Тед Чан - Exhalation - Stories

In any case, I proceeded to the gift shop, where a number of visitors were lined up to purchase postcards. While waiting for the salesman to become available, I looked at the display case of relics; just as Rosemary had said, there were abalones among the various more conventional shells for sale. I had wondered if the gift shop would claim the abalone shells came from Chile along with the mummies, but in fact the card describing the shells said they were found on Santa Rosa Island off the coast of Alta California. It said they were found at the bottom of middens, the trash heaps of prehistoric communities.

Once there was a lull in the visitors making purchases, the gift shop’s salesman came to attend to me. Perhaps he was accustomed to people being put off by the shells’ origins in trash heaps, so he explained how that enhanced their status. “Not only do these come from primordial shellfish, but they were actually handled by primordial humans. Men made directly by God held these in their hands.”

I told him I was curious about the abalone shells; had they been found by Church archaeologists, like the mummies were?

“These were donated by a private collector. He provided the information that’s on the cards.”

I asked him if I could get the name of the collector, and he asked why I wanted to know. That was when I introduced myself and explained that I was an archaeologist; he told me his name was Mr. Dahl. I said that the only excavations on Santa Rosa Island were funded by the University of Alta California. Any and all recovered relics became part of the collections of the university’s museums, so there should be no primordial abalone shells in the hands of private collectors.

“I didn’t know that about abalone shells,” he said. “If I had, I would’ve asked more questions. Are you suggesting these were stolen?”

I told him that I couldn’t be certain, and that there might be an innocent explanation for it, but I’d be very interested in hearing what that was.

Mr. Dahl was obviously concerned. “We’ve received donations from private collectors in the past, and there’s never been an issue with provenance.” He looked through a ledger and then wrote down for me the name and address of the donor: a Mr. Martin Osborne, at a post-office box in San Francisco. “He sent a large selection shortly before the tour began, and asked that the items be priced inexpensively so that everyday people could afford them. It was such a generous sentiment that I agreed, even though it meant fewer funds raised for Yosemeti Cathedral. Would he do that if he had stolen them from a museum?”

I told him I didn’t know. I thanked him for his help and told him I would write to him once I had verified the source of Osborne’s donated relics; I suggested that, to avoid further complications, he might not want to sell any more of them until he had heard from me, and he agreed.

Now I confess that what I did next was to lie. Forgive me, Lord, but I couldn’t think of any other way to meet this Mr. Osborne if he’s in fact guilty of theft. I have sent an electric mailgram to Mr. Osborne, claiming to be Mr. Dahl, saying that I believe the relics he donated were stolen and I’m shipping them back to him immediately. I’ve also prepared a package addressed to Mr. Osborne, which will travel via train to San Francisco. I have exchanged my aeroplane tickets so that, rather than taking the flight to Arisona tomorrow, I will leave on the same train as my package. Once I’m in San Francisco, all I have to do is watch the post office and question whoever picks up the package. If he can’t explain how he acquired the relics, I’ll report him to the authorities. Then I’ll take the train south to Los Angeles, and from there I can make arrangements to get to the Arisona dig.

I know how unorthodox this is. If Mr. Osborne had provided a residential address, I could simply knock on his door. The fact that he’s using a post-office box not only makes it difficult to confront him, but leads me to think that subterfuge is justified. I hope I’m not leaping to conclusions.

Guide me toward the proper course of action, Lord. I recognize that my desire to seek answers, while necessary in scientific endeavors, is not always welcome outside of it. Help me to know when it’s appropriate to keep looking and when it’s better to ignore my doubts. Let me always be inquisitive, but never be suspicious.

Amen.

Lord, I place myself in your presence, and ask you to shine your light into my heart as I look back upon this day, so that I may see more clearly your grace in everything that has happened.

Just as I feared, the relics in the gift shop were indeed stolen. But I don’t want to focus on that to the exclusion of everything else; today gave me many reasons to think of you, and I shouldn’t ignore them.

My first full day in San Francisco began well; thank you for a good night’s rest in a hotel bed. The days of train travel took their toll; or, should I say, the nights. I’ve always had trouble sleeping on trains, so they’ll always be my least favorite form of travel. I would much rather cross a desert in a motorcar and sleep under the stars at night.

San Francisco is a city where no one can forget your presence, Lord. The moment I left my hotel, a petitioner asked me for a donation for Yosemeti Cathedral. Presumably they’re outside every hotel, targeting visitors from out of town because every local resident has long since reached the point of fatigue. I didn’t donate, but I did admire the paintings on the sandwich boards next to the petitioner. There were some lovely depictions of what the cathedral will look like when it’s completed. I was particularly impressed by one that showed the main gallery illuminated by the setting sun. I’ve read that the gallery will be a thousand feet high from floor to ceiling, and the painting did a good job of conveying the scale.

No one can deny, Lord, that you’ve sculpted a landscape of great beauty on the surface of the Earth. I’ve been fortunate enough to have visited three continents, and I’ve seen cliffs of chalk, canyons of sandstone, pillars of basalt; all spectacular. But for me, the knowledge that they’re no more than a decorative façade tempers my appreciation; perhaps it is my scientific mind-set that makes me want to look deeper. I have more reverence for the granite that lies just beneath the surface of all those features, the ocean of stone that the Earth is actually made of. So it’s when I see those places where the granite is exposed, where the true essence of the Earth is visible, that I feel a more profound connection to your handiwork.

The Yosemeti Valley is one of those places, and I wish I could have visited it a century ago, when it was pristine and untouched. I’ve seen photograms of the rock formation from before they began hollowing it out, and it was magnificent. I don’t mean to criticize the archdiocese’s decision. Or perhaps I do. Forgive me, Lord. I know the Yosemeti Cathedral will be awe inspiring when it’s completed, and I hope it happens within my lifetime. It will no doubt bring countless people closer to you. I just happen to think that the sight of the granite peak itself could have done so just as well.

Is it wrong of me to question whether the construction of cathedrals is, as we approach the twenty-first century, the best use of countless millions of dollars and the effort of generations of people? I agree that a project lasting longer than a human life span provides its participants with aspirations beyond the temporal. I even understand the motivation for carving a cathedral out of the Earth’s substrate, to create a testament to both human and divine architecture. But for me, science is the true modern cathedral, an edifice of knowledge every bit as majestic as anything made of stone. It fulfills all the goals that Yosemeti Cathedral does and more, and I wish more people appreciated that.