Aaron Elkins - Uneasy Relations

Corbin Hobgood he knew from having run into him at conferences and having served with him on a student-research grant program for AAA, the American Anthropological Association. In his late thirties, with pallid, shiny skin (in the field, no matter how steamy the location, he wore a broad-brimmed hat, long sleeves, and long pants to protect his melanin-challenged complexion), he had thick, black eyebrows that met in the middle and a jaw that was always shadowed, although he often shaved twice a day. He was, by all accounts – and Gideon’s observations supported them – meticulous and hardworking, and he was reputed to be a decent field archaeologist as well. But he was a plodder, always drudging away, more at home with details and minutiae than with the provocative, exciting themes and patterns that made archaeology something alive. He was also cursed with a slow, nasal, maddeningly precise monotone that, depending on your mood at the time, could either put you to sleep or drive you up the wall.

But his positive traits – thoroughness, diligence, an exacting if narrowly focused intelligence – had worked in his favor, as had a certain tendency toward servility to authority that Gideon found unpleasant, but that some others apparently did not. He had been one of Adrian Vanderwater’s last research assistants at Cal, and it was to his loyal, reliable former student that Adrian had turned when he was in need of an assistant director for the Europa Point dig. Corbin, for his part, had been born to be an assistant director. He accepted eagerly and was with Adrian from the beginning to the end of the excavation.

It had turned out extremely well for him. His association with Gibraltar Boy and the First Family had made his name. He had written several excruciatingly detailed papers on the dig, and two of Adrian’s books on the subject listed Corbin as full coauthor (although Gideon had always assumed this was simply a generous gesture on Adrian’s part; an expression of thanks for Corbin’s probable assistance with bibliography, background research, data compilation, etc.). On the strength of all this, he was able to leave his position at Tunica State College in Mississippi, where he’d been locked into a disastrous specialty in ceramic techniques of the middle woodland horizon, and move into an assistant professorship at Stanford, where he had since acquired tenure and advanced to associate professor.

“Now then,” Corbin said, having studied his card a few moments, “as to timing. I think we ought to keep the whole thing to no more than an hour and a half, so may I suggest that we all limit ourselves to fifteen minutes each at the most? Would fifteen minutes be agreeable to everyone… yes, Rowley?”

Rowley Boyd, looking uncomfortable, coughed discreetly and stood up, nervously sweeping back a few strands of lank, straw-colored hair from his forehead. “I just want to say that, ah, we might want to rethink tonight’s event entirely. Ivan is… well, I don’t know how to put it other than to say that he’s not the man he was.”

“As are none of us,” Audrey said. “And your point is?”

“I only mean to say that, well, that he doesn’t always… he’s not always… we don’t want to put too much, shall I say, stress on him, that’s all I mean to say.”

“I don’t think there’s much fear of that.” Adrian laughed. “I’ve never known anyone to be overstressed by testimonials to his own eminence.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Rowley persisted. “I’m suggesting that we eliminate the testimonials completely. Just present the awards and call it an evening. Keep it short. I say that entirely in his own interest. ”

Rowley was closer to Gunderson than any of them, and probably more in debt to him as well. Before the Europa Point dig, the Gibraltar Museum of Archaeology and Geology had been a virtually unfunded operation with a dedicated but unpaid part-time staff of a single archaeologist (Rowley), housed above a hole-in-the-wall Arab grocery store in George’s Lane. Now it was in an impressive old naval headquarters building on Line Wall Road, with a salaried staff of eight, the finest cast of the First Family skeletons in existence, a collection of stone tools from the site, and three magnificent, life-sized dioramas of prehistoric life at Europa Point, including a torchlit, affecting scene of the burial in progress. All of this was thanks to Ivan Gunderson, only partly because of his initial excavation and subsequent donation of the dig site itself. More important, Gunderson, who now lived in Gibraltar most of the year (he had other homes in Palm Beach and Aix-en-Provence) had been extremely openhanded in his financial support of the museum. He was by far its most generous and reliable donor.

“Oh, bosh,” Audrey said. “I spoke with Ivan by phone less than two weeks ago. He was very much his old self. He was very excited about the dinner.”

But Rowley wouldn’t be put off. “He has his moments, but I assure you, if you haven’t seen him recently, you’ll find him very much changed. He spends most of his time now, er, gluing pots.”

That got everyone’s attention. It wasn’t simply the notion of the celebrated Ivan Gunderson sitting around gluing ceramic shards together all day, it was the very idea of pots. Gunderson had never had any interest in pots. The European Neanderthals and early humans to which he had devoted the last six decades of his life had never managed to make one. It had taken another 15,000 years before someone in Japan came up with the first pot.

“Gluing pots?” Adrian repeated dully. “What kind of pots?”

Rowley, twisting his hands around one another, looked miserable. “Any kind. I just get them from a ceramics shop in Ronda. I, er, break them up with a hammer and bring them to him and he glues them together. He puts them on shelves and forgets where he put them, and I take them away and… and break them again and bring them back, and he… well, he glues them together again. He never seems to notice.”

There was shocked silence. Something squeezed Gideon’s heart. “What does he imagine he’s doing?” he asked quietly.

“I tell him I take them to the museum,” Rowley said wretchedly. “Not that he asks very often.”

“Is it Alzheimer’s?”

“We don’t know. I suppose so, but he won’t see a doctor. He becomes angry if it’s brought up.”

Audrey was furious. “Rowley, for God’s sake, I wish you would have told me this before. I’d never have arranged the damned dinner. Oh, the poor man. We’ll have to cancel it. Oh, this is dreadful.”

“Aw, honey,” Buck said, “he’ll love it, you’ll see.”

For once he had no effect on her. “Oh, poor Ivan. I had no idea-”

“No, no,” Rowley interrupted, “Buck’s right. Ivan is looking forward to it tremendously. He’s been talking about it all week. It would be a terrible disappointment to him to call it off.”

Audrey rounded impatiently on him. “So then what exactly is it that you’re suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that we have the reception and dinner as planned – moving things briskly along – and then present him with his awards.” Here he was referring to the Horizon Foundation’s V. Gordon Childe Lifetime Achievement Award in Archaeology, to be conferred by Audrey, and the annual Mons Calpe Medal from the Gibraltar Historical Association, which Rowley himself, as director of the museum, was to present.

“And then we simply call it a night and go home,” Rowley continued. “No testimonials. It’s really his awards that he’s so excited about.”

“No testimonials at all?” said Adrian bleakly.

Rowley offered an apologetic shrug. “Well, a few words with the awards, of course, but I really think it best that we don’t do any more than that. He tires easily, you see, and when that happens, his mind tends to… his memory seems to… well, I fear that an hour of testimonial after testimonial would simply tax him too much.” Another shrug, equally apologetic.