopped laughing as a morbid hush thickened in the room. Professor Landes, no doubt trying to lance the ballooning absurdity of Chard’s speech, remarked that if these Neanderthal cannibals were going to be shown keeping a kosher kitchen, it might not do to have them eating a Gentile. Professor Dearth, with some real anger, said he did not find Professor Landes’s remark funny in the least. But Mr. Onoyoko nearly had to be helped off the floor.

  During this presentation I covertly watched Thad Pilty. Heretofore, I would have expected him to dismiss such suggestions as Chard’s with a jesting remark. Instead he listened attentively, his glance keen, as though with some secret knowledge. There seemed something darkly significant in the look he exchanged with Chard when Ms. Parkers interrupted the latter’s cannibal ramble with “Professor Pilty, what do you think about representing early men and women as cannibals?” I wasn’t altogether mollified when he replied, “There’s certainly some very suggestive evidence indicating cannibalism, even at the Lucille site. But I think the issue might best be dealt with on one of the informational plaques accompanying the diorama.”

  Professor Brattle said finally we would have to move on to other items, as “this whole line of discussion is in really poor taste considering what has happened to Dean Fessing.” Ms. Parkers asked, Why couldn’t the cave men be shown roasting a wild sheep? That, she said, should offend no one. Professor Athol said it would offend him, to which Professor Landes retorted, “Everything offends you.”

  In concluding the meeting Professor Brattle announced that she had talked to President Twill about having the committee address itself to “the underlying conditions at the museum that had fostered an atmosphere in which the tragedy could occur that had befallen Dean Fessing.” She also announced that Professor Ray Mooney, a former associate of the Masters and Johnson establishment, and perhaps the Reverend Farouk Karoom would join the hearings in the future.

  As I’ve remarked, it was all a waste of goodwill and good time. Despite that, I find myself, surprisingly enough, with more than a touch of sympathy for Ariel Dearth’s position. While he is overly sensitive, I think, to criticisms, overt and insinuated, regarding his coreligionists, the depiction of an ancestor of Sus scrofa as standard Paleolithic fare does suggest a dietary orientation bordering on the invidious. His objections, surely, have more weight than those of Professor Athol. But even Athol’s point about wearing fur shows what a minefield the diorama could turn out to be in this age of highly evolved sensitivities.

  The fact remains, however, that the committee failed to address any issues of substance. There was no discussion about how the construction is going to disrupt the rest of the permanent exhibits; what it is going to cost; whether Mr. Onoyoko’s support is in the best long-term interests of the museum; where the temporary exhibitions are going to be placed henceforth; and last, but by no means least, where exactly we are going to hold the Curatorial Ball. Really, I am more than half tempted to send a letter to the Board of Governors to arrange a special meeting with an agenda addressing exactly these questions.

  I have to confess that, curiously enough, I missed the sore thumb of Bertha Schanke’s presence today, even though I did manage to reach over and grab the Blueberry Filled before anyone else.

  Ah well, the students, bless them, are gone for the summer. The rhododendrons have begun their dignified blaze. Honeysuckle, mock orange, and bridal wreath scent the air. Commencement culminates tomorrow with an impressive array of distinguished honorands and speakers. I will attend as usual (I am still, technically, a graduate student at the university), wearing my biscuit-colored linen suit and a rakish boater I reserve just for the occasion. My friend Izzy dismisses it all as an academic Mardi Gras, a sentiment to which I respectfully demur. I see it rather as a day when the members of the academy take a moment to acknowledge themselves and their achievements before withdrawing for the summer to retreats far and near for a well-deserved rest.

  Speaking of which, I am determined to put this Fessing business aside for a long weekend whil
st I take a well-earned vacation of my own to work, at home, on the history.

  TUESDAY, JUNE 16

  I returned to work this morning refreshed and inspired from having taken a long weekend off. It was a blessed relief to get away from the sump of suspicion and fear into which the Fessing case has turned this venerable establishment. I made and kept, with only a few lapses, a determination not to dwell on that grisly business. Perhaps, as some have ventured, the dean’s demise was strictly an off-campus affair. And while one always wants to see the guilty brought to justice, I might not regret seeing the whole affair simply fade away.

  It was a gorgeous time to take off. My roses are just coming into their own. I do nothing fancy, a few teas and a wall of climbers. The resident mockingbird is a regular Caruso. And the weather was like a mellow Beaujolais. It allowed me to spend most of the days in the shade of my garden sifting through, poring over, utterly spellbound by a banker’s box full of diaries, records, letters, memorabilia, and so on having to do with the founding of the museum. History, or at least the history of the MOM, turns out not to be quite as tidy as I had imagined. In fact, I have made a most extraordinary discovery regarding the museum and fear my scruples will be tested if I am to render an accurate account of its origins.

  As I related not long ago, I have unearthed the log of the Silver Fleece, which for some years was under Captain Reuben Remick Riley, one of the Remicks of Boston. Riley, it turns out, was an accomplished explorer and botanist in his own right (he corresponded with Darwin and Wallace and was an early advocate of the theory of evolution). In his log he relates a story altogether at variance with the official account of what happened to Nathaniel, who was thought to have gone down with his ship off Loa Hoa. In the winter of 1875 Riley had occasion to explore those same distant shores where Nathaniel’s ship had come to grief. He reports in his meticulously kept log being treated “with exceptional civility” by the Rangu, “who showed me every courtesy, including the company of their choicest maids.” It appears that this particular tribe were in the custom of venerating the skulls of their former chieftains, which they kept prominently displayed on raised platforms of stonework of considerable grandeur. Riley records his surprise at finding that one of the skulls “evinced a large gold tooth and prominent deeply clifted [sic] jaw that were distinguishing marks of my late and still lamented cousin.” After much palaver Riley succeeded in trading “a spyglass, several rifles, a barrel of nails, and a quantity of rum” for the skull. He also reports hearing about a mountain village where blue eyes and sandy hair were common among the populace. His log recounts how they searched for this village up and down steeply wooded ravines “to the point of exhaustion and exasperation before returning to the Fleece.”