Pedro swept the halls of the natural history museum while humming a catchy tune. He was all alone tonight and didn’t have to worry about being interrupted at an awkward moment.
All the other workers had called in sick for the night, perhaps because of the sudden pandemic that seemed to be sweeping other nearby businesses, or perhaps because of the monumentus fútbol match scheduled for 9:30. As it turns out, the local soccer team was among the most popular in the nation, and was celebrating its 100th year anniversary. It was going to be the match of the century. It was going to make history. It was going to instigate a riot later that night.
Safe from the ravishes of the upcoming festivities, Pedro couldn’t help but feel left out and particularly stupid for having been the last person to fake a horrible illness. Well, he was stuck at the museum now, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Pedro swept by the stairs, by the whale, by the stuffed nightingale, and by the prehistoric creature with a surprisingly well preserved 8th eye. He walked up and down the exhibit awing, as always, at its depth and diversity. There were 3 floors for Pedro to clean, all on his own, and each had hundreds of displays. All of them dead and boney.
The natural history museum was in fact the 3rd largest in the world. As a consequence, at any given time it could only display 20% of its inventory. The rest was stored in the gargantuan basement below the museum, and this portion was rotated with current exhibits in some arbitrary and capricious way that is beyond the scope of this book.
It was at some point around 3 in the morning that Pedro grew tired of the upper floors and decided to take a break, tapping a soccer ball around playfully in the lobby. A few minutes later Pedro groaned. One failed maneuver flipped the ball in the air, and it swiftly proceeded down the stairs into the stale and crusty basement. The basement was filled with twists, turns, and cobwebs, and freaked Pedro out so much that he commonly held his rosary before entering it.
If he only knew.
After descending into the darkness, Pedro flipped a switch and could clearly see that his ball had not gone far. He could also clearly see that a light was out. He put the ball at the foot of the stairs, grabbed a new bulb, picked up the mop and sighed. Break was over.
Pedro traversed the basement, mopping the floors, sweeping the cobwebs, and polishing the doorknobs. He followed the serpentine corridor where it led and eventually reached the end. Before he turned back, he gave the door at the end of the corridor one little polish. The knob moved. It never moved. It was always locked. Pedro looked around for a second, making sure he was still alone, then continued to turn it all the way and open the door.
An ungodly smell greeted him on the other side. He peeked in, then gasped in horror. The smell was more intense now, the room was covered with a rusty brown paste, like a steel wool sponge in water too long. Holes dotted the walls. That was when Pedro spotted it. The mound in the corner.
PART II
Raul Marque was the Head of Anthropology at the Universidad. He was rummaging over old notes and enjoying the afternoon when the office phone rang. It was the curator of the natural history museum.
“I have job for you,” the curator announced. Three days time, the museum needed an exhibit on the Indians that lived in the southern part of the country. The trip would be all expenses paid, and he would be rewarded handsomely. Raul asked what the job entailed.
“We need someone to procure the bones of some members of the Angabee tribe,” the curator answered. “Would you like the job Mr. Marque?”
Raul debated it in his mind briefly; he didn’t know if it was appropriate for him to leave work on such short notice, but he could really use the extra money.
“I’ll do it.” He said.
The next morning, Raul Marque shipped off for the Angabee tribe. It was a four-hour flight, followed by a three hour off-roading adventure. He was greeted by the Angabee people, and participated in a variety of festivities that night before going to bed. There was dancing and music and food. A child of the Angabee people made him a basket. He was very pleased, and his thoughts gravitated towards a sweet sort of peace before drifting into unconsciousness in his tent. He awoke to a call from the curator.
“Have you found someone willing to show you the tribe’s burial site?” he asked. Raul responded with bad news.
“Yes, but there is something that you should know.” You see, the Angabee people had an unusual quirk which rendered the job unmanageable. A little routine, which they perform at everyone’s funeral. It begins with all of the common traditions, the mourning cloths, the speeches, but then it gravitates toward something more Gregorian. It ends with the cremation of the dead.
“I’m sorry sir, but there are no remains to be had. From dust, to dust the Angabee choose to return.” Raul quoted overused aphorisms.
The curator certainly did sound concerned for a while; but as it happens, he was not one to stay despondent for long. He could always think of alternate solutions to brighten his day.
“Raul, I’ve got a new job for you.” He said. Raul listened intently and both were happy with the proposal.
The next morning Raul announced that he needed 20 volunteers, men, women, and children, to come with him and participate in a study. In return the tribe would be rewarded with cash and shiny bracelets. It wasn’t hard, the Angabee were an amiable people, always willing to help a friend out.
The 20 volunteers were shipped back to the museum in white vans. Raul went with them and talked with them on the way. They arrived at the museum at night and everyone was unloaded at the garage. On entering the lobby, the guards guided Raul to the curator’s office.
“You’ve done your job. Here is your money. You may go now.” the curator stated flatly.
“I’d actually like to help out with the study if that is at all possible, I’ve grown rather fond of the Angabee people.” Raul said. Silence fell over the curator’s face.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” The curator said. “If you thought that I would go empty handed on this you are quite niave. You see I’ve made other arrangements.” He paused and looked over the top of Raul’s head.
“Guards,” he said, “if you could be so kind as to take Mr. Marque back to his car, and to direct our guests into the basement. We are ready to begin.”
The guards with guns guided the Angabee people forward with a kindly hand and a gentle tone.
As Raul was escorted from the premises, the curator’s final words echoed in his ears, as the guns sounded in silence
“We have our bones, Mr. Marque, we have our bones.”
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