Dance Of Death

FIFTY

Nora Kelly paused on the corner of 77th Street and Museum Drive, looking northward. The great Romanesque entrance to the museum was lit up with spotlights, a five-story banner touting the opening hung on the facade. Below, the drive was packed with the usual New York chaos of limos and black Mercedes, disgorging patrons and celebrities in furs and black tie to successive waves of flashes. The inevitable red carpet had been rolled down the granite steps, which were roped off as if at a movie premiere, to keep back the press and the uninvited. The whole spectacle made her sick.

Margo Green had been brutally murdered just two days ago and buried this very morning-yet it was as if the museum had already dismissed and forgotten her. Nora wondered what would happen if she just turned around and went back to her apartment; but she already knew the answer: she might as well kiss her career good-bye. She was supposedly one of the stars of this show, as George Ashton had made all too clear to her. The show must go on.

Taking a deep breath, and pulling her woolen coat more tightly about her shoulders, she started forward. As she drew closer, she noticed a commotion off to one side. A group of short, heavyset men dressed in buckskins and wrapped in decorated blankets was standing in a circle, beating drums and chanting-some waving bundles of smoking sagebrush. After a moment of incomprehension, she suddenly realized what it was all about: the Tano protesters had arrived. She could see Manetti, the security director, talking with them and gesturing, flanked by a couple of NYPD cops and some museum guards. It seemed the commotion had begun to attract the attention of the guests, and some of them were coming over to see what was happening.

"Excuse me!" Nora pushed her way through some gawkers, ducked under the velvet rope, stuck her museum badge in the face of a protesting guard, and approached the group of Indians. At that very moment, a beautiful young woman came sweeping up: a star or starlet of some kind, judging by the trail of paparazzi that followed in her wake.

"This is private property," Manetti was saying to what Nora assumed was the leader of the Tanos. "We don't object to your protesting, but you have to do it down there, on the sidewalk-"

"Sir," the leader began in a quiet voice, "we are not protesting, we are praying-"

"Whatever. This is private property."

The celebrity waded in. With a jolt, Nora recognized her as movie star Wanda Meursault, tall, exotic, and vaguely foreign, rumored to be in line for best actress at the upcoming Academy Awards.

"Hold on! Why shouldn't these people have a right to pray?" she demanded to a dozen simultaneous flashes. A thicket of boomed mikes came swinging around to capture every deathless word that might drop from her lips, and TV lights fired up.

Instantly, Nora saw a P.R. disaster in the making.

"I'm not saying they can't pray," Manetti said, exasperation strong in his voice. "All I'm saying is that this is private property-"

"These Native Americans are praying." Meursault turned and asked, as an afterthought: "Why are you praying?"

"We're praying for our sacred masks, locked in a case in the museum," the leader said.

"They've locked up your sacred masks?" The actress's face bloomed in mock horror.

The cameras zeroed in.

Something had to be done-and fast. Nora shoved forward, pushing aside a policeman and jostling Manetti to one side.

"Hey, just a minute," the security director began.

"Nora Kelly, assistant curator of the exhibition," Nora explained to the cop, dangling her badge before every official face within reach. She turned to the security director. "I'll handle this, Mr. Manetti."

"Dr. Kelly, these people are trespassing on museum property-"

"I know that. I'll handle it."

Manetti fell silent. Amazing, Nora thought, how quickly a sharp tone and an air of authority-an authority she didn't have-could turn the tables.

She turned to the Tano leader, startled to see he was old, at least seventy. The calmness and dignity in his face was remarkable. This wasn't the young, angry activist she had imagined. The other men were equally aged, all somewhat rotund, wrapped in Pendleton wool blankets. The old VW bus they'd arrived in, a real junker, was parked illegally on Museum Drive and would no doubt soon be towed.

"Y'aah shas slit dz'in nitsa," she said to the man.

The leader stared at her dumbfounded. "Y'aah shas," he said hastily, as if remembering himself. "How-?"

"I spent some time at Tano Pueblo," said Nora. "That's all I know of your language, so please don't try to reply!" She smiled and held out her hand. "Nora Kelly, one of the curators of the show. I believe I spoke to one of your colleagues."

"You spoke to me."

"Then you must be Mr. Wametowa."

The old man nodded.

"How can I help you?" Nora asked.

"They want to pray!" Meursault shouted from the sidelines.

Nora ignored her, keeping her attention on Wametowa.

"We're praying to the masks," he said. "That's all we're asking, to speak to our masks."

"Speak to the masks?"

"Yes. To reassure them that we're here, that we care about them, that they haven't been forgotten."

Nora could see Manetti rolling his eyes.

"That's so beautiful," said Meursault, turning her head to better expose her profile to the cameras. Another dozen flashes went off.

"We believe the masks are alive, that they have a spirit. They've been alone and away from us for a long time. We've come to bless them, comfort them."

Suddenly, Nora realized just what the solution was.

She pretended to think for a moment. She knew, from her brief week at Tano Pueblo back in her graduate student days, that they viewed any decision arrived at quickly as a poor decision. "This doesn't seem like a good place to do that," she said at last.

"That's just what I was saying-" Manetti began.

Nora paid no attention. "I wonder if there might be a better place…"

"There is," Manetti said. "Down there on the sidewalk."

Nora flashed a look at Manetti.

"We would like to be closer to our masks, not further," said Wametowa.

"Why don't you come in, then?" Nora asked.

"They won't let us."

"Come in as my guests. I'll take you to the masks right now, so you can speak to them in private-before the unveiling of the hall."

"Dr. Kelly, are you crazy?" Manetti protested.

The Tano elder stared at her a minute. Then his broad, ancient face broke into a radiant smile. He gave a dignified bow. "Eesha łat dził. You are a human being, Miss Nora."

"Bravo!" cried Meursault.

"I won't permit this," the security director said.

"Mr. Manetti, I'll take full responsibility."

"You can't just bring these people into the hall before the ribbon cutting-that's impossible!"

"Nothing's impossible. In fact, this is the way it should be." She turned to the Indians. "Would you gentlemen like to follow me?"

"We'd be happy to," said the Tano.

Meursault linked her arm with the startled old Indian's and they marched forward behind Nora, the crowd of press and onlookers surging behind. "Make way for the Tano elders!" Meursault cried. "Make way!" Her sequined dress shimmered under the lights, her face radiant at seizing so brilliantly the center of attention.

Like magic, the crowd parted as they mounted the red-carpeted steps. The Tanos began softly chanting and beating their drums again as they passed through the Rotunda and entered the Hall of the Heavens, and Nora found herself facing a line of gala partygoers who had fallen rapt at the sight of Native Americans marching toward the hall. No doubt they all thought the procession was part of the program. The mayor came forward, sensing, like Meursault, an opportunity.

Manetti followed behind, his face red but his mouth shut, obviously realizing it would be counterproductive to continue the argument in front of the whole city.

Now Collopy came rushing forward from the greeting line. "Nora! What in the world?"

She bent toward him and whispered quickly. "The Tanos would like to have a private moment with the masks alone, before the ribbon cutting."

"Whatever for?"

"To pray for and bless the masks. That's all."

Collopy frowned. "Nora, this is not the time. Surely, this can wait!"

Nora looked straight into his eyes. "Dr. Collopy. Please trust me on this. I know the Indians of the Southwest well, I've lived and worked among them for years. They're not here to cause you trouble or public embarrassment. They just want a little private time with their masks. By the time the ceremony's over, they'll be gone. And the whole situation will be defused. This is the very best way to handle things, and I know if you give it careful consideration, you'll agree." She dropped her voice even further. "It also happens to be a great public relations opportunity."

Collopy looked at Nora, his patrician face wide with astonishment. Then he looked at Manetti. Finally, he turned toward the waiting Tanos. He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair, his brow wrinkled in thought.

And then suddenly, his face broke into a welcoming smile. He reached out his hand toward the Tano leader. "Welcome! Mr…?"

"Wametowa."

"Of course! Welcome! The museum is delighted to receive you and your group as representatives of the Tano people. I understand you've come a long way to see the Great Kiva masks."

"Two thousand miles."

A murmur went up in the crowd. The cameras were whirring.

"We are so glad you could make it. This is a special honor for the museum and for me personally."

The press was eating it up. Nora felt a huge relief: it was going to turn out all right.

"Our security director, Mr. Manetti, will take you into the hall to, ah, visit with the masks in private. Mr. Manetti? You can handle the security zones a tad ahead of schedule, I'm sure. And leave them alone while they pray."

"Yes, sir."

"Will half an hour suffice?" Collopy asked the leader.

"Yes, thank you," replied the Tano elder.

"Splendid! Afterwards, you're all invited to join the festivities, Mr. Wem, ah, Wem…"

"Wametowa."

"Excellent! Is there anything else we can do?"

"For now, this will suffice." The Tanos nodded, looking around and nodding to one another. "To tell you the truth, we didn't expect to be treated with this kind of respect."

"Nonsense! We're delighted to have you!" Collopy turned toward the cameras, having fully recovered his composure. "The museum thanks the Tano people for the privilege of being allowed to share these remarkable masks with the rest of the world."

Meursault began the clapping and soon the hall was thundering with applause, the television cameras capturing every detail.

Nora watched Manetti lead the group of Indians down the corridor, speaking into a two-way radio as he did so. Then she turned, walked to the nearest chair she could find, and collapsed in it. She couldn't believe she'd spoken to the museum director like that. Her knees felt like rubber.

In a detached, almost weary way, it occurred to her how fitting an elegy this was for Margo. It had been so important to her, this issue of the masks and the Tanos' sovereignty over them. Seeing these Indians ushered into the exhibition with solicitousness and respect would have made her very happy.

Suddenly, a cold glass of champagne appeared before her. She looked up in surprise to see Hugo Menzies standing behind her, resplendent in a magnificent shawl-collared tuxedo, his flowing white hair combed back, face beaming.

He took Nora's hand, placed the cold glass into it, patted her on the back, and sat down. "Did anyone ever tell you what a genius you are?" He chuckled. "That was the most dashing publicity coup it has been my privilege to witness."

Nora shook her head. "It could have been a publicity disaster."

"It would have been a disaster if you hadn't been on the scene. But not only did you handle the Tanos, but you made the museum look downright benevolent. Brilliant, just brilliant." He practically chortled with pleasure, his eyes sparkling. Nora had never seen him so animated.

She took a slug of champagne. It had been the week from hell, with Bill threatened and in hiding, Margo's murder, the stress of the opening, the warnings from Pendergast… But right now she was too tired and exhausted to feel any fear. All she wanted to do was go home, double-lock the door, and crawl into bed. Instead, she had to endure hours of speechifying, mingling, and forced gaiety.

Menzies placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "When this is all over, I'd like you to take a week's vacation. You deserve it."

"Thanks. I wish I could begin now."

"Three more hours."

Nora held up her glass. "Three more hours," she said, and took another gulp of champagne.

A string ensemble struck up Haydn's Emperor Quartet as the crowd began to move toward the food tables. They were loaded with blini au caviar, prosciutto, rare French and Italian cheeses, mounds of crusty baguettes, crudites, fresh oysters on beds of crushed ice, cold lobster tails, smoked sturgeon-the works. Other tables groaned with wines and champagne, and every third person seemed to be a waiter rushing about with a silver tray loaded with drinks and food.

"Nora," said Menzies, "you must circulate."

She groaned. "God help me."

"Come on. We'll face the ravening hordes together." He took her arm and they began making their way slowly through the crowd. Nora found that she was greeted at every turn by congratulators, peppered with questions from the press. Her stunt with the Tanos had apparently gone down exceptionally well, everyone assuming it had been long planned.

When at length she returned to their assigned table, she found that several other members of the department were there, including Ashton, the show's chief curator. As the serious eating got under way, Collopy, flanked by his young wife, mounted the podium and gave a short, witty speech.

Then it was time for the cutting of the ribbon. Nora, Menzies, Ashton, and a few other curators lined up at the podium while Collopy, wielding the gigantic pair of scissors used for such occasions, went to the ribbon and made a hash of trying to cut it. When it was finally accomplished, a cheer went up and the huge doors leading to the Sacred Images exhibition swung open. Smiling and nodding, Menzies, Nora, and the rest of the Anthropology Department led the way, the partygoers following in an excited crush behind.

It took about half an hour to reach the far end of the hall, propelled along by the mass of people behind them. Nora felt a shudder as she passed through the room Margo had been murdered in, but, of course, all trace of the crime scene had been removed and nobody but her even seemed aware of it. As she moved farther and farther beyond the scene of the murder, Nora felt the horror replaced by a quiet sense of pride. She could hardly believe they'd managed to pull it off.

Menzies stayed close beside her, occasionally murmuring compliments on the cases she had curated or arranged. The Tanos had come and gone, leaving some bits of turquoise, pollen, and cornmeal on the top of the mask case, which everybody took care to leave in place. At last, when they reached the final hall, Menzies turned to Nora and bowed.

"I do believe we have done our duty." He smiled, face twinkling. "And now you may beat a discreet retreat home. I, unfortunately, have some work to do upstairs in my office. Let's talk next week about that vacation I owe you."

He bowed again and Nora, with relief, turned to make her way to the nearest exit-and home.