Inside was an arbol de la vida-a tree of life. It was at least eight feet tall and over four feet wide. The tree has been, since ancient Mexico, a symbol of life, death, and rebirth. Most of the older ones are subtly beautiful representations of these eternal verities-but they were created before the advent of acrylic paints.
This particular tree was pink, purple, and green; orange, turquoise, and yellow; red and blue with gilt accents. Its ceramic branches contained the Father, the Son, the Virgin Mary and, for all I knew, the Holy Ghost. Adam and Eve were there, clutching bright green fig leaves. There were angels with banjos, horns, harps, and swords. A sun and moon on either side wore sappy grins. There were horses, camels, goats, pigs, rabbits, and a lion with a gilt crown. There were deer, antelopes, panthers, unicorns, and upside-down doves. In the center, between Adam and Eve, the head of a serpent emerged from the foliage, munching on a blue and yellow apple. It was also a flowering tree, and from each garish blossom red berries stuck out on long stems, like springs.
Yes, indeed, this tree symbolized it all and more. For all I knew, it glowed in the dark.
“Who on earth did this to us?” I asked in an awed whisper.
Jesse put a hand on my arm. “Hush.”
“No, I want to know.”
He pointed at Isabel.
I should have known. Isabel was well bred and possessed exquisite taste, except for one idiosyncracy. She loved the modern-day Tree of Life and supported several potters in the town of Metepec, where the trees are primarily made. I suspected, since she was so clearly proud of it, that this one had been perpetrated by one of her proteges. Why, I wondered, did our museum’s most generous benefactor have to have this strange streak?
Isabel’s triumphant look became questioning. “It’s a surprise, for the opening,” she said. “Do you like it?”
We all remained speechless.
“Pablo Gomez made it,” she added. “It’s one of a kind, especially for this museum. There’ll never be another like it.”
So I had been right; Pablo was her favorite protégé‘t an old man who turned out these monstrosities the way a fry cook turns out burgers.
Frank recovered first. “It’s splendid, Isabel. Just splendid. ”‘ He turned to me. “Isn’t it splendid?”’ His scowl said I’d better come up with something good; the museum depended on Isabel’s contributions.
“It’s lovely, Isabel. Such an excellent example of the arbol de la vida. And so large. It’s so much larger than anything in our collections.” I turned to Jesse.
“Yes,” he said quickly, “it certainly is large. It must have cost a fortune.”
“Price was no object.” Isabel waved a hand airily, her uncertainty banished.
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this, Isabel,” Frank said. He turned to Tony this time.
Tony gave his lounge-lizard smirk. “I will take oh-so-many pictures and make new materials for the education.”
Now what did that mean? I frowned at him.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Maria?” Frank said.
Maria gave him a sulky look, then smiled brilliantly at Jesse.
Now it was Frank’s turn to frown.
Isabel beamed at us. “Yes, price was no object. Nothing is too good for our opening in our new quarters.”
A horrible suspicion crept over me. Did Isabel expect this… creation to be in place for the Cinco de Mayo party?
“And, of course, the press preview,” she added.
“I-” Panicky, I glanced at Frank. He looked blankly at me. “I-” I cleared my throat. “Isabel, I don’t think we can get it in place by then. The preview’s tomorrow morning at ten. The other exhibits will have to be shifted to prepare a space large enough…”
Isabel frowned. Although charming, she could be difficult when crossed.
“Frank,” I said, “I don’t think-”
“Do it,” Frank said.
“What?”
“Shift the exhibits and get the tree in place.”
“But-”
“The folk art gallery is plenty large enough. We can use a plywood base. Get that painter-what’s his name-Pedro over here. He can paint the wood in colors to highlight those purple and green flowers.”‘ Frank gestured at the tree. “We can flank it with those two smaller arboles from the permanent collection.”
“Frank!” It would take all day to shift the exhibits. The painter probably would not be available. And who was going to build this plywood base? Besides, the damned thing was ugly!
Frank, however, had made up his mind. “Tony, take Isabel into the gallery and help her pick a spot for it.”
Tony nodded and slouched over to the truck. He helped Isabel down and ushered her into the museum.
“Frank!”
Frank stepped up to me, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Now, listen, you, and listen careful. That tree is going to be in there in time for the preview.”
“Frank, it is gross, it is ugly, it is too damned big!”
“You’re prejudiced. I know you hate the things.”
It was true. I was perfectly willing to admit prejudice. But it was a prejudice founded on solid artistic principles. Since the invention of acrylic paints, the trees had become more and more garish, their branches laden with objects that had little to do with the combined Indian and Christian beliefs. I would gladly have displayed one of the older trees, but not this thing. It was on a par with a pinata from Tijuana. “That particular tree,” I said, “would prejudice anyone.”
“It is going to be displayed whether you like it or not.”
“You may be director here, but I’m responsible for the collections. I am responsible for what people see and don’t see. I am responsible for what they think of Mexican art.”
“And you will be responsible for setting that”-he waved wildly at the arbol-“up!”
“I will not be responsible for that monstrosity. It’s hideous.”
“Do it!”
“No, dammit!”
Frank came closer until his nose was a scant six inches from mine. This was the tactic he always used in our frequent arguments. “Yes, dammit,” he said softly. “You will do it. That woman in there is worth several million dollars, even now that she’s divorced. That woman in there devotes herself to this museum. That woman in there is not to be crossed.”
“Money! Is that all you can think of-money?”
“Money is what keeps us going.”
“What about artistic integrity?”
“That is a side issue.”
“Not to me, it’s not.”
“Go in there and get ready to set up that tree.”
“There isn’t time.”
“Nonsense. Vic can build the base for it. He’s good with a hammer.” Vic jerked in surprise. “If we can’t get Pedro, Jesse can paint. After all, he’s an artist.” Jesse opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “The driver can help us haul the tree into place.”
“My orders are only as far as the loading dock,”‘ the driver said.
Frank ignored him. He looked back at the tree, his eyes calculating. “We’ll set it up, flanked by those two little arboles. Stick in some of the fertility symbols and… I’ve got it! We’ll put that little terra-cotta tree of death on a pedestal.”
“The tree of death!” I said.
“Yes. The tree of death.”
“You can’t do that! It’s unaesthetic. It’s not done. It’s sacrilege!”
“Do it!”
I felt my rage rising. Take it easy, Elena, I told myself. Watch that temper.
“Is that clear?”‘ Frank added.
I clenched my fists. I gritted my teeth.
“Is it, Miss Oliverez?” He stood there before me, smug and self-satisfied.
“You son of a bitch!” I said. “You hijo de puta! What the hell right do you have to mess with my collections?”
Frank took a step back.