“There are too many people grasping for their piece of pie in Europe and the Middle East. Too much remembered hatred. Too many old grudges. The religions of Abraham are like siblings who never stop squabbling. When anything bad happens people revert to tribal warfare. They mask it in religion, but it’s tribal warfare. That has always been the promise of America, a wide-open country that could absorb the overflow. I like America. I’ve been there several times since I last saw you.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I go to academic conferences, mostly on the east coast. I’ve never been to the Southwest.”
“There’s still plenty of wide open space here.”
“Someday, I hope. Well I must go, Clara. It was wonderful to hear from you. I will E-mail you my address in Florence. If you ever come to Italy you must visit. If I can help you with your research, please let me know.”
“I will.”
“Ciao, Clara.”
“Ciao, Pietro.”
After she put down the phone she wasn’t hungry any more. She dumped her salad down the disposal, went outside and walked along the rose wall. When she reached the dark red Don Juans she got lost in her thoughts about Pietro. How perfect his English had become. How sad he sounded. How awful that his wife had cancer.
Claire took a pair of shears and began cutting the Don Juans until she had an armful of dark red flowers. She took them inside and arranged them in a vase thinking what a nice gift the roses would be for Pietro’s family if only there were some way to get them to Italy in time to arrive red as blood and full of life.
Before she went to bed she checked her E-mail again and found Pietro had sent his home address. She clicked the return button and sent her own address. She considered adding a line saying she had some roses she wished to send but was afraid that would be inappropriate.
It was also inappropriate to be fantasizing about a former lover whose wife had cancer. When she got in bed she lay awake for a long time wondering how the youthful Pietro she had known had been marked by his wife’s illness and the passage of time. No one could remain isolated forever from pain and the vicissitudes of life.
Chapter Thirteen
IN HER PROFESSION NO ONE COULD REMAIN ISOLATED from egotism and arrogance for long, either. She was reminded of this on Friday when Peter Beck called her at the center.
“Claire Reynier?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Peter Beck. I’m in New Mexico to meet with Lieutenant Kearns of the Sandoval County Sheriff’s Department. Your name came up in connection with the document Isabel Santos found. I’d like to get together with you. Could you meet me at Flying Star for coffee this afternoon? Say at three?”
“All right,” Claire agreed. “How will I know you?” She assumed Peter Beck would be recognizable as a scholar, but he might not be the only scholar at the Flying Star.
“I’ll know you,” he said.
He was sitting at a table when Claire arrived. True to his word he recognized her as she walked in the door and signaled that by standing up. She waved and went to the counter to order a lemonade. When she got to the table Peter Beck was seated and did not stand up again. Claire assumed that once was sufficient for him.
“Have we met before?” she asked, sitting down herself. If she had met Peter Beck she would have remembered; his reputation made him larger than life. He was also rather unusual looking. The outlines were unexceptional: tall, thin, with the limp, gray ponytail of a middle-aged professor who never forgot he’d been a student in the sixties. He was dressed rather elegantly for a professor in a slate blue silk shirt, but it was the face between the outlines that really distinguished him. Peter Beck had narrow eyes, high cheekbones and a prominent nose with an aristocratic hook. It was a thin, angular face except for the mouth. Beck’s mouth had full, sensual lips that drooped when he wasn’t speaking. It was a face that combined WASP arrogance with renegade bravado.
“I’ve seen you at conferences,” he said. “You are an archivist?”
“Yes.”
As he dropped some sugar into his espresso, his spoon clinked against the side of the cup. “You spoke to Isabel Santos?”
A waiter brought Claire a tall glass of lemonade. She thanked him and sipped it through the straw. “May Brennan gave her your name, my name, and Warren Isles’s name as people who might be interested in the document she found.”
“Is Warren Isles an expert on the Inquisition?”
“He collects documents relating to New Mexico history. Isabel came to my office to see me,” Claire said. “She copied the Ladino words she saw on the document and gave them to me.”
“What exactly were those words?”
“Didn’t Lieutenant Kearns tell you?” Claire assumed Kearns would have been interested in the opinion of an Inquisition expert. Peter Beck was the foremost expert, but she didn’t see any need to reinforce his ego by saying so.
“Yes, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
She had no desire to try Ladino in the presence of Peter Beck so she repeated the words in English.
“What makes you think the language was Ladino?”
“The use of the words arriva and abasho.”
“Couldn’t that be archaic Spanish?”
“Possibly.”
“And why did you think those words were written by Joaquín Rodriguez?”
“Isabel told me it was signed Joaquín.” Claire felt like a graduate student presenting her thesis to a skeptical committee. No doubt Peter Beck had been on numerous committees and was skilled at turning Ph.D. candidates to quivering lumps of Jell-O. She didn’t have a Ph.D. and anticipated that sooner or later Peter Beck would remind her of that fact. “Were there any other Joaquíns killed by the Inquisition?” It was a question that Peter Beck was capable of answering, but he didn’t.
“Joaquín Rodriguez converted as he was led through the streets of Mexico City and he was garroted. He didn’t choose the fire,” he said.
“I know he was garroted. August Stevenson authenticated the documents and he gave me a copy of Joaquín’s Inquisition Case.”
“Ah well, that makes you an expert.” Peter Beck’s lips smiled slightly. His eyes remained narrow and of indeterminate color. His nose seemed to extend until it dominated his face. If he were Spanish, Claire was sure he would be speaking perfect Castilian.
He was trying to humiliate her and she was determined not to let that happen. “I’m not an expert but I am capable of reading a document,” she replied. “The ‘Inquisition Case’ says someone in the crowd stepped forward and Joaquín spoke words that were interpreted as a conversion. Maybe that’s what the Church wanted to believe. Maybe the Church staged the meeting because they were unable to convert Joaquín Rodriguez. It’s possible they garroted him to save face and faked the conversion to demoralize the other Jews in Mexico. It’s possible the words in the document Isabel found were his last wishes.”
“That’s not what happened,” Peter Beck replied raising his cup to his lips and sipping deliberately. “When faced with the prospect of being burned alive, Joaquín did the reasonable thing and converted to Catholicism.”
“When was Joaquín Rodriguez ever reasonable? He was a mystic who died for his beliefs, a man who circumcised himself with a pair of scissors in the Rio de los Remedios.”
Peter Beck grimaced as if someone had taken the scissors to him. “Unpleasant as circumcision must have been, the pain couldn’t compare to the torture of being burned alive. Joaquín Rodriguez chose to be garroted.”
“Are you aware that a man named Manuel Santos witnessed Joaquín’s Inquisition?”
“Manuel Santos was an official in Mexico City who witnessed numerous Inquisitions.”
“Manuel Santos is the name of Isabel Santos’s brother as well as her ancestor who came to New Mexico with Don Juan de Oñate.’’
“It’s not the same person. Manuel Santos was a person of power with no incentive to leave Mexico City. He later became corregidor. His
name appears on Inquisition documents well into the seventeenth century. There was obviously more than one.”
“Did he have a son?”
“I’ve seen no record of that.”
“Perhaps the skeleton will reveal more.”
“You mean the one the police found under Isabel Santos’s floor?”
“Yes.”
“Lieutenant Kearns mentioned it. The possibility of any connection is remote.”
“I’m hoping the Smithsonian will get involved; they’re able to date and place skeletons with considerable accuracy.”
“Why would they get involved?” Peter Beck’s eyes widened enough to let in some light and show their true color. Gunmetal gray.
“It’s a skeleton that could be of considerable historical significance. It could be the first Spanish settler in Bernalillo or someone who is linked to the document.”
“It’s more likely to be someone with no links and no historical significance. The Smithsonian is more interested in paleoindian artifacts than insignificant Spanish settlers in Bernalillo, New Mexico.”
Peter’s disdain made Claire even more determined to get the Smithsonian involved.
“Lieutenant Kearns asked me if I thought the document Isabel described was authentic and valuable,” Beck said. “It’s only fair to tell you what I told him. I’m flattered that May Brennan recommended me as an expert, but I never heard from Isabel Santos and I never saw any document. Furthermore I don’t believe Joaquín Rodriguez ever wrote the words Isabel gave you. If the document existed at all, it was written by someone else and of dubious value. I pointed out that Lieutenant Kearns didn’t actually have a document, only a few lines of Isabel’s handwriting on a slip of paper.” Beck leaned back and waited for Claire’s reaction.
“Do you think Isabel had the knowledge or ability to make those words up? She wasn’t a scholar.”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe someone else did. You spoke to Isabel. You’ve shown a lay person’s knowledge of the subject.”
“You can’t be suggesting that I made it up.” Claire tried to hide her anger by sipping her lemonade, which was tart but not tart enough.
“You know quite a bit about Joaquín Rodriguez, a man who is far more obscure than he ought to be. You read his ‘Inquisition Case’. You saw a connection between the name of a witness and the Santos family.”
“I learned all that after I saw Isabel’s document,” Claire pointed out.
Peter Beck’s cavalier shrug and supercilious smile suggested the timing of that was open to question.
“What possible motive would I have for making up such a document?” Claire asked.
“Career advancement,” Beck said. “Some people advance in academia by scholarship, some do it by making attention-getting discoveries. You could call that the short track. It takes a long time and considerable effort to earn a Ph.D. It doesn’t take very long to do a bit of research and manufacture a shadow of a document. Crypto Judaism is a hot topic in New Mexico these days. Everybody is coming out of the woodwork claiming to be a Marrano. Anyone who makes a discovery in that field is sure to receive attention. I passed that information on to Lieutenant Kearns, by the way.”
You supercilious son of a bitch, Claire thought. She had spent enough time in academia to have learned not to express such thoughts at the moment she had them. “That’s totally ridiculous,” was the only comment she allowed herself.
“Is it? Well, Lieutenant Kearns said the evidence points to a petty theft, not a document theft. Isabel apparently had the misfortune of walking in on the robbery. The Sheriff’s Department has the robber in custody. Most likely that will be the end of any investigation into document theft. I hope this will be the end of your attempts to insert yourself into my field.”
His eyes were full of cold contempt. He had no trouble expressing icy anger. Claire wondered if it was the only kind he was capable of expressing.
“If you will excuse me, I must be going. Pleasure to meet you, of course,” he said.
“Of course,” said Claire. She watched as he finished the dregs of his espresso and stood up, watched as he walked across the room. She waited until he was out the door and then she got up, too, left Flying Star and walked down the street to her truck. Only when she was inside the truck with the windows closed, the doors locked, and the air conditioner running did she grab the steering wheel and say out loud, “You supercilious, cold-hearted, mean-spirited son of a bitch.”
******
Saying it once wasn’t enough. When she got back to the center she went into Celia’s office and said it again with embellishment and feeling. “Peter Beck is an arrogant, self-centered, cold-hearted, mean-spirited, supercilious son of a bitch.”
“What did you expect from an Inquisition scholar?” Celia responded. “Kindness? Tolerance? Generosity?” She was wearing purple today, a rich, deep, defiant purple, the color of irises and kings.
“Intelligence,” Claire said. “Doesn’t intelligence imply tolerance? Is it too much to expect that from an intellectual?”
“There are different kinds of intelligence,” Celia pointed out. “There is the left brain rational kind that does research, solves problems and likes to dominate. Then there is the right brain intuitive kind capable of creating art and understanding another human being. That’s intelligence with compassion and heart.”
“He’s definitely lacking in that.”
“I have a friend at Berkeley and she says Peter has been pushing the arrogance envelope there. They know even more about arrogance at Berkeley than they do here. It’s the best state university in the country and they never let anyone forget it.”
People pushed the arrogance envelope all the time in academia and all that ever came of it was bitching and bitterness among coworkers. It was nearly impossible to fire a person who had gained tenure.
“Why were you talking to Peter Beck?” Celia asked.
“He came to New Mexico to talk to Lieutenant Kearns and after that he wanted to talk to me.”
“What about?”
“He questioned my motives and he tried to cast doubt on me and the authenticity of Isabel’s document. It contradicted some of his assumptions about the Inquisition of Joaquín Rodriguez. He implied that I might have made the document up in an attempt to further my career.”
“Here’s another word for your list: prick.”
“Thanks. I’ll remember that. It would help if the original could be found.”
“Are the police still looking for it?”
“They were but they might not be anymore after Peter Beck told them he doubted its existence. It would be a shame if that happens because then the original may never be found. Evidence and an important piece of history will be lost. I wondered from the beginning if Isabel could have been killed over the document. If that’s true and the police stop looking for it, they’ll never find the real killer. Or is this just what I want to believe?”
“It’s hard to accept that Isabel was killed in a stupid robbery over a VCR.”
“Is it really any different than being killed in an intelligent robbery? After you’re dead, does it matter how you died?”
“It matters to the living,” Celia said. “My advice is to trust your instincts and keep on looking for the document.”
“Thanks,” Claire said.
“De nada.”
Claire left Celia’s office feeling grateful that she at least had never doubted the existence of the document. As she walked down the hall she felt she had left the world of Technicolor to reenter the world of black and white, the swirling world of dreams in motion for the static world of print. Celia’s office was full of posters, shrines and milagros. Claire’s was full of shelved books, black words on white paper. Celia acted as a thorn in the side of the somber center, although the thorn came with a rose attached. Claire saw her own role as the interpreter of other people’s actions, a person who brought her own muted colors but an active imagination to the words others had writt
en.
Chapter Fourteen
ON MONDAY HAROLD MARCUS CALLED FROM THE SMITHSONIAN. “Ms. Reynier, Sarah Jamieson told me you’ve come across some interesting bones. Over the years I’ve examined many remains, but I’ve never found anything in the United States connected with the crypto Jews or with the Inquisition. The combination of the skeleton and the document presents an interesting challenge. I’m an Ashkenazi Jew myself. The Sephardic Jews settled in Spain and Portugal. The Ashkenazi Jews come from Eastern Europe.”
“It would be wonderful if you got involved,” Claire said. The OMI forensic anthropologists were good, but they weren’t the Smithsonian.
“I’m going to a conference in California this week. I could stop by Albuquerque on my way back. Would you have time to meet with me if I do?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll give the OMI’s office a call and see if they could use some help.”
Claire believed a call from Harold Marcus would open the door in any but the most territorial medical investigator’s office.
******
She had no qualms about meeting him at the center where there could be an excess of curiosity about her visitors. She still hadn’t told Harrison about the murder of Isabel Santos. If anyone questioned Marcus’s presence, all she needed to say was that he was with the Smithsonian. She could think of any number of reasons why she might talk to the Smithsonian having nothing to do with murder. When the student manning the information desk called, she walked out to meet Harold Marcus. He was a plump man, shorter than Claire, with rosy cheeks and a pleasant expression.
A fringe of white hair circled a bald spot on top of his head.
“Ms. Reynier,” he said, taking her hand and smiling. “It’s a pleasure indeed to meet you.”
Land of Burning Heat Page 8