Where the Bones are Buried by Jeanne Matthews Page A

shook her hand. “Forgive me if I don’t stand.”
    â€œHe has an artificial foot,” said Farber, which brought a look of frank displeasure to Eichen’s face.
    â€œI am not disabled,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet. He wore a tan suit, blue shirt, and a braided leather bolo tie secured with a turquoise clasp the size of a duck egg. His blue eyes assessed her from behind avant-garde black wooden eyeglasses. He spoke perfect English with no discernible accent. “I’m in my banker’s mufti, but tonight I will don leggings and a tattered ghost shirt and become Takoda. It is a Sioux name meaning Friend to All.” His eyes twinkled. Flirtatiously, she thought.
    She said, “You obviously take your hobby very seriously.”
    â€œIt is more than a hobby,” said Drumming Man. “It is our spiritual quest.”
    â€œSorry. I didn’t mean to make light.”
    â€œDon’t apologize,” said Eichen. “Drumming Man has a sensitive ear and is constantly on the defensive against mockery.”
    â€œAs am I. I wouldn’t like to think that your imitation of American Indians was a send-up.” She softened the comeback with a smile.
    The group apparently favored the dress of the Great Plains tribes, although it appeared to be a mix-and-match affair. Little Deer wore her blond hair in a perky mushroom bob with a plush scarf coiled around her neck like every other woman in Berlin.
    â€œI assure you our admiration is sincere,” said Eichen. “We Germans live pragmatic, prosperous lives, but we feel an absence. We have become alienated from nature and der Indianer club is an outlet for our nostalgia. One might say, a nostalgia for the forest.”
    â€œWe dream a past that is innocent of the lust for conquest and the industry of murder,” added Drumming Man, his face somber and spookily earnest. “We put on the simple garments that your Indian ancestors wore and harmonize our thoughts with the music of the drums, which is the heartbeat of life. In dreaming, we transcend this soulless time. In drumming, we are forgiven.”
    Little Deer giggled. She looked a lot younger than her husband and Dinah inferred that she wasn’t entirely on board with his desire to transcend this soulless time.
    Farber looked uncomfortable. It was an awkward moment between husband and wife, but Dinah got the feeling that Drumming Man’s painful earnestness embarrassed Farber. He said, “Swan has told me that her Seminole ancestors are the only tribe that did not surrender to the United States Government. Is that true, Dinah?”
    â€œThe Florida Seminoles were never officially defeated. Like the rest of the Indian nations, they lost anyway.”
    Drumming Man said, “We are anxious to meet your mother. Her profile in the Native American registry says that her name was shortened from Suwannee, a river of wild black water and deep channels. She must be geheimnisvoll .”
    â€œMysterious,” Eichen translated with a twinkle. “If she is anything like her daughter, she is a most attractive woman.”
    Not sure how to respond, she said, “Tell me about Chief Winnetou. I understand he’s practically deified in Germany.”
    â€œNot deified,” said Farber. “The stories of Winnetou are fairy tales, good against evil. It was Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show in Munich in eighteen-ninety that gave rise to clubs like ours.”
    â€œThe Indians are a tragic people,” said Drumming Man, sounding tragic. “They were vanquished from their land and murdered, just as Winnetou was murdered by the Yankees who lusted for Indian gold.”
    â€œAnd what a fine time we had last year searching for the burial mound of the great chief,” said Little Deer, the bite of sarcasm unmistakable. “In Wyoming I understood what it feels like to be buried.”
    Eichen clapped an arm around Drumming