CHAPTER
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ATTEMPTED MURDER IN THE MUSEUM OF MAN
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
It is spring at last and I have come to the cottage to vanquish the demons still lurking here and to finish trimming the apple trees, a job I was doing when so rudely interrupted by the late Mr. Burker. I would have ventured out earlier, but in the wake of these dark happenings, I had been afflicted by a low-grade depression that persisted through a dark, cold winter. But things of late have been going well. Indeed, I have enjoyed such a spate of good fortune that I suffer from a form of anxiety that the psychiatric industry might well label anxiety-deficit disorder. I jest, of course, but not entirely. With each passing day, the sun grows brighter and ever warmer. And when I get glimpses between distant clouds of a pale blue-green sky, my heart lurches with an ache I cannot fathom. I await with trepidation the beauty of spring, too conscious of how ephemeral it is, of how the lilacs, cherries, forsythia, laurels, jonquils and tulips blossom, dazzle the eye, and then are gone, as though forever. It’s a reminder that they will be gone forever one of these days, at least where I’m concerned. Some good has come out of the events of last summer and autumn. As a result of all the publicity, Diantha has not only been taken on by a diligent agent, but has landed a part in a gritty crime thriller set in blue-collar Boston. It has lots of terse, meaningful dialogue and a plot that, involving heists, drugs, and several varieties of homicide, explores the dark side of human nature. Or that’s what she’s tells me. I have no objections, indeed I like to think that I encourage her. My only real objection is to the occasional mouth-sucking kisses so favored by Hollywood that she must indulge with her “love interest,” a brawny type with a shorn head. Diantha has maintained her connection with the Little Theater. It continues to thrive, due in part to the fact that Alice Talty has had some luck with an expensive divorce lawyer. The author of much of this recent mayhem, Ivor Pavonine, has been confined, perhaps indefinitely, at an institution for the criminally insane. Despite valiant efforts by his defense counsel, Ivor persisted in turning court appearances into what he called “living theater,” standing to cue the judge, the attorneys and even the various kinds of officers who shuffle in and out with documents. “But, your honor, this is real. You are the director. I am the star, of course, but we all have our roles to play.” On another occasion, he told the judge that this was life as art as life par excellence and that if she would but listen to him, she would know that daily her life and those of the characters around her constituted living art. Subsequent institutionalization in a medium security facility for the criminally mentally challenged where the evaluation is on-going going forward appears to suit him to a tee. He writes regularly to Diantha. It seems he has formed an acting troop among his fellow inmates. “We are all writing and staging our own plays,” he said in one missive. “This is where it’s happening. This is the future of theater because here, minute to minute, day to day, life is drama. The characters/people cannot be imagined. One of the guests claims to be a stallion that won the Kentucky Derby. He had been going around accosting women and asking a lot of money for stud fees. He has a wonderful, convincing whinny. We’ve improvised a training paddock for him in the exercise yard, but there are no mares around for him to cover.” On a more positive note, the Union of Concerned Bankers has finally come through with the award money they posted for the rescue of the three kidnapped men. Felix, God bless him, sent their lawyers a letter mentioning the possibility of a $100 million damage suit for breach of contract, emotional agony, and the like. When they tried to bargain, he upped the amount of the suit to two hundred and fifty million. “You see, Norman,” he told me with his sly smile, “these guys are used to numbers like that. To them it’s real. And after a while, ten million starts to look like a pittance.” I am now an unofficial consultant to Humburger Enterprises as it moves forward with development of Hobbes Landing on Ile de Grand Cochon. It’s been scaled back to the point where much of the island will be set aside as a nature preserve. There has been some talk about preserving the bunker where the kidnapped men were entombed -- as a tourist destination. And, of course, there’s much talk about making a movie about the incident -- the kidnapping itself, the imprisonment, the families, and then the rescue. The Maurice and Dorice Humburger Foundation are in negotiations with both the museum and the Center for Criminal Justice to build an underground parking garage that will have spaces reserved for the general public -- at a price. A modest plaque of granite or marble over the entrance will simply have “Humburger” incised on it. Closer to my heart, the couple has generously agreed to endow the museum’s extensive collection of Paleolithic coprolites. The bequest includes a senior curatorship in John Murdleston’s name. In short, the largesse has continued to pour in, perhaps more than I might wish, at least where one particular property is concerned. Through his attorneys, I was been informed that Victor Carnovan, AKA Karnivorsky, has left the Eigermount and its considerable land to the museum along with a generous endowment and a non-de-acquisition clause of fifty years. I have, as they say, been hoisted on my own petard. To be blunt about it, what am I to do with the place? Lease it out to mobsters? Once again Commander Dowlgleish came to my rescue with a quite marvelous suggestion: why not make it into a museum of murder? Still, I sighed at the thought. It is one thing to run a museum, it is quite another to start one from scratch. On the other hand, there should be no shortage of material for exhibits. I am told that police departments all over the world have repositories of the sad detritus of homicide -- the knives, guns, bludgeons, as well as the confessions, the crime scene stuff, not to mention photographs. I will, of course, form a committee to investigate all possibilities. When I related the commander’s suggestion to Felix, he grew quite excited in his enthusiasm. “I mean, think about it, Norman. We could find an old electric chair and set up in a special display. For an extra fee, visitors could be strapped in and given a little tingle. We’d have to be careful, of course, I mean with all those attorneys out there looking for work.” It appears that Mr. Carnovan has taken up residence at Austen Abbey in Kent. I recently received a note from him, typed by a secretary, no doubt. He tells me that he is thoroughly enjoying life as an English squire. Commander Dowlgleish, though whose good offices the Russian was able to take up residence in England, tells me that he has been subscribing generously to various charities and lobbying quietly for a knighthood. Sir Victor. Wonders never cease. Alphus has finished his book on the environment. I must say that the endorsements he has received for the cover are quite extraordinary. One eminent conservationist wrote, “At long last we have heard from a species other than our own about what people are doing to a world we all must share. Cogently argued, convincing in its passion, this call to action pulls no punches in demanding of humankind that it do nothing less than clean up its act.” I must admit, with not a little envy, that it has best-seller written all over it. I am glad now to have signed off on the joint venture between the lab and Transtek to proceed with the development of Regenitin. In the final analysis, Father O’Gould’s book, The Future of Eternal Life describes a situation more dire than what I gathered from his lecture. What he has explored is nothing less than the next campaign in the on-going cultural wars. It won’t be about polygamy or allowing women to play professional football. It won’t be about the rise of China and the decline of the West or about radical Islam and everyone else. It will center on the choice between ordinary, hydro-carbon life and a rapidly evolving cybernetic consciousness. For any number of reasons, I am on the side of flesh and blood, mostly, I suppose, because I lack the imagination to conceive of any other way of living. With some prodding from Alphus, who has become my furry environmental conscience, I was able to secure from the Transtek deal considerable support for a human-no-go area in Gabon, a west African nation that has already set aside considerable land for national parks. Alphus has been adamant as to the guarantees and conditions in the initial planning. No overflights. No researchers. No trespass of any kind. A sophisticated armed security system and provisions for expansion in the future. We both see it as a bright spot in the struggle to keep the biosphere from being utterly overrun and degraded by people. Finally, Diantha and I have seldom been more in love. We are unabashedly smitten with one another and at the same time mindful of the challenges her acting career will present, especially as she prepares to fly back and forth to locations in Boston for “shoots.” At the moment, as I pen this, we are all out at the cottage together, a crimson bulb of sugared water hanging on the porch as we await the first rubythroat of spring. In the meanwhile I have much to do in the garden, especially with the apple trees. As their buds swell preparatory to leafing and blossoming, I find I must clip and prune, push and pull and tie back an exuberance of new twigs and branchlets if I am to keep these things up against the wall. ### |
