The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [18]
Mr. Quinn, one of those salesmen who believe in what they sell, took the opportunity to tell us about a new line of models with up-to-date robotics that looked and acted so real, they scared people.
“That would be quite an investment,” I put in.
“Big bucks,” said Mr. Quinn. “But worth it. I mean from a revenue point of view.”
Harvey Deharo nodded thoughtfully. He is a Harvard-trained specialist in genetic anthropology. Of Caribbean origins, he claims Spanish, African, Converso, Irish, and French antecedents. A regular salad, he called himself at a dinner party where the host had been pouring drinks with a generous hand. His pale eyes, set in a long, strongly sculpted face, remain in one’s mind a good while after one meets him. He is tall, graceful of movement, and articulate in at least three languages. The man could get by on looks and charm alone, but he combines his worldliness with competence in his field and with an offhand managerial flair I marvel at. We’ve had Harvey and his delightful wife, Felice, over for dinner and have been to their farmhouse, which is located some miles out of town. He is gracious and subtle toward me in his gratitude while I, mellow with his good wine on one occasion, told him, “It is you, sir, that makes me and the museum look good.”
Now he cleared his throat. “Perhaps, if the investment was not too great, we could consider updating the whole exhibit.” In that easy island accent of his, he pointed out the cost would also have to include revenues lost during the time the diorama was closed to the public.
I ventured the possibility that we could, given the latest research, gradually phase in lighter-skinned and more fair-haired models into the diorama.
The others, including Mr. Quinn, looked dubious. He noted the expense. “These are top-of-the-line units. You can’t just paint them a different shade until you get what you want.”
“It’s going to be expensive anyway,” Professor Pilty put in.
I said, “We could just leave things the way they are. At least for the time being. As for the pigmentation issue, we could put a placard explaining …”
Harvey Deharo shook his head. “No. The exhibition has to represent the best and current research. If Neanderthals looked like Irish from Roscommon, then so be it.” He paused. “Let’s not temporize on this. To duck this issue for the sake of political correctness would be unworthy of the museum and what it stands for.”
Thad Pilty agreed with him. “What we can’t lose sight of is the issue of historical accuracy.”
I found my own backbone stiffening. We concluded that Mr. Quinn would get back to me with several alternatives and their costs, including how much time it would take to install the new mannequins and how long the diorama would have to be shut down.
The whole thing took less than half an hour. If only meetings of the Oversight Committee were as brisk and efficacious. Sadly, those exercises in patience and credulity are usually a waste of time and spirit. And while I have often mentally composed a letter of resignation, I remain on the committee in an ex officio capacity mostly to keep an eye on things. Because it does like to meddle. Certainly the next meeting, held mostly in my honor, if I can be droll for a moment, lived up to my low expectations.
All the usual suspects and a few new ones showed up to discuss “a range of concerns involving the Museum of Man.” Since the agenda directly involved the museum and since there are facilities available in the Twitchell Room, I agreed to hold it there. My good friend Professor Izzy Landes, ageless in his aging, his nimbus of white hair more ethereal than ever, his bright eyes full of secret amusement, his bow tie like a Nabokovian butterfly, took me aside quietly before the meeting to ask how things were going