The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe (15 page)

38

W
e spent the next three hours in the condo.

Use your imagination.

We agreed to meet at Dos Hermanas. She wanted to freshen up. I walked to Old Town in a warm cloud of contentment and took Geronimo for a walk.

After two rounds of the Plaza, I sat down on the banquette in front of San Felipe de Neri Catholic Church, the spiritual heart of Albuquerque for more than three hundred years. A sign was posted outside:

Clases de Catecismo en Español—todas edades.

Martes, 6:30pm–8:00pm, en el Salón Parroquial junto a la iglesia.

Primer Grado–High School, incluyendo clases de preparación para la Primera Comunión.

Typical of New Mexico, I reflected, that
High School
was written in English. There was no reason for it, just as there is no reason why Spanish words find their way into most conversations in English out here. We joke about Spanglish, but this is bilingualism at its best. English and Spanish don't compete. They just lazily intermingle as people use whatever word pops to mind.

“You are planning to attend the catechism classes, Youbird?”

The voice was unmistakable, a rumbling basso profundo with an Eastern European accent you could cut with a kielbasa. Father Groas is over six feet tall, tips the scales at close to an eighth of a ton and has a thick bushy beard.

“I'm a bit old for that, aren't I?”

“The sign says
todas edades
.”

“Would it help me deal with being in love?”

He sat down beside me and patted Geronimo on the head. “So your relation with Miss Clarke grows serious?”

“You know about her?”

“Yass. Someone mention her to me. A friend who worry that you will have problems.”

If, as I immediately assumed, the friend was Miss Gladys, I wasn't bothered that she mentioned it to Father Groas. In fact, I was happy she cared about me enough to do so. I suspect she never saw a black/white couple growing up in East Texas in the '40s.

She is flustered when we talk about it. Not because she's opposed to it but because she's so worried she might say the wrong thing, so she tiptoes around the topic.

She's not the only one. It seems to be a national obsession. Some official in our nation's capital was fired recently for using
niggardly
, a term derived from an Old Norse word that meant to worry about small things and thus came to mean
stingy
in English. It is not derived from the Latin word for black and has nothing to do with the N word. Yet you can now be fired not only for using the N word (which would be justified) but also for using a word that
sounds
like it.

What's next? Will we be unable to say someone has
pluck
because it sounds like the F word? Or
flitch
because it sounds like the B word? Or, if you say it the Canadian way,
Regina
because it sounds like the V word?

“What do you think, Father?”

“It doss not take great wisdom to know that a mixed couple will have some problems. But is not important. Marriage is a gift from God, who we are told in Genesis created us in His image as male and female. The sacrament of marriage makes of the husband and wife one flesh. So if you and Miss Clarke marry, you will not be different colors—you will be one flesh.”

“But I will still be white and she will still be black.”

“You must look beyond appearances, Youbird, and reach for the deeper truths.”

It sounded like good advice.

“What about you, Father? Were you ever in love?”

His hand disappeared into his beard. I assume he was stroking his chin. Or looking for a lost button. Who knows what's in there?

“Yass. Was a teacher in my village. She was pearhaps not so good a teacher. She taught me English,” he said, and shook as he laughed. “Bot she was beautiful, and I wish she was not married. And I thought it was because of her that I am not interested in the girls of the village. Bot was probably because I know that I am not handsome man, and they will not like me. Bot later I realize I want to serve all people, so I become a priest.”

“The Church is lucky to have you.”

39

I
walked to my residence and let myself in through the back door in the alley. I called Susannah to inquire if she minded Sharice joining us for drinks, an afterthought since I had already invited her.

“You don't need to call me now. I already missed the chance to make the right first impression.” I know her so well that the level voice didn't fool me. She was still a bit miffed.

“Well, despite my insensitivity, you made a great impression on her.”

“If you say so. See you both when you get there.”

I went through the workshop to the shop and invited Glad to the cocktail hour, figuring a fourth might help avoid any awkward moments.

Sharice arrived while I was doing so.

“You'll be buying,” he said, and beamed, his face even pinker than usual.

“You made a sale?”

“The Anasazi with the crooked bottom and the small crack.”

“Sounds like a girl I used to date,” I said, and Sharice poked me in the arm.

Glad handed … no, that doesn't sound right. Glad
gave
me a check for $10,000 from the fellow who'd been admiring that pot for three years.

I felt more or less as I expected to. I was sorry to know I'd never again own that pot, maybe never even see it. And I was unhappy that it had sold for a third of what I was asking. I thought we had agreed on half off, not two-thirds off. But I didn't want to be niggardly. After all, I'd paid only $1,000 for it a few years back. So even if you factor in inflation, the return on investment was healthy. But most important, I needed the money. Better to pay the mortgage than to have the pot, I told myself.

My self replied that I was right.

So the bounce in my step as our threesome entered Dos Hermanas and joined Susannah at our table was not solely from the romantic day spent with Sharice.

Angie surveyed the group and said, “Two margaritas, one without salt, a glass of Gruet Blanc de Noir, and a pink gin.”

I showed Susannah the check.

“Great. Even though you already said I won the bet, this cinches it.”

“What was the wager?” asked Glad.

“I told Hubie that having you mind the shop in his absence would increase sales. He didn't think so because he claimed that people who want an expensive pot are not impulse buyers so it doesn't matter if he's not there—they'll just come back when he is.”

“Maybe once or twice,” said Sharice. “But then they might lose patience and buy something else.”

Susannah said, “That's what I told him,” and looked at Sharice with an expression of camaraderie.

“What would they buy instead?” I challenged. Although I was pleased that détente might settle on Sharice and Susannah, I wasn't willing to abandon my belief that pots are not just another high-end piece of merchandise competing with BMWs and Rolexes.

But Sharice had the perfect rejoinder.

“The pot I have was given to me,” she said, sneaking a glance at me. “But if I'd gone to Spirits in Clay two or three times to buy it and the place was closed, I would have gone shopping for a Georgia O'Keeffe painting instead.”

It isn't much of a coincidence that Sharice mentioned O'Keeffe. Everybody out here mentions her. She's as much a part of New Mexico as green chile. You can peg a New Mexican's economic status by whether they own an O'Keeffe painting or merely a print.

When I didn't reply, Susannah said, “She got you, Hubie. Even you would admit that some of your best customers might prefer an O'Keeffe to a Maria.”

“Maybe. But if they can afford an O'Keeffe, they're rich enough to also buy a pot.”

“Especially now that you're having a fire sale,” she said, and I winced.

“When you said you were going for brunch, I didn't realize I'd be minding the shop so long,” Glad said to me. “What were you two up to all afternoon?”

Sharice and I glanced at each other.

There was the predictable awkward silence.

Susannah laughed. “They probably won't want to answer that.”

“I see,” he said, a bit embarrassed but not enough to stop him from adding, “A bit of slap and tickle, I suppose.”

“Hubie doesn't know what that means,” Susannah said to no one in particular, “because he doesn't watch the BBC shows on PBS.”

“And I don't watch PBS shows on BBC, but I think I can guess.”

Glad said, “I hope I didn't offend you, Miss Clarke.”

“Not at all. And please call me Sharice.”

We left after two rounds and much banter and ran into Miss Gladys heading toward my shop with the dreaded gingham bag.

I thanked her for thinking of me but explained that Sharice was cooking for me.

“Oh, pshaw. I knew that as soon as I saw she was here. I brought this for Gladwyn.”

Gladwyn? She always calls me Mr. Schuze.

“How very kind of you,” Glad said. “And what delight have you brought?”

“New Mexican chop suey.”

A muscle in my stomach quivered.

“Brilliant,” he said, and—taking the bag from her—led her into his shop with his free hand on her elbow.

“I hope you can join us for dinner,” Sharice said to Susannah after our companions had closed the door. “I can guarantee it won't be chop suey, New Mexican or otherwise.”

Susannah was still staring at the door. “Gladwyn and Gladys. Why am I not surprised?” Then she looked at us as if she had just then heard the invite. “Thanks, Sharice, but there is no way I'm going to be a third. Maybe another time when the numbers are different. I do look forward to sampling your cooking. Hubie raves about it.”

She kissed each of us on the cheek and left.

40

T
he next few days were a blissful interlude in my vexations. Of course, I didn't know that at the time because interludes require both a before and an after.

The
before
vexations were clear enough. I had failed on two attempts at the simple task of carrying a two-pound piece of clay out of the White Sands Missile Range, and I had been robbed at gunpoint.

The
after
vexations began when Diego came to my shop.

During the interlude, I paid my mortgage and whittled $3,000 off the bill from Consuela Sanchez's kidney doctor. That left me with a good chunk of the $10,000 from the “fire sale,” but I was holding on to it in case I needed to stretch it out.

I spent the days reading and minding the shop. I spent three nights at Sharice's condo. She reciprocated by gamely spending one night at my place even though my only bed is a single. It turned out not to be a problem because she is so delightfully wispy.

And it was nice being so close. Life was perfect during my interlude.

Then Diego showed up.

His hair is oiled and combed straight back, no part. His skin is medium brown and flawless. His fingernails are manicured. As far as I have been able to observe, all his suits are dark blue, all his shirts white with French cuffs and all his ties of yellow silk.

Or maybe he owns only one outfit.

His manners and diction are as perfect as his grooming.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Schuze. Ms. Po requests the pleasure of your company if you are free this afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“At the time of your choosing.”

“Let me get a coat and tie.”

Faye Po's two-story home on Silver Avenue is an architectural Oreo—traditional dark adobe on the outside, stark white on the inside. The old wood floors were scraped and bleached. The walls and ceilings are solid white. Even the hand-carved and hand-painted vigas were coated in white. A shame when you think about the craftsmen who originally painted them, but it does create a striking effect.

Across from the double pocket doors that lead into the parlor is an ornate mantelpiece carved from a single piece of jade. Above the mantel is a niche of the sort that is common in old adobe buildings. I glanced briefly at the Tompiro pot I'd sold her last year.

On the walls to the left and right are family portraits, old women seated in stiff chairs, bound feet flat on the floor, hands inside their garments. Men in flowing robes and strange hats, each hair of their sparse goatees drawn with precision.

The chairs of heavy brocade in dark hues of green and blue seem to anchor the otherwise gossamer room, preventing it from floating away. A red candle flickered on the table next to her chair.

It reminded me of a poem from a book Ms. Po gave me and that I recently thumbed through again before giving it to Sharice, who likes Zen poetry.

My visits to Faye Po are like adventures in a stream-of-consciousness novel. She nodded to me as I entered. “Good afternoon, Mr. Schuze. Thank you for coming to visit an old woman.”

I walked to her chair and accepted the proffered hand.

“Vermilion candles shining on white hair.”

“A line from Li Po,” she noted. “Most appropriate. Will you have tea?”

I nodded and Diego poured. In addition to the tea, there were small cakes, filled with smashed fruit I did not recognize, tasting faintly of a cross between date and green pea.

At my request, she told me a story of her girlhood on the banks of the Pearl River in Guangdong. Her stories always sound apocryphal and have Aesop-esque lessons.

“A very old man—a stranger—came to my village hoping to find the graves of his ancestors. He came to my house because my father was the mayor. My father explained that we do not put names on the graves because everyone knows where their ancestors are buried. But the stranger's family had moved many years ago and no one in the village remembered his family or where they were buried. As the stranger gazed sadly out the window, he saw pieces of colored paper floating in the breeze. My father explained that it was a local custom for communicating with departed spirits. Then he put some of these papers in the stranger's hand and directed him to throw them out the window. They all floated to an old overgrown part of the cemetery, and my father officially declared that these were the stranger's ancestors.”

I thanked her for the story and the tea. Diego poured me a second cup. She asked if I might do her a favor. She had a new Indian pot she wanted me to examine. A note of concern in her voice told me this was more than a request to identify the pueblo or the likely date.

“I would be honored to see your new piece of pottery.”

“You have already seen it. I saw you glance at it as you entered. But now you must look more closely. It is there above the fireplace.”

I looked up. I heard something hit the floor and shatter. A teacup.

Mine, I realized after a moment of confusion.

I saw Diego bending down with a towel. I looked back up in disbelief at the niche.

I tried to gather my wits. “I am so sorry.” I started to bend down to remove some pieces of the cup.

“Diego will see to it. Do not worry. It was not a treasured piece like those you have brought me over the years. Would you like another cup?”

“Thank you, no. I must leave. I will withhold my opinion on the pot until I have done research.” I managed a smile. “And that gives me an excuse to visit you again.”

“I hope you will forgive me for not walking you to the door. It is old age, not bad manners, that prevents it.”

I declined Diego's offer to drive me home, in part because it's only five blocks. But mainly because I needed the solitude of a walk to digest what I'd just seen.

The Tompiro in the niche was not the one I sold to her last year.

It was my fake.