Even though uncertainty is looming over our heads like a dark specter, the rest of lunch is actually kind of nice. The food is incredibly delicious, the restaurant’s atmosphere is pleasant and relaxing, and Angelique is a pretty interesting woman.
She’s in her mid-forties, has multiple college degrees relating to the arts and business management, and she has traveled the globe more than many travel journalists have. She was born and raised in Italy but moved often for the opportunity to work in some of the world’s largest art auction houses, which is how she grew her name as a respected expert. Once she was well established and had built a substantial amount of wealth, she legally immigrated to the US in her late thirties. She has spent most of her life working with art – studying it, restoring it, collecting it, appraising it, and selling it. By the end of lunch, there is no doubt about it – she is obsessed with art.
While Angelique is “regaling” us with a story about an attempted robbery at an auction house she worked at in Spain in her late twenties, the waiter returns to our table.
While leaning over to refill water glasses, he asks, “How was everything? Would you like to look at the dessert menu?”
I look around the table and see the same overstuffed, satisfied look on my wives’ faces. I look at Angelique, and she releases a small laugh before answering our waiter.
“I believe we’ve met the threshold. No desserts, thank you.”
He smiles kindly as he begins stacking plates to clear the table. “No problem. I’ll be right back with the check.”
After he leaves, Angelique glances at a thin, gold watch on her left wrist, then looks in my eyes. “Are you in a hurry to return home?”
“No, we cleared the afternoon to meet with you.”
Looking pleased, she lifts a small clutch purse up from her lap. She pulls out a business card and a sleek golden pen, writes something on the back, then offers me the card.
“Let’s continue this conversation at my place.” As she tucks the purse under her left arm, she stands up and offers me her right hand, which I quickly stand up to shake. “Thank you for lunch, Kayla.” She winks with a smirk and gives my hand a squeeze.
“No, thank you. We’ll see you again soon.”
She waves to my wives, then struts out of our semi-private dining area with a bit of a switch in her hips. When I see her make a turn towards the main foyer through the pine slats obscuring our table, I release a long, somewhat laughing breath of air, then plop down in my seat next to Sam. My wife rubs the top of my back, then grips the back of my neck and tugs me into a slow, soft kiss.
After a few moments, she pulls away with a smile, and tells me, “You did great. I think she really likes you.”
I rub a hand over my face with a groan, and sheepishly ask, “Is it horrible that I like her too?”
My wives release small laughs, and Awenasa answers, “No, my love. Although our views are different, I don’t feel like Angelique’s refusal to part with the tunic is out of malice or disrespect. After hearing her side of the situation, I believe that had things been handled differently from the beginning, we may not be here today. Regardless of what her answer will be, we need to have a conference with the Shoshone leaders and our own tribal council to discuss some of the things she told us today.”
“I agree. I understand their frustration, but we weren’t given all of the facts and that is very frustrating for me. I felt blindsided when she explained how she came to be in possession of the tunic and why she wasn’t budging.”
Angelique was bequeathed the tunic from a member of the tribe in their Will after their passing because of her connections to so many museums. The warrior’s descendant wanted the tunic displayed somewhere many people will get to experience it and learn about the Shoshone history. They didn’t tell us what the previous owner’s wishes were for the tunic, just that she inherited it through someone’s Will, which they didn’t believe was right since she’s not a member of the tribe. Instead of having a conversation with Angelique to try to accommodate their wishes and the wishes laid out in the Will, they immediately sued Angelique for ownership, which has prevented her from being able to donate the tunic to a museum.
The politics of the situation are much more complex than we were led to believe. And even though she invited us back to her place to continue the conversation, I’m feeling even more on edge than I was when we first arrived. The resolution will not be as simple as just handing the tunic over to the Shoshone leaders. The last known descendant of the warrior had their own wishes for the future of the tunic that have to be considered. Which is exactly why Angelique put the fifty-thousand-dollar price tag on the tunic. She doesn’t want the money. But if they were going to force her to go against her friend’s wishes, they were going to have to make a sacrifice for it. And for the Shoshone, fifty-grand is a huge sacrifice – one they can’t afford.
After I settle the lunch bill, we all climb into our SUV and make the seven-minute drive to Angelique’s estate. Which is beautifully landscaped with plants and trees native to this part of California and boasts a gorgeous and romantic looking two-story limestone Spanish colonial mansion.
I park in front of the three-car garage, then we follow a perfectly laid path of terracotta paving stones to the front door. Before I can decide between pressing the doorbell or using the really gorgeous brass bobcat head door knocker, the door opens inward and Angelique greets us with a warm smile.
“Welcome, ladies. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” As we walk into her foyer, my eyes are immediately drawn to the staircase, which begins about ten feet in front of us to the left side, then wraps up the wall, above the front door, and to the other side on the second level in a big loop. “Your house is gorgeous. And that staircase is incredible.”
“Thank you.” She motions us forward to get a closer look at the stairs. The tops are beautiful red-brown tiles, while the tiles on the face of each step are alternating patterns of geometrics, starbursts, and flowers, all in cream, orange, and dark blue. “All of the tiles in the foyer and the staircase were custom made by hand in Spain. All of the patterns were hand painted with specially mixed glazes to get just the right colors that I wanted. If you look closely enough, you can see slight variations so you know they weren’t just churned out of a machine that stamped the design on them.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.” I bend down to get a closer look at the bottom step and I see what she means. “This had to take forever.”
She hums and nods while admiring her staircase. “It did, indeed, take quite a while. Between construction of the structure itself and the creation and installation of the tiles, the process took an entire year to complete. The original staircase was rather boring and was actually on that side.” She points to the right side of the foyer. “It was a more direct route to the second floor but completely uninspired. I love the dramatics that the new shape creates. Square places need movement, a sense of flow and roundness, or else the space will feel stagnant, like a prison.” She flutters her hand in front of herself as if shooing a persistent fly away. “I’ve become distracted. Follow me.”
She gracefully turns, and we follow the clicking of her sharp black stilettos down an ornate hallway and into a large sitting room that overlooks a stunning veranda.
“Take a seat wherever you’d like. Would anyone like a drink? Tea, coffee, water, or something stronger?”
My wives and I look at each other as we take seats on two walnut wood edged cabriole sofas facing each other, and Sam answers, “Water would be nice, thank you.”
The rest of us don’t have any special requests, so Angelique fills a tall, narrow clear glass pitcher from a fancy water filter on the counter of her well stocked bar. After she pours Sam a glass, she sets the pitcher and enough glasses for everyone else on the coffee table between us, then picks up a black folder off of the table and offers it to me.
“The last Will and Testament of Chic Alison. I’d like you read what he wrote about the tunic before we discuss its future.”
I hesitantly accept the folder, but I don’t open it. “Are you sure you want me to see this? I mean, isn’t this kind of personal?”
As she sits in a chair to my right, Angelique crosses her right leg over her left at the knees, and answers, “Yes, I’m sure. I think it will mean more for you to read Chic’s own words, rather than me just talk at you about what my friend wanted.”
“Okay.”
I open the folder, and the first page is an itemized list of assets and possessions and who they were to be distributed to. The second page is a handwritten letter, and the third is a typed version of that same letter, which is signed and notarized. I clear my throat and begin reading aloud so all of my wives can also hear the letter.
My Dearest Angelique,
I’ve rewritten this letter more times than my wastepaper basket can contain. The crumpled pages are spilling over onto the floor, which Spooner has taken a liking to. At this very moment, while I make this umpteenth attempt at penning this letter to you, the shaggy cat is kicking them around my office. This page may soon join his silly game. But should it make it to my lawyer’s hands, rest easy knowing I was in good spirits and quite entertained while trying to convey, in as concise a manner as possible, the very difficult nature of this letter.
As you know, the cancer came back and has spread to my veins. I’m afraid my time on this physical plane is quickly nearing an end. And so, my dear friend, I must task you with a chore that I know will bring a battle to your door. I have left you a portion of my financial assets that I hope will be enough to cover either legal fees or preservation costs that may result from my request.
Most Americans don’t know about my people, and certainly don’t know about the wars my ancestors waged with colonial settlers for at least a decade in the Snake River valley in the early 1850s. Our tribes fought hard to push the settlers out of our lands, but eventually, we were the ones pushed east and south to avoid total annihilation. The stories passed down in my family from one generation to the next tell of loss, bravery, and perseverance. But most Americans don’t know those stories. Which is why I am passing to you the greatest physical piece of my family’s story – my ancestor’s war tunic from the many battles he fought in the Snake River Valley.
In 1889, agents working for the Smithsonian went poking their noses around Native lands, burials, and homes, looking for artifacts that were easy pickings. Five members of the tribe were killed in a failed attempt to steal my ancestor’s tunic. Then again in 1923, an Englishman had some thugs break in and steal the tunic from my family. Two more ancestors were killed in the effort to restore it and bring it back home. There have been multiple attempts to steal the tunic, some more violent than others.
Lives have been lost to protect it and I have done my best to make sure it remains safe. But now that my life is coming to an end, I’m burdened with the decision to pass the garment to the leaders of one of the remaining Shoshone tribes, or to you – the only person I know who could truly protect the tunic from opportunists looking to make a buck from Native blood.
I have spent my life close to my culture and heritage and I have always protected our roots and passed on what I could to the next generation. But poverty has stricken the Shoshone people and the reservations are becoming barren. New generations are seeking lives in the bigger cities where they can earn a living. And there is little to no tourism to speak of for some of the reservations.
I have thought long and hard on this, and as much as it goes against tradition, and even though many will be disappointed with my decision, I want the tunic to be somewhere it will be safe. I want it to be somewhere the new generations can see it and learn about its history. And learn about the Shoshone still living today. I don’t want people to just see it as a relic of the past. I want people to see it as a reminder of how my people survived and persevered against all of the odds. And perhaps that will help my people in some way one day. Given the current condition of my people’s situation that means a museum is the best place to reach as many people as possible.
You are more qualified to decide where than I am, so I will leave that up to you. Please forgive me for the burden I’m sure this will place on you. Museums have often looted Native lands for the artifacts they have, so this decision will not sit well with my people. If the battle becomes too much, please feel no guilt in ceding to their wishes.
Physically gone but always with you,
Chic Alison
After I finish reading, I dab at my eyes with a knuckle and clear my throat. I close the folder and offer it to Angelique. Her eyes are damp and pink as she accepts the folder and sets it on the side table.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I don’t think I said that at lunch, but it should have been the first thing I said after learning you inherited the tunic through Chic’s Will. I am so sorry that I neglected to consider and recognize your loss.”
“Thank you. You are the first to do so, actually. Chic was a wonderful friend. I loved him dearly and this situation has made it quite impossible for me to properly mourn his death.”
I clear my throat again. “I’m really sorry. I wish things had been handled differently. But at the same time, I don’t really know what that would have looked like. I have a question though. If it’s in Chic’s Will that the tunic has to go to a museum, would you even legally be allowed to give the tunic back to the tribe, whether they pay for it or not?”
“It’s all quite messy, Kayla. The tribe is contesting the Will on the grounds that it’s a historical indigenous artifact and I’m not indigenous, so one could argue that it would be possible to give them the tunic of my own freewill on those same grounds. But whether the Will overrules those laws is not so clear, which is why this is still being held up in court. Frankly, I have better lawyers than the Shoshone can afford, and I do not intend to lose this.”
Madison politely asks, “Then why make the offer for them to buy it?”
Angelique releases a puff of air as she shakes her head. Before answering, she leans forward to pour herself a glass of water. But her chair is further back, so I quickly grab the pitcher and pour her a glass.
“Thank you.” She takes a few small sips as she leans back. “As I said before, if they want it badly enough, they’ll have to make a sacrifice for it. Chic’s ancestors died protecting the tunic, and it was his dying wish that the tunic be proudly displayed for others to enjoy and learn from. Do you know the monetary value of an artifact like that to a serious collector?”
“No.”
“The Shoshone leaders do.” My brow furrows as she pauses to take a sip of water. “At the first meeting my lawyers and I had with them they accused me of coercing Chic into writing me into his Will so I can sell the tunic. They told me the tunic is worth upwards of half a million dollars. I’m not a collector of Native American art and artifacts, and I’ve never been contracted to restore an indigenous piece either, so I didn’t know if their claims were accurate till after the meeting. I contacted a few experts in the field and they verified the amount. That is another reason I made the offer. If they were able to easily come up with fifty-thousand-dollars, which I knew they couldn’t possibly have, then I would know they were suing me on behalf of a collector with deep pockets. I’ll admit they earned some respect when they sent you instead of coming up with the money.”
Awenasa leans forward some, and asks, “Aside from proposing that they pay for the tunic, have you made them any other offers?”
“The only other offer I’ve made them is that I’ll donate the tunic to a museum in California so they are within driving distance of it. That was not acceptable to them. They want to display the tunic in the tribal council building on the Big Pine Reservation of the Paiute Shoshone. But that reservation is primarily desert lands with a population of only around five-hundred people and they have zero tourism, except for the occasional pow wow. The tribal council building is small and does not have enough security to house a half-a-million-dollar artifact, let alone one with a history of someone trying to steal it from pretty much every generation of descendants. I’m sorry, but unless they can beat me in court, that tunic will not be housed on the Big Pine Reservation.”
Awenasa sighs as she grabs the pitcher to fill a glass of water for herself. “You don’t have to apologize. I understand your concerns.” She takes a sip of water, and adds, “If monetary value is being discussed, it’s reasonable to assume someone could get greedy, whether they’re a member of the tribe or not. When it comes to artifacts like the tunic, tribe leaders often do know the value of items for insurance reasons or because of how hard they have to fight to protect them. Although it does happen sometimes, it’s rare for a tribe leader to try to sell an artifact, even if they’re in a financial crisis. Our artifacts hold so much spiritual value that anyone who truly holds to our beliefs would not be able to sell it.”
“I’m sorry, Awenasa, but I am not willing to take that chance. And since he bequeathed it to me and not someone within the tribe, I have to assume that wasn’t a risk Chic was willing to take either. And I have to respect his wishes.”
I rub the back of my neck as I lean back, then stand up and pull my cellphone out of my pocket. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Sure.” Angelique stands up and motions to the doors leading to the veranda. “Would you like to step outside, or would you like me to leave the room?”
“I can go outside. Thanks.”
She opens the door for me, and after I step outside, she pulls the door closed. I glance at my wives, trying to apologize with my eyes for having to leave them alone with Angelique, then walk out to the lawn.
On the third ring, my mom answers, “Hello, my angel. How are you doing?”
My face instantly splits into a smile and my eyes sting with longing. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Everything okay? You sound sad or troubled.”
“We’re meeting with Angelique Romano – the art collector with the Shoshone tunic. And I just had to excuse myself, leaving my wives alone with her, because I have no clue what the heck I’m doing. We were led to believe Angelique was basically just the typical collector who saw a great opportunity to cash in on a rare Native American artifact. But that’s not the case at all. She’s actually just trying to fulfill her friend’s dying wish, and they’re making her out to be some horrible person. But she’s not. And now, I don’t know what to do. I can’t do it. I can’t just pay the fifty-grand and hand it over to the Shoshone. And that’s eating up my stomach because I’m indigenous and I should always side with other indigenous people about these things, but it’s not that simple. How am I supposed to tell them I don’t agree with them?”
“Okay, sweetie, take a very deep breath.” I close my eyes and obey. “Good. Again.” I take another deep breath. “Now, tell me what you learned today that has you so conflicted.”
I spend the next several minutes telling her about lunch and Chic’s letter to Angelique. By the time I finish, I’m lightly crying and I’ve planted myself on a rock next to a willow tree clear across the lawn in front of the tall stone wall bordering the estate. Which is probably at least forty yards from the veranda.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Listen to your spirit. What is it saying?”
I exhale hard as I wipe my eyes dry and look up at the sky, which is streaked with faint clouds that look eerily like cobwebs.
“To fulfil Chic’s final wish. But is his final wish fair to the living and future Shoshone?”
“What is fair can always be argued. In this situation, what benefits all parties the most is more appropriate to try to accommodate. Consider this. There are roughly twelve-thousand registered Shoshone people alive today, most of whom live in Nevada, Idaho, Utah, and Wyoming. Only five-hundred Shoshone live on the Big Pine Reservation. The Shoshone people are split between many tribes and reservations and many aren’t even living on reservations. How do you choose where it goes when all of the known descendants are deceased?”
“I’ve been spread so thin with work that I didn’t even know any of that. I haven’t had time to research any of this. Then people were basically dishonest with us and… Anyway, complaining isn’t going to help.” I exhale hard as I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I’m so freaking tired and I just want to be at home spending the day with my wives and babies. And that’s making me feel guilty because so many people are trusting in us to win a victory today. But I can’t win the victory they want. I just won’t do it.”
“I’m going to fight my motherly instincts right now and not give you a talk about overworking yourself.” I smile as my eyes tear up again. “I know you already know everything I would say and I know you don’t need to hear it right now. But know that I love you and I worry about you.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Now, what did you know about the Shoshone before you were asked to get involved in this matter?”
“Not much at all. I knew they were originally from the northwest and had been forced further east and south around the time of the Gold Rush. But that’s it.”
“What does that tell you?”
“That they don’t have enough representation and visibility, even among other indigenous people. I guess that’s what I have to help them to understand. The less representation and visibility they have, the easier it is for people to forget about them and the harder it is for them to maintain their rights, keep their lands, and make a sustainable income for the tribe.”
My mom answers, “I think you’re on the right path, sweetie. Education of all people is paramount to our survival. And our artifacts can be great hooks to draw people in to teach them what we need them to know. You already know that and you have said similar when discussing why you are building the cultural centers in Cherokee and Standing Rock.”
“Sparrow kept telling me to just follow my spirit and remember the lessons I’ve learned. I was trying so hard to do that while meeting the results the Shoshone elders wanted. But both were in complete conflict with each other. I just really needed an outside perspective to break the two apart.”
“I’m always here for you, Kayla. I’m so proud of you and everything you’re trying to accomplish. Just remember, even if you can’t convince them, there is nothing for you to feel guilty about and you did not fail them. There are many paths here, each with a different destination, and all of which can benefit the tribe in some way. It is up to them to decide how great that benefit will be.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I stand up and brush my ass off and hope that I didn’t just ruin an expensive suit by sitting on that limestone rock. “I guess it was pointless for us to even get involved.”
“That’s not true, Kayla. You are there to facilitate a conversation so a mutually agreeable outcome can be met. You are not there to bully one party into satisfying the desires of the other. And anyone who thinks otherwise is not worthy of your help. As intellectual creatures, it is our responsibility to learn to think and feel a new way when presented with new information. You have done that. Now, it is up to the others to accept that responsibility as well.”
I smile as I start slowly walking back to the veranda. “I love you, Mom. I’d be lost without you.”
“I love you too, angel. Call or text me later and let me know how the rest of the meeting goes.”
“I will. Give Dad and Joey a hug and kiss for me.”
“Okay, sweetie. Do the same for me. Oh, and one more thing. I know right now you feel like you were lied to or vital information was kept from you, but try not to think the worst till you speak with the Shoshone elders again. They may have had a good reason for not giving you all of the information up front. It’s possible they wanted you to develop your own opinion, as you have done.”
“Yeah, that might be true. Elders can be very vague and mysterious in their ways sometimes.”
My mom releases a small laugh, and agrees. “Yes, they can be. That’s the difference between teaching and puppetry. I hope the rest of your meeting goes well.”
“Thanks, Mom. Talk to you soon.”
After another farewell, I disconnect the call and slip my phone in my pocket. Feeling lighter and more secure in my decision, I quicken my pace to rejoin Angelique and my wives.