fur-and-shell-ornamented female icon divulging her sexual organs, a mother-of-pearl shell. “She’s from the Trobriands, one of the islands the ship will be calling at. Sexuality in the Trobriands is said to be reversed: women are the aggressors. During the yam harvest, marauding bands of girls have been known to rape a man.”
Philip laughed and asked how that was possible.
“You’ll have to tell me when you get back,” Richter said, steering us toward a shelf on which a bone-white tusk coiled upward. “It’s from the New Hebrides. It’s a pig’s tusk. Can you make out the markings?”
Etched lightly into the ivory, hundreds of creatures with two sets of genitalia, male and female, coupled in bewildering possibilities.
“On Ambae, where the tusk is from, raising swine is considered an art form. The islanders have somehow managed to breed a rare hermaphrodite pig. They regard its ivory as divine because it has the power of both sexes.”
He opened a glass cabinet and lifted out a wooden box. “We should put out our cigars. This is very old and fragile.” He peeled off the lid. A shrunken head sat nestled in cotton batting. Faded tattoos covered every square inch of its rigid face— a turtle with human hands, wings instead of eyebrows, a shark on one cheek, an albatross on the other.
“Tattoos were once believed by the Ta’un’uuans to be scars that can sing.”
I must have been gaping.
“Don’t worry, Frau Ehrenreich. It’s from the early eighteen hundreds. The Ta’un’uuans are all good Christians now. Methodists, I believe. I’m hoping that Philip will be able to find me a few more of those extraordinary masks.” He turned the head slightly, so that we could inspect the shriveled, marked ears. “See how the tattooing has inspired the mask designs?”
He put the head back into the box, then rang a little bell. A side door opened and a thick-necked butler wheeled in a three-dimensional model of his museum, a cardboard Roman edifice cantilevered over a lake. It looked like something Speer might design.
“It’s quite regal, don’t you think?” He tapped on a paper cupola. “I’m reserving that wing for your finds, Philip.” He looked at me, Philip, me again. “That is, if you permit him to go, Frau Ehrenreich.”
He lifted off the roof so we could see the columned interior.
I wanted to tell him he needn’t bother with the hard sell any longer. Between the art he’d just shown us, the champagne, and the photo of the stateroom, I was half-packed already. The deal was truly sealed for me, however, the moment Richter had called it Philip’s wing.
So what venerated totems did we finally pack into our cages of memory? With Richter footing the bill, Philip packed three new linen suits, one gabardine one, three pairs of hand-sewn Italian shoes, a tuxedo, a dozen French shirts and the gold cuff links to go with them, and silk pajamas and a silk bathrobe. For traipsing around the islands, he purchased three bright orange sarongs and two pairs of leather sandals: “I’m not walking among them like a colonial.” For where no hotel accommodations were available, he bought a watertight pup tent, two air mattresses, three hurricane lamps, and a portable canvas bathtub.
For my ship wardrobe, I shopped at Macy’s. I couldn’t be bothered wasting my time purchasing clothes. My vices included French oil paints, Belgian linen, and Winsor & Newton brushes. Richter even tantalized me with a Japanese folding easel that popped open like an umbrella for landscape painting.
For barter with the island carvers, we acquired five cases of axes and knives. To pay tribute to their chiefs, we purchased fifty cigarette lighters and ten kilos of pipe tobacco. To entrance their wives, we bought a box of rhinestone jewelry on Orchard Street, the kind my mother had loved to wear.
Were our presents demeaning? Perhaps. But any more so than the trinkets with which Richter had just enticed us?
The ship tattooed on
Philip laughed and asked how that was possible.
“You’ll have to tell me when you get back,” Richter said, steering us toward a shelf on which a bone-white tusk coiled upward. “It’s from the New Hebrides. It’s a pig’s tusk. Can you make out the markings?”
Etched lightly into the ivory, hundreds of creatures with two sets of genitalia, male and female, coupled in bewildering possibilities.
“On Ambae, where the tusk is from, raising swine is considered an art form. The islanders have somehow managed to breed a rare hermaphrodite pig. They regard its ivory as divine because it has the power of both sexes.”
He opened a glass cabinet and lifted out a wooden box. “We should put out our cigars. This is very old and fragile.” He peeled off the lid. A shrunken head sat nestled in cotton batting. Faded tattoos covered every square inch of its rigid face— a turtle with human hands, wings instead of eyebrows, a shark on one cheek, an albatross on the other.
“Tattoos were once believed by the Ta’un’uuans to be scars that can sing.”
I must have been gaping.
“Don’t worry, Frau Ehrenreich. It’s from the early eighteen hundreds. The Ta’un’uuans are all good Christians now. Methodists, I believe. I’m hoping that Philip will be able to find me a few more of those extraordinary masks.” He turned the head slightly, so that we could inspect the shriveled, marked ears. “See how the tattooing has inspired the mask designs?”
He put the head back into the box, then rang a little bell. A side door opened and a thick-necked butler wheeled in a three-dimensional model of his museum, a cardboard Roman edifice cantilevered over a lake. It looked like something Speer might design.
“It’s quite regal, don’t you think?” He tapped on a paper cupola. “I’m reserving that wing for your finds, Philip.” He looked at me, Philip, me again. “That is, if you permit him to go, Frau Ehrenreich.”
He lifted off the roof so we could see the columned interior.
I wanted to tell him he needn’t bother with the hard sell any longer. Between the art he’d just shown us, the champagne, and the photo of the stateroom, I was half-packed already. The deal was truly sealed for me, however, the moment Richter had called it Philip’s wing.
So what venerated totems did we finally pack into our cages of memory? With Richter footing the bill, Philip packed three new linen suits, one gabardine one, three pairs of hand-sewn Italian shoes, a tuxedo, a dozen French shirts and the gold cuff links to go with them, and silk pajamas and a silk bathrobe. For traipsing around the islands, he purchased three bright orange sarongs and two pairs of leather sandals: “I’m not walking among them like a colonial.” For where no hotel accommodations were available, he bought a watertight pup tent, two air mattresses, three hurricane lamps, and a portable canvas bathtub.
For my ship wardrobe, I shopped at Macy’s. I couldn’t be bothered wasting my time purchasing clothes. My vices included French oil paints, Belgian linen, and Winsor & Newton brushes. Richter even tantalized me with a Japanese folding easel that popped open like an umbrella for landscape painting.
For barter with the island carvers, we acquired five cases of axes and knives. To pay tribute to their chiefs, we purchased fifty cigarette lighters and ten kilos of pipe tobacco. To entrance their wives, we bought a box of rhinestone jewelry on Orchard Street, the kind my mother had loved to wear.
Were our presents demeaning? Perhaps. But any more so than the trinkets with which Richter had just enticed us?
The ship tattooed on
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