Dance of Death (15 page)

She paused. People were listening attentively, and while she knew not all agreed with her, at least they were giving her a respectful hearing.

"The tribe is divided into moieties-that is, two religious groups. The Great Kiva Society masks are used
only
when these moieties come together for religious ceremonies in the Great Kiva-the kiva being the circular underground chamber that serves as their place of worship. They hold these great ceremonies only once every four years. They believe these ceremonies maintain balance and harmony in the tribe, in all people of the earth, and in the natural world. They believe-and I'm not exaggerating here-that the terrible wars and natural disasters of the last hundred years are due to the fact that they don't have the Great Kiva masks and have been unable to perform properly the ceremony restoring balance and beauty to the world."

She went on for another five minutes and then wrapped it up, glad that she'd been able to keep it relatively short.

Menzies thanked her, glanced around the table. "And now, let the debate begin."

There was a shuffling. Then a thin voice piped up, carrying a slightly aggrieved tone. It was Dr. Prine. The slope-shouldered curator rose to his feet. "Being a specialist in Etruscan archaeology, I don't know much about the Tano Indians, but I think the whole business has a bad odor to it. Why are the Tano suddenly so interested in these masks? How do we know the Tano won't just turn around and sell them? They must be worth millions. I'm very suspicious about their motives."

Margo bit her lip. She remembered Prine from her graduate student days: a dim bulb that had only grown dimmer with the passage of years. His life's research, she recalled, was a study of Etruscan liver divination.

"For these reasons and many others," Prine went on, "I'm strongly in favor of keeping the masks. In fact, I can't believe we're seriously considering returning them. We bought them, we own them, and we should keep them." He sat down abruptly.

A short chubby man with a furze of red hair encircling a large bald spot rose next. Margo recognized him as George Ashton, chief curator of the Sacred Images exhibition. Ashton was a capable anthropologist, if temperamental and easily riled. And he looked riled now.

"I agree with Dr. Prine, and I take strong objection to this editorial." He turned to Margo, his eyes almost popping from his round red face, chin doubling and tripling in his excitement. "I consider it highly inappropriate that Dr. Green raised this question at this time. We're less than a week from the opening of the biggest show at the museum in years, costing almost five million dollars. The Great Kiva masks are the centerpiece of the show. If we pull those masks, there's no way the show will open on time. Really, Dr. Green, I find your timing on this matter to be
truly
unfortunate." He paused long enough to give Margo a fiery stare, then turned to Menzies. "Hugo, I propose we table this question until after the show has closed. Then we can debate it at leisure. Of course, giving back the masks is unthinkable, but for heaven's sake let's make that decision after the show."

Margo waited. She would respond at the end-if Menzies gave her the opportunity.

Menzies smiled placidly at the indignant curator. "For the record, George, I would note that the timing has nothing to do with Dr. Green-it's in response to the receipt of a letter from the Tano Indians, which was triggered by your own pre-publicity campaign for the show."

"Yes, but does she have to publish this editorial?" Ashton slashed the air with a piece of paper. "She could at least wait until after the show
closes.
This is going to create a public relations nightmare!"

"We are not in the business of public relations," said Menzies mildly.

Margo cast him a grateful look. She had expected his support, but this was more than just support.

"Public relations are a reality! We can't just sit in our ivory tower and ignore public opinion, can we? I'm trying to open a show under the most trying conditions, and I do not appreciate being undercut like this-not by Dr. Green and certainly not by you, Hugo!"

He sat down, breathing hard.

Menzies said quietly, "Thank you for your opinion, George."

Ashton nodded curtly.

Patricia Wong, a research associate in the Textile Department, stood up. "The issue, it seems to me, is simple. The museum acquired the masks unethically, perhaps even illegally. Margo demonstrates that clearly in her editorial. The Tano asked for them back. If we as a museum have any pretense to ethics, we should return them right away. I respectfully disagree with Dr. Ashton. To keep the masks for the show and display them to all the world and then return them admitting we were wrong to have them-that would look hypocritical, or at best opportunistic."

"Hear, hear," said another curator.

"Thank you, Dr. Wong," said Menzies as the woman sat back down.

And now Nora Kelly was standing up, sweeping cinnamon hair from her face, slender and tall. She looked around, poised and confident. Margo felt a swelling of irritation.

"There are two questions before us," she began, her voice low and reasonable. "The first is whether Margo has the right to publish the editorial. I think we all agree that the editorial independence of
Museology
must be preserved, even if some of us don't like the opinions expressed."

There was a general murmuring of agreement, except from Ashton, who crossed his arms and snorted audibly.

"And I am one of those who does not agree with this editorial."

Here it comes,
thought Margo.

"It's more than a question of mere ownership. I mean, who owns Michelangelo's
David?
If the Italians wanted to break it up to make marble bathroom tiles, would that be acceptable? If the Egyptians decided to level the Great Pyramid for a parking lot, would that be okay? Do they own it? If the Greeks wanted to sell the Parthenon to a Las Vegas casino, would that be their right?"

She paused.

"The answer to these questions must be no. These things are owned by all of humanity. They are the highest expressions of the human spirit, and their value transcends all questions of ownership. So it is with the Great Kiva masks. Yes, the museum acquired them unethically. But they are so extraordinary, so important, and so magnificent that they cannot be returned to the Tano to disappear forever into a dark kiva. So I say: publish the editorial. Let's have the debate. But for God's sake, don't give back the masks." She paused again, thanked them for listening, and sat down.

Margo felt a redness creeping into her face. As much as she hated to admit it, Nora Kelly was formidable.

Menzies looked around, but it appeared that no one had any more comments. He turned to Margo. "Anything further to add? Now is the time to speak."

She sprang to her feet. "Yes. I'd like to rebut Dr. Kelly."

"Please."

"Dr. Kelly has conveniently overlooked one critical point: the masks are religious objects, unlike everything else she cited."

Nora was immediately on her feet. "The Parthenon isn't a temple? The
David
isn't a figure from the Bible? The Great Pyramid isn't a sacred tomb?"

"For heaven's sakes, they're not religious objects now. No one goes to the Parthenon to sacrifice rams anymore!"

"Exactly my point. Those objects have
transcended
their original limited religious function. Now they belong to all of us, regardless of religion. Just so with the Great Kiva masks. The Tano may have created them for religious purposes, but now they belong to the world."

Margo felt the flush spread through her body. "Dr. Kelly, may I suggest that your logic is better suited to an undergraduate classroom in philosophy than a meeting of anthropologists in the greatest natural history museum in the world?"

A silence followed. Menzies slowly turned toward Margo, fixed her with his blue eyes, over which his eyebrows were drawn down in displeasure. "Dr. Green, passion in science is a marvelous quality. But we must insist upon
civility
as well."

Margo swallowed. "Yes, Dr. Menzies." Her face flamed. How had she allowed herself to lose her temper? She didn't even dare glance over at Nora Kelly. Here she was, not only creating controversy but making enemies in her own department.

There was a general nervous clearing of throats, a few whispers.

"Very well," Menzies said, his voice back to its soothing note. "I've gotten the drift of opinion from both sides, and it appears we are more or less evenly divided. At least among those with opinions. I have made my decision."

He paused, casting his eye around the group.

"I will be bringing two recommendations to the director. The first is that the editorial be published. Margo is to be commended for initiating the debate with a well-reasoned editorial, which upholds the best traditions of
Museology
journal."

He took a breath. "My second recommendation is that the masks be returned to the Tano. Forthwith."

There was a stunned silence. Margo could hardly believe it- Menzies had come down one hundred percent on her side. She had won. She sneaked a glance at Nora, saw the woman's face now reddening as well.

"The ethics of our profession are clear," Menzies went on. "Those ethics state, and I quote: 'The first responsibility of an anthropologist is to the people under study.' It pains me more than I can say to see the museum lose those masks. But I have to agree with Drs. Green and Wong: if we are to set an ethical example, we must return them. Yes, the timing is certainly awkward, and it creates an enormous problem with the exhibition. I'm sorry, George. It can't be helped."

"But the loss to anthropology, to the world-" Nora began.

"I have said what I have to say," said Menzies, just a shade of tartness entering his voice. "This meeting is adjourned."

EIGHTEEN

Bill Smithback rounded a corner, stopped, then breathed a sigh of relief. There, at the far end of the corridor, lay the door to Fenton Davies's office, open and unvexed by the lingering shade of Bryce Harriman. In fact, come to think of it, Smithback hadn't seen much of Harriman at all today. As he walked toward Davies's office, a fresh spring in his step, he rubbed his hands together, feeling a delicious shudder of schadenfreude at Harriman's bad luck. To think Harriman had been so eager to get his mitts on the Dangler story. Well, he was welcome to it. In retrospect, it wasn't really much of a
Times
story, anyway: far too undignified, tending toward the burlesque. Still, Harriman-what with his recent stint at the
Post
-would probably find it right up his alley.

Smithback chuckled as he walked.

He, on the other hand, had scored a major coup by landing the Duchamp murder. It was everything a big story should be: unusual, compelling, galvanic. It was the number one topic of conversation around watercoolers all over the city: the gentle, kindly artist who- for no apparent reason-had been bound, a hangman's noose fitted around his neck, then forced out of a twenty-fourth-story window and sent crashing through the roof of one of Manhattan's fancy French restaurants. All this in broad daylight in front of hundreds of witnesses.

Smithback slowed a little as he approached Davies's office. True, those many witnesses were proving hard as hell to track down. And so far, he'd had to content himself with the police department's official line and what discreet conjectures he'd drummed out of those usually in the know, who were proving disconcertingly out of the know in this case. But the story would break open. Nora was right when she said he always came through in the end. How well she understood him. It was just a matter of working every angle, maintaining traction.

No doubt that was why Davies had summoned him: the editor was eager for more. No sweat, he'd tell Davies he was chasing down some choice leads from his confidential sources. He'd get his ass back up to Broadway and 65th. Today there wouldn't be any cops around to cramp his style. Then he'd go haunt the precinct house, talk to an old pal there, see what crumbs he could pick up. No, he corrected himself:
crumbs
wasn't the right word. Other reporters picked up crumbs, while Smithback found the cake-and ate it, too.

Chuckling at his own metaphorical wit, he paused at the secretarial station outside Davies's office. Vacant.
Late lunch,
Smithback thought. Striding forward, feeling and looking every inch the ace reporter, he breezed up, raising his hand to knock on the open door.

Davies was sitting, Buddha-like, behind his cluttered desk. He was short and perfectly bald, with fastidious little hands that always seemed to be doing something: smoothing his tie or playing with a pencil or tracing the lines of his eyebrows. He favored blue shirts with white collars and tightly knotted paisley ties. With his high, soft voice and effeminate mannerisms, Davies might look to the uninitiated like a pushover. But Smithback had learned that this was not the case. You didn't get to be an editor at the
Times
without at least a few pints of barracuda blood coursing through your veins. But his delivery was so mild it sometimes took a moment to realize you'd just been disemboweled. He played his cards close to his vest, listened more than he spoke, and one rarely knew what he was really thinking. He didn't fraternize with his reporters, didn't hang out with theother editors, and seemed to prefer his own company. There was only one extra chair in his office, and it was never occupied.