The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy [02]

by J. Michael Orenduff

  You know those letters from the banks? They even tell you you’re pre-qualified on the outside of the envelope. It’s is a peculiar term, isn’t it? It actually means qualified, as in they will give you the card. It’s like pre-boarding a plane. When you are allowed to pre-board, you actually get on the plane. So it’s not pre-boarding, it’s boarding. Oh well. Every specialty has its own jargon, and I suppose advertising lingo isn’t any worse than anthropology-speak.

  The first piece of plastic I tried slid in easily, but no matter how hard I pressed, nothing happened. I tried a stiffer piece with the same result, but the third time was in fact a charm. The plastic card forced its way past the bolt, dislodging it from the jamb. I pushed the door back and stepped inside.

  The protagonist in the burglar book Susannah gave me is named Bernie Rhodenbarr. When he first steps in to a house he is about to burgle, he experiences the thrill of having picked the lock and a rush from being where he shouldn’t be. He loves to walk around the place and get a feel for it, sit in an easy chair, sip some of the owner’s cognac, and imagine what it would be like to live in the apartment he is burgling. Sang-froid is his middle name.

  My middle name must be sang-nerveux. I guess that’s the difference between fiction and real life. When you break in to a house in real life, the one thing uppermost in your mind – the idée fixe you cannot shake – is that someone is going to walk in on you. And of course that’s exactly what happened.

  But not before I got to search the place. And not before I saw the pot.

  The first thing to do, I had already decided, was to make sure no one was there. I crept silently from the living room to the kitchen, then to the dining area, then into a short hall, a bedroom, back to the hall, into a hall bathroom, to the hall again, into a second larger bedroom, and finally into another bath off the larger bedroom. Unless someone was hiding in a closet, I was the only person there.

  Searching the place turned out to be easier than I had expected. Since I was in the master bathroom, I started there. The only hiding places large enough for a pot were the cabinet under the lavatory and a small linen closet. The cabinet held a spare roll of toilet paper, some cleaning solutions, and a few toiletries. The linen closet held two bath towels, one hand towel, one wash rag, a set of sheets and a couple of blankets. There was also a box with a few tools in it.

  The bedroom had a queen bed flanked by nightstands. There was nothing under the bed except for some scary-looking dust bunnies. One nightstand held a half-empty bottle of cold medicine, a pair of broken eyeglasses, and some coins. The other nightstand was empty. A large walk-in closet contained two pairs of men’s shoes, three pair of pants on hangers, a worn wool overcoat, several shirts, and a baseball cap. A bureau had a few boxer shorts, undershirts, and socks.

  The first bedroom had been empty, but I went back and checked the closet to be sure, and it was also empty. A hall closet held a vacuum cleaner, a few more linens and towels, an unopened box of tissues, a can of paint, and a partial roll of wallpaper.

  I walked back to the living area and looked around. Nothing on the walls. Nothing on the end table or the coffee table or the Parsons table behind the couch. Nothing under the couch, and nothing hidden in the cushions. There was some more change under them though. I left it there.

  The kitchen had the usual array of cabinets and appliances. There were no pots in the dishwasher, the oven, or the refrigerator. There were a few pots in the cabinets but all of the metal variety. There were some dishes and a few cans and boxes of various food items, two drawers with a few utensils, and an electric can opener. I pushed the lever down for no reason and nothing happened. It was broken.

  The dining area had a cheap dining set with wood grain laminate and a matching hutch. The shelves of the hutch were completely empty. One of the drawers held some placemats and napkins, and the other one was stuffed full of papers. Behind the left door at the bottom I found the pot.

  I took it out and held it in my hand and got that feeling I get when I dig up ancient pots. It was a magnificent piece. Looking at it was like gazing at the stars. I felt insignificant as an individual but also somehow at peace as part of a universe that contained such an awesome object. I wished I could meet the potter and watch her work.

  It was one of the Ma pots. I was sure about that. But there was something odd about the design, and I felt as I looked at it that I suddenly had everything I needed to figure out exactly what was going on. And at the same time, I thought I understood even less than I had before.

  I should have left right then, but I started thinking about why the place was so sparsely kitted out. I stood there while the idea incubated in my mind. I heard a click. It was not the light bulb going on over my head. It was a key turning in the lock.

  I replaced the pot and dropped down behind the sofa and under the parsons table and listened to footsteps across the carpet. They stopped. I looked under the sofa and saw a shiny pair of what I think are called Mary Janes, except there were tassels where the strap would normally be. Or maybe it was a strap with tassels. Despite my name, I don’t know much about shoes.

  The intruder…wait, I was the intruder. O.K., the person in the patent leather shoes must have been deciding where to go, because after a few seconds she started towards the dining area, which was a bad decision from my vantage point because as soon as she cleared the couch, I would be visible from her vantage point.

  I was debating whether to make a dash for the front door as soon as she came past the sofa, but before the debate reached a conclusion, she veered to the hall. Then the sound of her footfalls changed as she moved onto a hard surface. She was on the tiles in the hall bathroom. I heard the clack of a toilet seat being lowered.

  I slipped out the front door and walked down to the basement. I cracked the door and ascertained no one was in the glassed in area. I went through it quickly and scooted over to the Bronco. I locked myself inside and scrunched down to where I could barely see over the steering wheel.

  I stayed that way for half an hour. Several women passed through the basement, none wearing the shoes I had seen. I abandoned my surveillance and left. Getting past the exit gate was still easy, and I wondered idly if there were buildings where security is so high you need a code to leave.

  30

  On Sunday mornings I sometimes allow myself the luxury of chorizo for breakfast. These are not the bland, thick, chunky, preservative-laced Spanish or Portuguese sausages manufactured at major meat packers and available in supermarkets across the country. These local delicacies are fine-grained, no thicker than your pinkie, and loaded with flavor and fat. I had four that morning before going to my workshop.

  Why do I call having chorizo a luxury? Because they cannot be good for you, so I eat them sparingly. And I never read the ingredients list. I did that once, saw “saliva glands” and stopped reading. If only I could blot that memory from my head.

  Making pottery is not like making sausage, but it is like making bread. Start with good ingredients, do a lot of kneading, select the shape you want, and bake. I still wonder why I couldn’t make decent bread.

  I got through the first two steps that morning, but when I started on the shape – a wide shallow bowl by Joseph Latoma from San Felipe I intended to copy – I couldn’t get it. I pushed and prodded and started over several times without making any progress. I hadn’t had my hands in clay for several weeks, so I put it down to being rusty. I’ve heard that writers get writer’s block. I wouldn’t know about that. I suppose potters may get potter’s block. I wouldn’t know about that either, because I never have it. But that morning I did. Maybe it was the smashed pots incident still bothering me. I’m usually a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow. I frequently whistle while I walk – I think I sound like Ted Weems – but I admit I couldn’t get the pot smashing off my mind. Of course it could have been indigestion.

  The next thing I knew, the bells of San Felipe De Neri were telling me it was noon, and I had been working fruitlessly for tw
o hours. I decided to give up and get some fresh air, so I walked over to the church and sat on the adobe banquet next to the gate in the warm noon sun. Then I fell asleep. Maybe it was the warm sun. Or maybe it was the champagne I had with the chorizo.

  I awoke under a shadow and looked up to see Father Groaz. He’s a bear of a man, over six feet tall with a barrel chest, bushy beard, and shiny black eyes. His collar is always clean and starched, but the rest of his clothes usually look like he slept in them. Since he had just finished mass, he was in his robe, and he looked like Rasputin’s friendly uncle.

  “Good Morning, Hubert,” he said. Except it sounded like “Gud marnik, Youbird.” He talks like an Eastern Bloc spy in a B movie from the fifties, but at least he speaks so slowly that you have time to unravel the accent.

  I sat up straight and wished him the same.

  “You missed church again, Youbird.”

  “I’m not Catholic, Father.”

  “Wall,” he drawled, “We dahnt check I.D.s at the door.”

  “That’s good to know. How’s your Spanish, Father?”

  “Thot’s a vahry nice way to say my Anglish iz poor,” he laughed, “baht my Spanish iz batter, and my Latin iz pearfeck.”

  “It’s a very conservative parish. I suspect they would prefer you to give the litany in Latin.”

  He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Come to Mass and discover if I do.”

  “So how did you happen to be assigned here?”

  He shrugged. “Pearhaps woss becoss I was near. I woss in Jemez.”

  I noticed his pronunciation of Jemez was perfect. There’s a retreat for wayward priests up there. “I assume you were on the staff?”

  He laughed roundly. “You thank mebbe I woss inmate?”

  We chatted a while longer until I saw my nephew’s jalopy headed towards my shop, and I took my leave. I found Tristan at my front door with a box of gadgets.

  After I let him in, he said, “It smells like Barela’s in here.”

  “What you smell is chorizo. Want some?”

  “Too greasy for me.”

  He laughed his rumbling laugh and put the box on my counter. “What we have here is a laser for the door to your new shop to alert you to someone coming in. You know how it works because you already have one on the door to the old shop.”

  I never had understood how it worked, but I nodded anyway.

  “And here we have an electromagnetic door lock. It’s operated by a pushbutton I can install under your counter. Or, if you want something really cool, I can set it up to be operated by a remote. I know you don’t have a television, but you do know what a remote is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know what a remote is. They send something like a radio signal to the television to turn it on and change channels.”

  “That’s right.” He has the smile of a ten-year-old with a shiny bike on Christmas morning. He seemed genuinely pleased that I knew how a remote worked.

  “What I don’t understand is how a remote can operate an electric lock.”

  “Electromagnetic.”

  “Whatever. If the lock uses electricity, how can a remote operate it? A remote can’t send electrical current through the air, can it?”

  “That’s funny, Uncle Hubert. No, a remote sends radio waves like you said. An electromagnetic lock is activated by turning it off. Isn’t that cool? Toasters and TVs and things do what you want them to do when you turn them on. But an electromagnetic lock opens when you turn it off. The magnet holds the door shut. But it’s not a natural magnet like a lodestone. It’s a winding that magnetizes only when current runs through it. So if you interrupt the current, the door unlocks. All the remote has to do is send a signal to a solenoid that—”

  “Tristan!”

  “Sorry, Uncle Hubert. You want me to install, not explain. I brought two of everything because I didn’t know if you wanted to do both shops.”

  “There’s nothing in the new one anymore, but you might as well do both.” I was hoping my potter’s block was temporary.

  31

  “Is that what you’re wearing to the party?”

  I had on grey trousers, a white oxfordcloth shirt open at the collar, and a navy blazer. I looked down at my clothes. “Is this inappropriate?”

  “No, but it’s sort of…ordinary. I think the people Blass invites tend towards flamboyance.”

  “I’m not a flamboyant guy, Suze.”

  “I know that, Hubert. Maybe you could wear an ascot tonight?”

  “I don’t own an ascot.”

  “Hmm. How about a print shirt?”

  “All my shirts are solid colors.”

  “How about one that’s not button-down? Even better, how about one of those shirts where the collar is a different color from the body?”

  “Suze, I’m not worried about what I’m going to wear, O.K.? I’m worrying Ognan Gerstner might be there.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Blass told me it’s mostly arts people.”

  “Yeah, but they were fellow department heads before Gerstner retired, and they live in the same building.”

  “They were department heads in different colleges. They reported to different deans, attended different meetings, and worked in separate buildings. Besides, you told me Gerstner was a stick-in-the-mud. The parties Blass throws are famous for their guest lists: big-name artists, rich collectors, politicians, people with—”

  “Flamboyant clothes.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right. Having Ognan there could be awkward.”

  A sneaky smile slid onto her face. “It might be a blessing, Hubie. You could burgle his apartment while being absolutely certain he wasn’t in it.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What kind of name is Ognan?”

  “It’s Slavic.”

  “But isn’t Gerstner a German name?”

  “Originally maybe, but it’s not unusual for a Czech to have a German name.”

  “What sort of name is Schuze?”

  “It’s pedestrian.”

  “Very funny. Seriously, what is it?”

  “It’s American.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I always thought about my own name growing up. Then some kid in grade school asked me about my name as if it were strange.”

  “Well, Inchaustigui isn’t exactly a garden variety name.”

  “But I didn’t know that, did I? I mean, all my family had that name, so to me it was as ordinary as Smith or Sanchez.”

  “So what did you tell the kid?’

  “Same as you. I said my name was American. But when I got home from school, I asked my mother and she said it was Basque. It was a weird feeling. On the one hand I felt special because I was Basque, although I had no idea what that meant. But on the other hand, I was worried I wasn’t normal because none of the other kids in school were Basque.”

  “Well, Susannah, I think you were right on both counts. You are not normal and you are definitely special.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Is that what you’re wearing to the party?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m wearing something special, which you’ll see when you pick me up.”

  Susannah went home to get ready, and I went to Old Town T-Shirts and Candle Power to buy an outrageous yellow silk ascot with a repeating pattern of red Zia suns. You may know the symbol from the New Mexico State Flag.

  32

  We arrived fashionably late and – wouldn’t you know it – Rawlings was on duty, looking like an obedient mastiff.

  “Susannah Inchaustigui for Frederick Blass,” she told him.

  He looked at me with an expression both solicitous and suspicious.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Mr. Inchaustigui,” I said. Susannah shot me a look but said nothing.

  Rawlings picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. “Susannah Inchaustigui and her father, sir.” I think the italics were for me rather than Blass. He hung u
p and said, “Have a pleasant evening,” but I don’t think he meant it.

  “Mr. Inchaustigui?” Susannah said once we were in the elevator and the doors had closed.

  “I didn’t want to give him my name,” I said sheepishly.

  “So you gave him mine?”

  “He already had yours,” I said reasonably enough.

  We exited the elevator at ten and as Susannah was punching the doorbell at 1009, I jerked the ascot off and stuck it in a pocket. The person who answered was not Frederick Blass. I knew this immediately from the fact that she had no moustache. What she did have was an ivory complexion with knobby cheekbones and a bulbous nose. Her face looked like a ski run with moguls. She was a stout creature with lank brown hair and a crooked smile.

  “Hello, whoever you are. Freddie is pouring drinks, so I’m playing doorperson.” The ‘so’ came out as ‘show’. She used her own drink to point towards Freddie and sloshed a bit of it on a Persian carpet that looked to my untrained eye like it had been woven when that country was still called Persia.

  “I’m Bertha,” she said. “Bertha Twins,” she added and laughed. Then she hiccupped. “Actually, I’m Bertha Zell. And you two are much too attractive to be associating with this crowd. But come in anyway.”

  I peered around Bertha to see if I recognized anyone. I didn’t, but the place was crowded.