The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man (13 page)

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.

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.”

“That’s not true, Mosy, and you know it.”

“Please, Ms. Spronger, allow Mr. Jones to continue,” said Professor Athol. “Mr. Jones …”

“Then, I don’t know. I never did lose my woody, so we were into it again. You know what I’m saying. I think she was coming again.”

From the rest of his account, events apparently continued in that fashion for some time before the couple, sexually exhausted and horrified at what had happened, were able to separate and make themselves presentable.

“What made you stop finally?” Ms. Brattle asked.

Mr. Jones shrugged. “I lost my woody.”

“If the arms of the wheelchair were lowered,” Izzy asked, “how did Ms. Spronger manage to stay in place?”

“I only lowered them halfway down.”

By this time I was in an agony of interrogative anticipation. I had a dozen questions I could have asked them. What did they have to eat? Where did their lunch come from? How long after they started eating did this strange and sudden passion come over them? What was the exact nature of this passion? I did ask Mr. Jones, “Had you ever felt any sexual attraction to Ms. Spronger prior to this encounter?”

“No way. I mean she digs other chicks. That’s not my scene. I am one with the Lord on this.”

When there appeared to be no more questions, Professor Athol thanked the disputants. They in turn thanked the committee and, in the company of Ms. Cowe and her assistant, withdrew.

The subcommittee at this point entered the deliberation phase preparatory to making a preliminary finding. By degrees and perhaps inevitably, the discussion turned to the nature of erections.