Dance Of Death

Collopy came around his desk and indicated a plush leather armchair which formed part of a group arrayed before a pink marble fireplace. Margo sat down and Collopy followed, taking a seat opposite her.

"Care for anything? Coffee, tea, mineral water?"

"Nothing, thank you, Dr. Collopy."

He leaned back, threw one leg casually over the other.

"We're so pleased to have you back at the museum, Margo," he said in his old New York society drawl. "I was delighted when you agreed to accept the editorship of Museology. We felt so lucky to lure you away from GeneDyne. Those research papers you published really impressed us, and your background here in ethnopharmacology made you the perfect candidate."

"Thank you, Dr. Collopy."

"And how do you find it? Everything to your satisfaction?" His voice was genteel, even kind.

"Everything is well, thank you."

"I am glad to hear it. Museology is the oldest journal in its field, publishing continuously since 1892, and still the most respected. It is a great responsibility and challenge you've taken on, Margo."

"I hope to carry on the tradition."

"And so do we." He stroked his closely trimmed iron-gray beard meditatively. "One of the things we are proud of is the strongly independent editorial voice of Museology."

"Yes," said Margo. She knew where this was going, and she was ready.

"The museum has never interfered with the editorial opinions expressed in Museology, and we never will. We consider the editorial independence of the journal to be well-nigh sacred."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"On the other hand, we would not like to see Museology devolve into a… what should one call it? An op-ed organ." The way he said it made it sound like another kind of organ entirely. "With independence comes responsibility. After all, Museology bears the name of the New York Museum of Natural History."

The voice remained soft-spoken, and yet it had taken on an edge. Margo waited. She would remain cool and professional. In fact, she had already prepared her response-even written it out and memorized it so she could express herself more eloquently-but it was important to let Collopy have his say.

"That is why the previous editors of Museology have always been exceedingly careful about how they exercised their editorial freedom." He let the words hang in the air.

"I assume you're referring to the editorial I am about to publish on the repatriation request of the Tano Indians."

"Exactly. The letter from the tribe, asking for the return of the Great Kiva masks, arrived only last week. The board of trustees has not yet discussed it. The museum hasn't even had time to consult its lawyers. Isn't it a bit premature to be editorializing on something that hasn't even begun to be evaluated? Especially when you're so new to the position?"

"It seems to me a straightforward issue," she said quietly.

At this, Collopy leaned back in his chair, a patronizing smile on his face. "It is anything but straightforward, Margo. Those masks have been in the museum's collections for one hundred and thirty-five years. And they're to be the centerpiece of the Sacred Images show, the biggest exhibition in the museum since Superstition, six years ago."

Another heavy silence.

"Naturally," Collopy went on, "I'm not going to ask you to alter your editorial stand. I will merely point out that there may be a few facts you are unaware of." He pressed an almost invisible button on his desk and said into an equally invisible speaker: "The file, Mrs. Surd?"

A moment later, the secretary appeared with an ancient file in her hand. He thanked her, glanced at it, then handed it to Margo.

Margo took the file. It was very old and brittle and gave off a fearful smell of dust and dry rot. She opened it carefully. Inside were some handwritten papers in spidery mid-nineteenth-century script, a contract, some drawings.

"That is the original accession file of the Great Kiva masks you seem so anxious to return to the Tano Indians. Have you seen it?"

"No, but-"

"Perhaps you should have before you drafted your editorial. That first document is a bill of sale, itemizing two hundred dollars for the masks: a lot of money back in 1870. The museum didn't pay for those Great Kiva masks in trinkets and beads. The second document is the contract. That X is the signature of the chief of the Great Kiva Society-the man who sold the masks to Kendall Swope, the museum's anthropologist. The third document, there, is the letter of thanks the museum wrote to the chief, in care of the Indian agent, which was read to him by the agent, promising the chief that the masks would be well taken care of."

Margo stared at the ancient papers. It continually amazed her how tenacious the museum was with everything, especially documents.

"The point is, Margo, the museum bought those masks in good faith. We paid an excellent price for them. We've now owned them for almost one and a half centuries. We've taken beautiful care of them. On top of that, they're among the most important objects in our entire Native American collection. Many thousands of people view them-are educated by them, make career choices in anthropology or archaeology because of them-every week. Not once in a hundred and thirty-five years did any member of the Tano tribe complain or accuse the museum of acquiring them illegally. Now, doesn't it seem just a tad unfair for them to suddenly be demanding them back? And right before a blockbuster exhibition in which they are the featured attraction?"

Silence fell in the grand tower office, with its tall windows overlooking Museum Drive, its dark-paneled walls graced with Audubon paintings.

"It does seem a bit unfair," Margo said evenly.

A broad smile creased Collopy's face. "I knew you would understand."

"But it won't change my editorial position."

A gradual freezing of the air. "Excuse me?"

It was time for her speech. "Nothing in that accession file changes the facts. It's quite simple. The chief of the Great Kiva Society didn't own the masks to begin with. They weren't his. They belonged to the entire tribe. It would be like a priest selling off church relics. By law, you can't sell something you don't own. That bill of sale and contract in that folder are not legally valid. What's more, when he bought the masks, Kendall Swope knew that, and that is clear from the book he wrote, Tano Ceremonials. He knew the chief didn't have the right to sell them. He knew the masks were a sacred part of the Great Kiva ceremony and must never leave the kiva. He even admits the chief was a crook. It's all right there in Tano Ceremonials."

"Margo-"

"Please let me finish, Dr. Collopy. There's an even more important principle at stake here. Those masks are sacred to the Tano Indians. Everyone recognizes that. They can't be replaced or remade. The Tanos believe each mask has a spirit and is alive. These aren't conveniently made-up beliefs; they're sincere and deeply held religious convictions."

"But after one hundred and thirty-five years? Come, now. Why hadn't we heard a peep from those people all this time?"

"The Tano had no idea where the masks had gone until they read about the upcoming exhibition."

"I simply ca

"No, it isn't. I've spoken to them."

"You've spoken to them?"

"Of course. I called and spoke to the governor of Tano Pueblo."

For a moment, Collopy's mask of implacability fell away. "The legal implications of this are staggering."