“There are some things about Anabel, about her death, that suggest she could have been Muran, or at least had contact with her.”
“You intrigue me. What things?”
“Well, for one, we think Anabel might have been the person who passed Malinyah’s Sinethal to Devlin,” Anlon said.
When Foucault replied, there was a noticeable difference in his tone. To Anlon, he seemed anxious. “What did this woman look like? Do you have a picture you can send me?”
Anlon frowned. “Uh, not with me. But I’m sure you can find one if you do a search online.”
Anlon heard the sound of typing, and then Foucault mumbled something. Why did Foucault want to see a picture of Anabel? he wondered. The only answer he could come up with startled him. “Foucault, do you know what Muran looks like?”
“One moment, please,” Foucault said. Anlon heard several more keystrokes before the Frenchman spoke again. “It is not her.”
“You do know what she looks like, don’t you? Why the hell didn’t you tell us that before?”
Another silent stretch. Unbelievable! Anlon thought. He circled the suite’s living room, waiting for Foucault to answer. As he walked, another question leapt to mind. If Anabel hadn’t been Muran, and Foucault hadn’t killed her, then who the hell did and why?
“Dr. Cully?”
“Yes?”
“I think we should meet. There are certain things you should know. And others I wish to know. But it is a conversation we should have face to face.”
“That suits me. I’m in Manhattan for a few days. Can you come to New York?” Anlon asked.
“Bon. I will. When will you be free to meet?”
“You name it, I’ll make it happen. I don’t want to drag this out.”
“Agreed. It will take me a day or two to set things in order. Will Friday work?”
“It’s actually perfect. Pebbles and Jennifer will be here by then.”
“Excellent. I will bring Christian…and Mereau,” Foucault said.
“Mereau?”
“Oui. And Malinyah should be there as well. In fact, her presence is vital.”
“Vital? What do you mean?” Anlon asked.
There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. When Foucault spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper, “She holds the key that can help us break the curse of The Painted Lady.”
Hall of South American Peoples
American Museum of Natural History
New York, New York
Anlon hustled up the stairwell until he reached the second floor. Turning right, he passed through two halls full of cultural exhibits and finally spied Cesar Perez at the far end of the second hall. As Anlon approached, Cesar looked up and waved. Anlon extended his hand. “Sorry, Cesar. Got hung up in the subway. Waited forever at Columbus Circle. Could have walked here in less time.”
“No trouble at all. I occupied myself quite happily,” Cesar said, shaking Anlon’s hand. “How are you?”
“Okay, I guess. A little frazzled,” Anlon said.
“Anabel?” Cesar asked.
“Yeah, Anabel. Guess who I talked to this morning. Our friend from Indio Maiz, Jacques Foucault.”
“Ah. What did Count Foucault have to say?”
“I’ll tell you later over lunch. Right now, I want to hear about this mystery relic of yours,” Anlon said.
“Very well. Come this way.”
They walked through an archway into the Hall of South American Peoples, and Cesar guided Anlon to a glass-encased exhibit featuring fabrics. As Cesar started to speak, a group of children descended upon them. Cesar paused and motioned for Anlon to step aside. Together, they gave way as the children filed past the display case. A few of the middle schoolers stopped to glance at the ancient textiles behind the glass, but most darted away in a boisterous hunt for mummies.
When the last of the gaggle zipped by, Cesar turned to Anlon and shook his head. “Mummies. It’s always mummies and dinosaurs with the niños.”
Anlon laughed and patted him on the back. “Don’t take it personally, Cesar. It’s hard to beat mummies.”
“Yes, yes. I know,” Cesar said. Waving his arm around the hall of displays, he sighed. “Still, there is so much history surrounding us, and yet so few bother to look for more than a second.”
“Well, you’ve got my full attention,” Anlon said, resuming his place in front of the display. He pointed at two small cloth fragments. “You were about to say something about these ones.”
Cesar withdrew reading glasses from his tweed blazer and stepped up next to Anlon. He slid on the eyewear and leaned forward for a closer look. “Notice the fine twining. The intricate pattern of the weaving.”
Squinting through the high-polished glass, Anlon examined the four-line placard positioned beneath the two tattered fabrics. It read, “Site of discovery: Huaca Prieta, Peru. Culture: Unknown. Estimated date of origin: 1000–500 B.C.E. Discovered: 1946.”
The cloth fragments were each about the size of a small washcloth. Unlike other textiles displayed in the same case, the two at the center of Cesar’s focus lacked colorful threading and fanciful designs. Instead, they were a solid color, a drab, yellowish-brown hue. Yet, despite their plain appearance when viewed at a distance, there was extraordinary detail in each artifact’s weaving. Anlon said, “It’s hard to believe these were hand-sewn.”
“Agreed. The craftmanship is so refined, it looks like it was machine-made,” Cesar said.
“Is that what drew your attention to these?”
“Partially. There have been other textiles found at the same site which are more intriguing.”
“Yeah? How so?” Anlon turned to Cesar and crossed his arms.
“As soon as Dr. Sinclair arrives, you will see for yourself,” Cesar said with a smile.
Before Anlon could reply, another surge of schoolchildren raced through the hall. The two men retreated to a nearby bench to avoid falling victim to the Pamplona-like stampede while they awaited Dr. Elton Sinclair. Anlon said, “If you won’t tell me about your ‘intriguing’ textiles, at least tell me a bit more about where they were found.”
“Huaca Prieta? It’s in northern Peru, very close to the Pacific coastline,” Cesar said.
“Have you been there?” Anlon asked, crouching down to wipe away a child’s dusty footprint from the top of one of his boots.
“Oh, yes, several times. The first extensive excavations were done well before my time, in the forties. Since then, there have been numerous digs in and around the first site,” Cesar explained. “From a distance, Huaca Prieta looks like a big mound sitting close to the beach. It instantly catches the eye because the land around it is flat and unremarkable.”
“Is there mythology associated with the site?” Anlon asked.
Cesar said, “Not outright. There are artifacts from multiple cultures from different time periods in different layers spread around the site, so it’s a bit of a jumble. It doesn’t appear to have been a strong cultural center for any one civilization.”
“What led you to take an interest, then?”
“Believe it or not, it was your uncle who first urged me to go there.”
“Devlin? Why?”
“It was about ten years ago. We were at an archaeology conference in London and we had just finished listening to a presentation about the discovery of textile imprints embedded in copper artifacts at Harappa and Mohenjo-daro in Pakistan,” Cesar said.
Anlon feigned a yawn. “Sounds fascinating.”
“Actually, it was!” Cesar laughed. “Anyway, Devlin leaned over and whispered something in my ear. I didn’t hear what he said at first, I was distracted by the applause for the speaker. When I asked him to repeat it, he said, ‘Huaca Prieta.’ Without explanation, he got up and dashed over to speak with the presenter.
“Later, over dinner, he explained his excitement. He said he thought there was a strong similarity in the weave pattern of one of the Harappa imprints and one from Huaca Prieta
. The bottom one there, the one with the patterned border,” Cesar explained, pointing toward the display case.
“Was he right?” Anlon asked, leaning forward to spy the cloth fragment again.
Cesar shrugged. “I didn’t think so for a long time. Harappa is nearly ten thousand miles from Huaca Prieta, separated by the Pacific Ocean. Though one finds examples of trading between cultures at many archaeological sites, they are mostly confined to cultures that resided on contiguous land masses, or later periods when sea travel was more common. And the Harappan artifact was much older, two thousand years older.”
“But something changed your mind?” Anlon asked.
“Yes. Early last year, a few months before Devlin died, I heard of a new discovery by Dr. Sinclair at Huaca Prieta. The details piqued my interest, so I called him. He invited me out and showed me his discovery.”
Cesar stopped speaking and stared off toward the entryway of the hall. Anlon edged forward on the bench and nudged Cesar’s shoulder. “And? What did he say?”
A smile spread across Cesar’s face and he rose off the bench. He took several steps forward and waved his hand. Anlon followed the direction of his wave and noticed two smiling people waving back. One was a squat man with a Santa Claus–worthy beard of snow white. He wore a battered fedora, leather jacket and blue jeans. Beside him was a much younger woman with olive skin and long, jet black hair. Anlon guessed her to be a graduate student. As they drew closer, Anlon noted she was dressed more formally than the man: tweed skirt, tan blouse and heels. Black-rimmed eyeglasses and a leather satchel clutched in her hand completed her appearance.
Cesar greeted the man heartily while the woman politely stood to the side. Anlon approached the woman. She smiled and extended a hand. “You must be Anlon Cully. Ow ya goin, I’m Diane Jones. Everybody calls me Jonesey.”
Her Australian accent surprised Anlon. As did the strength of her grip. “You got it right, I’m Anlon. Nice to meet you, Jonesey.”
In the middle of their handshake, the bearded man slapped Anlon on the shoulder. “So, you’re the nephew of the great Devlin Wilson. God, I miss that man!”
“Me, too,” Anlon said. “Elton Sinclair, I presume.”
“The one and only,” Sinclair said, removing his hat to reveal his shiny pate.
“It’s good of you to meet with us,” Anlon said.
“No trouble at all, young man. I’m always thrilled to talk about my work,” Sinclair replied. “Cesar tells me you’re interested in our mysterious shawl.”
“Uh,” Anlon said, darting a quick glare at Cesar, “why, yes.”
Cesar grinned at Anlon and then said to Sinclair, “I have not told Anlon much, Elton. I wanted him to see it first.”
Jonesey stepped forward and introduced herself to Cesar. Sinclair slapped his thigh and said, “Forgive me, Jonesey. How rude of me.” He turned to Anlon and Cesar, “Dr. Jones is an expert in early Mesoamerican cultures. I told her you were coming to take a gander at the shawl and invited her to tag along.”
With the introductions completed, Sinclair slapped Anlon once more on the shoulder. “Follow me. Let’s see if you’ve got some of Devlin in you.”
The quartet made their way to the nearest staircase and ascended two floors. As they walked toward the museum’s research library, Sinclair pummeled Cesar with questions about the Indio Maiz discovery, while Anlon chatted amiably with Jonesey.
When they reached the library, Sinclair spoke to a clerk who led them behind a door with a small sign that read “Official Use Only. Do Not Enter.” They proceeded down a hallway with several closed doors. The clerk unlocked the first door to their right and ushered them in. To Anlon, it looked like a smaller version of Devlin’s barn office. There was a central examining table with high-power lighting fixtures overhead. Clamped to each corner of the table were magnifying lamps. To one side of the table, there was a counter with an assortment of precision tools and brushes. The clerk marched to the counter and retrieved latex gloves for all members of the party, including himself. From a portable rack behind the door, he provided each with a laboratory coat and tugged on his own as he left the room.
The clerk returned shortly with an oblong carrying case layered atop his outstretched forearms. Anlon thought it looked like the kind of case one might expect to be used to transport a musician’s keyboard. The clerk placed it on the table with care and slowly unhinged its buckle locks. Then, he reverently lifted out the inner case holding the ancient textile.
The full-length shawl was pressed between two panes of glass. The first thing Anlon noticed was the garment’s assortment of bright colors. The main background was crimson, and its surrounding edges were trimmed with gold. Inside this border, numerous designs were interspersed throughout in gold, green, indigo, brown and orange. Toward one end of the shawl, the designs were obscured by a mottled stain.
“Well, my boy, what do you think of our little oddity?” Sinclair asked.
Anlon scratched at his head and said, “I’m a little out of my element, Elton. Tell me about it.”
“Jonesey, why don’t you do the honors,” Sinclair said.
“Right. I’ll give it a burl,” she said, adjusting her glasses as she leaned over the case. Fanning her hand along the length of the shawl, she said, “Dr. Sinclair discovered this last year at Huaca Prieta. It was found rolled up inside a sealed pot in a chamber about fifty meters from the main excavation site, roughly ten meters below the surface.”
An excited Sinclair interrupted. “We chose the dig site because it’s farther back from the ocean. You see, there is evidence of a great disturbance in excavations closer to the beach.”
“Disturbance?” Anlon asked. “Looters?”
“No, no,” Sinclair said. “A natural disturbance of some kind. Most likely a tsunami. Many of the artifacts found underneath the mound are displaced, meaning they were found amid a swirl of different sediments. Some of the pottery, for instance, was smashed by the force of the waves and pieces were found scattered in the sediment layers.”
Cesar leaned in and said to Anlon, “The mound was not always near the beach. In fact, there is evidence to suggest it was built several miles inland. The tsunami swallowed the land in between.”
Jonesey said, “Right. Dr. Sinclair’s site was chosen hoping to find a layer less disturbed by flooding. If you imagine the mound itself served as a breakwater, taking the brunt of the tidal waves, then the area directly behind the mound might have avoided the full force. At least, that was the theory. A hunch that proved an ace.”
“Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” said the blushing archaeologist, removing his Fedora again and bowing. “Others theorized the same, years before me. I was just fortunate to get funded before they did.”
“You’re too modest,” Jonesey said, wrapping her fingers around his with a light squeeze. Sinclair blushed deeper red, giving his face the full Santa Claus effect. Directing her gaze back to Anlon, she said, “The initial layer showed the same mix of sediments, but five meters down, it started to settle out. Ten meters down, they found remnants of a stone wall. Then they found a real corker: a walled room full of artifacts, including the shawl.”
While Anlon listened, he studied the shawl more closely. Cesar noticed him examining the cloth and maneuvered one of the magnifying lamps in his direction. Peering through the illuminated glass, Anlon studied the fabric. The dyed threads were incredibly thin and tightly woven. The designs were of objects, animals and humanlike figures with headdresses. They seemed ordered, as if they told a story. There was another curious feature. The gold stitching around the borders sparkled. Anlon adjusted the focus of the magnifying glass and whispered, “Would you look at that.”
“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sinclair asked.
“The border, there are small gold beads on the threads,” Anlon said.
“Exquisite, aren’t they?” Sinclair said with pride.
“More like extraordinary,” Anlon said. Turning toward Cesar, he
said, “I’m not a textile expert, but even I can tell this piece is far more sophisticated than the ones you showed me downstairs.”
Cesar nodded slowly, then said, “And far older. The cotton is twelve thousand years old, Anlon. More than nine thousand years older than the cotton used to weave the ones I showed you downstairs.”
“A modern automated loom would have a hard time matching the complex weaving,” Sinclair said. “How could such a garment be hand-sewn twelve thousand years ago? Let alone beaded?”
Jonesey pointed at the indigo-dyed piping on each side of the beaded border. “The same can be asked about the dye along the edge. The use of indigo does not appear on textiles again until the Egyptians started using it eight thousand years later…seven thousand miles away.”
“Incredible,” Anlon said.
“Oh, that’s not all, not by a long shot,” Cesar said. “The weaved pattern is identical to the imprint found on the Harappan copper shard I mentioned earlier. The imprint also has traces of indigo…and impressions of tiny beads.”
“Then Devlin might have been right about the connection between Harappa and Huaca Prieta after all?” Anlon asked.
“So it seems,” Cesar acknowledged. “Possibly in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?” Anlon asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute, but first I want you to look at something,” Cesar said. He guided a pointed finger to one of the human figures depicted on the shawl. “You see this here? This is what first aroused my curiosity.”
Anlon examined the figure. It appeared to be a man standing or dancing with arms upraised. He was smiling and wore a headdress that looked like a plume of feathers arranged around his head. In one hand, he held what appeared to be a serpent. In the other, a golden globe.
The background of the tapestry surrounding the man was full of wildlife and symbols. Above his head were dozens of round circles. Buzzing around his raised left hand were birds of various shapes. In the background surrounding his torso, an oddly depicted sun was positioned about halfway above the horizon. To the left of his body, the slice of visible sun seemed to be rising as rays projected outward. The sun slice on the right side, however, appeared to be setting, for it had no rays. To the left of his dangling feet were three creatures. One of the animals looked like a fox, another a butterfly or ladybug, and the last looked to Anlon like a lizard. To the right of the man’s legs was nothing, although there was a spiky object just below his right foot that was obscured by the rusty stain covering the shawl at that end.
Curse of the Painted Lady (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 3) Page 5