At least she doesn’t object to my having help brought in for her. I’ve never been very good with bedpans and that sort of thing. We have a couple of unobtrusive ladies from a hospice outreach program. Estelle is the thinner one and Mildred is the plump one. They’ve been coming only a week and they already dote on Elsbeth, who spoils them.
Elsbeth did have a very good meeting yesterday with Father O’Gould. Though she is anything but Catholic, she told me afterward that what he said to her made her feel doubly that her life had not been in vain; that there was a purpose. “He made me feel that I and every living creature is part of a larger, ultimately beautiful scheme in which we all have a role to play. He made me believe that everything we do has meaning.”
I nodded, having heard the good priest expatiate on the moral implications of evolution, how it fits in and accounts for everyone and everything in the universe, even those who think they have gotten only scraps from life’s feast.
She was telling me about it this evening as we sat in the more formal living room, each of us with a glass of wine. Elsbeth was holding my hand, reading my eyes, comforting me, saying, “I used to look at old family pictures, not just mine, but those of other people, and I would have to fight a sense of desolation. They are all dead, I would tell myself, and how sad, how futile it all seemed. But I was forgetting that they and countless others had lived, had loved, had gotten joy and satisfaction out of life. And so have I, even married to poor Winslow and pining every day for you, dear Norman.”
Then I tried to comfort her, holding her hand in both of mine, bringing it to my lips, blinking back tears at the sight of hers.
But I must confess that beneath my pity and pain and concern for Elsbeth, I feel a strange, familiar anger. Elsbeth is leaving me again, as she left me so many years ago for Winslow Lowe. Now she is leaving me for God, and how can I be jealous of God, who, truth be told, I feel has gone on sabbatical. It doesn’t matter. My Elsbeth is going away again, going somewhere beyond my reach.
At the same time, these petty resentments leave me with nothing but shame. And worse. My dreams are full of Elsbeth and Diantha, each merging into the other as they recede smiling beyond my reach. Then I find, upon awakening, that I am being left stranded by creeping death and by this bumptious, oblivious creature who daily consorts with Diantha in a way that I, in my darkest heart, yearn to do.
And I swear, I will use my father’s revolver if I hear once more, “Yo, Mr. Dude Man, you got your groove slidin’.” It’s bad enough to hear the endless thumping in the cellar and the seemingly endless thumping down the hallway upstairs with the unrestrained sound effects and the smell of what I am sure is marijuana wafting from under the door. What makes it worse is that young man doesn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body. “Oh, Norman, he adores you,” Diantha tells me. “He thinks you are one classic dude, you know, like one of those worldly men you see in old movies who knows all about culture and wine and stuff like that.”
Indeed, I am so ensconced in the young man’s good graces that he deigned last night to play me a new “song” he is working on. I was taken down into the basement where he has, in a section paneled back in the thirties, if I’m not mistaken, set up what he calls his synthesizer. He had me read the lyrics from something titled “Gettin’ Rough in You Muff,” that he had scrawled while he fingered away on a keyboard-like contraption hooked up to Nuremberg-sized loudspeakers. Then, in a kind of stylized chant, he sang,
I’m gettin’ rough
I’m gettin’ rough in you muff I’m gettin’ tough
I’m gettin’ tough in you fluff
I’m gettin’ down
I’m getting down where you brown
’Cause you
’Cause you got the butt
You got the butt of no joke
I’m gettin’ rough
I’m gettin’ rough in you muff
And over and over.
I repeat these “lyrics” in the hope my good reader might make more sense of them than I could. Indeed, I have not the slightest idea what the words mean. Perhaps, I thought, as I nodded my appreciation, they weren’t supposed to mean anything. Or perhaps they were avant garde, like a lot of modern poetry, which reads, or used to read, like something written for academics to write about, the verbal equivalent of abstract art. I did mention, as an attempt to make polite conversation, that the cadence of his “music” bore some resemblance to rhythm patterns in early English verse. I cited Beowulf as an example.
“Yeah, cool, man. Beowulf. I dig where you’re coming from. They’re one grooving group, man. Punky funk with some real heavy tunes.”
It would be so much easier if we simply despised each other.
The fact is that I have larger concerns than accommodating Sixpak Shakur or placating people like Mr. Castor. And it’s not only Ossmann and Woodley, Bert and Betti, Elsbeth and Diantha. I have as well a gnawing unease about the fate of Korky Kummerbund. It’s simply not in the young man’s character to go away for this long a time without telling Elsbeth and his other friends.
At the same time, as though at another remove, I wonder what’s happening to Corny Chard. People joke that he’s probably been eaten by the tribe in whose purity and cannibalism he puts such faith, but it’s scarcely a laughing matter.
15
Not long after I arrived at the office this morning, I received an unannounced visit from Mr. Freddie Bain that turned out to be disquieting and not a little bizarre. He is, it turns out, the proprietor of both the Green Sherpa and an art, gift, and spice emporium called the Nepalese Realm. I say disquieting because in the aftermath of his visit — the lingering musk of his cologne among other things — I had the distinct impression that he had been sizing me up.
A man as tall as myself but ruggedly built with closely barbered blond hair, a handsome, feral face, and an annoying passive-aggressive manner, he waxed fake obsequious as he placed his card on the edge of my desk. “I won’t take much of your time, Mr. de Ratour,” he said, declining the chair I offered with a gesture. Instead, he walked around the office inspecting the items on display. He wore a tailor-cut hacking jacket of green-brown tweed with leather at the elbows. “Nice. Very good, yes,” he murmured in his strange British English.
I waited a polite amount of time before I asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Bain?”
He turned on me an enigmatic smile shaded with cynicism. “The question, Mr. de Ratour, is what can I do for you?”
I regarded him steadily, resisted a glance at my watch, and said, “You have me at a loss, sir.”
His smile vanished. “I have a considerable private collection of Nepalese art. It includes, for instance, an ancient, wonderfully wrought kirtmukha cheppu. Someday I will have to find a home, a more permanent home for what I have.”
I nodded noncommittedly and dissembled a sudden wariness. It is true that museums and like institutions become cravenly acquisitive when there is some extraordinary piece or collection up for grabs. Especially if it comes with a generous endowment. But more often than not, people in my position are faced with a bereaved widow relating how, above all else, her late husband wanted his collection of Mexican dolls or Siamese elephant miniatures or genuine antique primitive African art to go to the musuem.
Or there are those gentlemen looking for a massive tax write-off for the Japanese swords or hand-sewn quilts they find in the attic that some “expert” has described as “priceless.”
Or there are those instances when the donor wants to supervise the care and display of his or her gift. Just last week I had to patch up yet another dispute between Feidhlimidh de Buitliér, the curator of our small but exquisite Greco-Roman Collection, and Heinrich von Grümh, the Honorary Curator of the Greco-Roman Coin Collection he donated. Von Grümh bullied and charmed me into naming him to that position, a decision I have regretted ever since.
So, when presented with well-intentioned individuals bearing gifts and expecting gratitude, my office in most cases is
to explain, as tactfully as I can, that the MOM must move slowly on acquisitions given the limitations on storage space, display space, curatorial time, preservation, insurance, and the like.
When I began to make this clear to Mr. Bain, he failed to hide a flash of angry incredulity. “I can assure you, Mr. de Ratour, that I have collected the best there is on my journeys to that elevated nation.” Then he relented. “But that is in the future. I understand your position. You must play keeper of the goal.”
I said nothing. And when he responded with a like silence, I made a point of looking at my watch. He gave me a dismissive smile. He said, “You have quite an operation here, Mr. de Ratour. I mean the museum, of course, but also the laboratories and the Pavilion …” He paused. “I’m acquainted with Professor Chard. We have friends in common …”
“Indeed,” I said, bemused now.
“I understand he is on a trip somewhere in South America …”
“As a matter of fact, he’s up at the headwaters of the Rio Sangre, a tributory to the Amazon. I just had a communication from him.”
“Indeed. And he is well?”
“Well enough, I gather.”
“I understand it’s dangerous territory …”
I nodded. Was this the purpose of his visit? I wondered. “Yes, but he reports everything is going well. And let’s hope it stays that way …”
“Excellent. Excellent.” As he spoke his smile appeared like a change of masks. He stood up. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Ratour.”
I rose and took his extended hand, which was large and powerful. “Not at all,” I said.
“And please, if you would oblige me by letting me know when you hear from Professor Chard again. We are all most concerned for his welfare.”
He left me musing. But I decided not to dwell on the man or his visit. Corny attracts all sorts of strange individuals, as, indeed, does the museum.
In fact I have had other matters on my mind. I have been frustrated in attempts to learn anything really pertinent about the parties involved in the date rape case that came up this afternoon at the hearing before the Subcommittee on Appropriateness. At the same time, details came to light that lead me to believe it has a bearing on the Ossmann-Woodley murders.
We met in one of those of those soul-less little rooms that honeycomb Grope Tower. A platter of donuts was set on the largish square table around which, with our coffees, we exchanged pleasantries awaiting what Izzy Landes has deemed “official exercises in prurience.”
That began when a side door opened and the two disputants, followed by Ms. Maria Cowe of Human Resources and her assistant, came into the room. Ms. Bobette Spronger and Mr. Moses Jones sat well apart but facing each other. Ms. Cowe thanked the subcommittee on behalf of the department and made introductions. We in turn introduced ourselves.
I had some difficulty at first imagining the couple engaged in any kind of sexual activity together. Mr. Jones, who pivoted around in his wheelchair with a certain amount of flair, is a man of medium size, quite dark in complexion, with a rectangular face and handsome African features. He wore chino trousers and a plaid shirt with the cuffs neatly folded back, and I could not help but notice his well-muscled arms and shoulders. Ms. Spronger, decidedly plump, with cropped hair emphasizing the roundness of her face, looked to be one of those unfortunate creatures who are attracted to the low pay and opportunities for moral posturing that universities provide.
I was surprised to notice that they appeared to be fond of each other. Ms. Spronger’s glances at Mr. Jones might be described as possessive in a maternal kind of way. He regarded her in turn with that healthy if somewhat naive enthusiasm of the born-again.
Ms. Luraleena Doveen of the President’s Office of Outreach presented “the facts agreed upon.” According to this account, during lunchtime on Thursday, September 28, Ms. Bobette Spronger and Mr. Moses Matthews Jones accompanied each other to a supply closet located in the basement of Sigmund Library for the purposes of having sexual intercourse.
Ms. Doveen, reading from a prepared statement, said that while both parties had “an active talking relationship,” neither had at any time previously contemplated anything like intimate relations with the other. These conversations, often intense, apparently involved attempts on the part of Ms. Spronger to convince Mr. Jones to see himself as an exploited member of “a racist patriarchal system that kept him in an ideological wheelchair.” For his part, Mr. Jones tried to convince Ms. Spronger that sex between women was unnatural and “a perversion of the love Our Lord Jesus has for every living soul.”
“All of a sudden,” they both agree, “they felt a sharp and inexplicable need to have sex with each other.” Upon arriving at the supply closet in question, they closed the door and immediately, “with considerable urgency,” prepared to have sex.
Needless to say, with that statement, the light heretofore flickering in the back of my mind turned painfully bright. Two people of utterly disparate backgrounds and inclinations in matters amatory suddenly suffer a compulsion to have sex with each other. I took the pad thoughtfully provided in front of me and started making notes.
To quote Ms. Doveen again: “The couple began intercourse with Ms. Spronger, divested of her lower undergarments, easing herself onto the lap and erect penis of Mr. Jones while he remained seated in his wheelchair with the wheels locked so as to provide stability.”
At that point the written statement concludes. Their accounts of what happened after that diverge. Ms. Doveen lowered the document in her hand and sat down. The verbal testimony began. By prior arrangement, it was Ms. Spronger who would go first, giving her account of what happened next.
A little nervous (who wouldn’t be?), Ms. Spronger described herself as “a virgin where like the male sex is involved.” In one of those modern accents often heard among young women these days, she continued, “Well, like I’ve never gotten it on with a guy. Some of my sister friends tell me it’s okay but not really that interesting. I mean like it’s over before it begins.
“So when we were sitting there like having lunch and Mosy looks at me and says, ‘You want to go down to the book ends,’ I said sure. I mean I was just thinking about the same thing. I was like horny and all that but I thought maybe it would help him get through this Jesus thing he’s going through.”
“What is the book ends?” Izzy asked.
“It’s like this big storage room in the basement where people sometimes go for privacy. It’s got a combination key on the outside and you can like shut it with a bolt on the inside.”
She glanced significantly at Mr. Jones and continued. “So when we got there we both like pulled down our pants. Mosy was very ready and I was, too. He showed me how to like sit down on him and took care of the details. And we started doing it.”
She seemed to have run out of things to say. I wanted to ask her what they had for lunch, but thought it best to wait.
“Then what happened?” someone prompted gently.
“Then, I don’t know. It was kind of like vigorous motion. Then I felt this feeling go through my whole body, right into my bones. It made me feel strange to myself. When I came to my senses, I said, ‘Please, Mosy, please stop, please.’ But Moses wouldn’t like let me get up.”
Mr. Jones, shaking his head and smiling self-consciously, interrupted. “You kept saying stop but you wouldn’t get off me.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
“Please, Mr. Jones,” Professor Athol admonished. “You’ll have your turn. Ms. Spronger, please continue.”
“I mean he’s like a wheelchair marathoner and he’s got these powerful arms and he just like kept me in place and I gave up trying to stop.”
After a moment of silence, during which time it was more or less established that she had completed her version of things, Professor Athol, who is chair of the subcommittee, asked, “How sure are you that Mr. Jones understood your request to stop?”
“He had to. He was like right there. I
mean you can’t get any closer.”
“Were you facing him or did you have your back to him?” Izzy asked.
“I had my back to him.”
“Could you tell me what you had for lunch?” I asked, drawing puzzled stares and frowns from the other members of the subcommittee.
Ms. Spronger shrugged. “I had rice.”
“From a restaurant?”
“No, I made it myself.”
“Is this really pertinent?” Ariel Dearth asked.
“It could be very pertinent.” But glancing around at a majority of puzzled frowns, I realized the morass of skepticism I would have to slog through to get to the facts. I decided to interview them privately as soon as I could. Like a cross-examining attorney, I shook my head. “No more questions.”
Mr. Jones spoke next. His account accorded pretty much with what Ms. Spronger had to say except for his motivation and who would or would not desist during their congress. While admitting, like her, to a sudden, inexplicable impulse to have sex, he added a note of righteousness, saying, “I thought if I could show her what she was missing by messing around with other women, I would be doing the work of the Lord.”
He said that while he did hear Ms. Spronger use the word stop, he was unable to lift her considerable bulk off his lap, especially as she continued “to squirm around like she was really into it.” He continued, “Then I really shot my wad. I mean I had an ejaculation like man …” He was shaking his head.
“Then I told Bobbers okay. I mean she should get off, I mean off of me. I said I’d had enough. I tried to push her, but she had grabbed the arms of the wheelchair and wouldn’t let go.”
The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man Page 10