teacher who played a game with us wherein we compared different kitchen utensils to aspects of learning. I remember a spoon related to a teacher in detail, a piece of paper to our brain, and a knife to our principal. But I–I don’t think abstract or arbitrary connections should be taken seriously. Rhetorics can show how any two unrelated things are connected.”
Porter wiped his eyes. “Yet wouldn’t you agree that finding logical connection is the center of scholarship? What else is a dissertation?”
She chewed on the inside of her lip. “As scholars we can only do our best.”
Leaning suddenly forward in his chair, Porter said, “I wish other scholars were as honest as you! You’re right, of course. None of us are as enlightened as we’d like to believe. The problem with the Enlightened thinkers of Rousseau’s day was that they thought they saw the truth. Not just reality, but absolute truth! They chose to believe that there was nothing more than what they were seeing. It’s…a problem we all have…to some degree or another. We focus on paradigms we’ve collected over the years, without acknowledging the existence of paradigms. You and I might know what paradigms are-a pattern or model of reality defined by our own thoughts and observations-but we go on living with them, without consideration of the other paradigms in the world. So who’s right? No one. Who thinks they’re right? Everyone. What’s right? Will we ever really know-that is what we should ask ourselves.”
“But that’s a philosophical question, not a historical one,” Alred said.
“Right. And I’m not implying we should do away with historians…I’d be out of a job!” Porter said, throwing up his hands. “What we are forced to deal with are… possible…truths based on all the finds in our possession.”
“ Possible is the key word,” Alred noted. “Scholars don’t want to deal with possibilities that are so improbable as to be defined as near impossibilities.”
“Of course,” Porter said, his chair squeaking again as he leaned back. “The only thing that has greatly bothered me is that most scholars only acknowledge possibilities they like. Some possibilities grind against their feelings.
“You can’t mix business and emotions, they rarely work well together, no matter your office or profession. If you and the rest of the planet are inclined to believe that the world is flat, for example, and you worry about what your friends and associates will feel if you were to acknowledge the possibility that you might think the world is round, you’ll be wise to keep your mouth shut until everyone believes the same thing.”
“Of course, there’s always someone who likes to stand out,” said Alred.
Porter agreed with a raised hand. “Shouting their beliefs even if they know few will receive them kindly. The majority is always slow to change opinions, and only does so when the populous of scientists begins to move toward the idea that the world might actually be round. At that point, you wouldn’t have as large a problem in telling everyone that you might believe the world round as well. But you see, emotions-worry in this case-really get in the way.” Porter folded his arms.
With one eyebrow rising, Alred said, “That’s why most conservative religious people refuse to recognize archaeological discoveries which say their Bible might not have been the original source they thought it was.”
“Exactly!” Porter sat up like a startled cobra. “Most old-fashioned religious folk have mastered the doctrine of believing and having faith in place of facts. When new artifacts turn up…they flat out don’t want to see them, because they fear what they might see.”
“I agree with you there,” said Alred.
“Truth is, they often don’t recognize how the new finds do correspond to their old pious ideas. The problem lies with their belief systems. A lot of religious people believe things that have been passed down from person to person, but have no valid backing in their scriptures.”
“Really,” said Alred.
“Someone once told me the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Tower of Babel were one and the same.”
“Are you serious?”
Porter shrugged. “He was a nice guy…but obviously no scholar. Someone a little more respectable probably told him that-it may even have been a joke! — but the guy believed it and related it as fact.”
“Did he know what specific area you study?” she said, wondering who could be so naive, so presumptuous.
“Well, it was a long time ago. I don’t remember. But he was sincere. I just nodded, and let his delusion continue. Arguing with a fool is like wrestling with a pig, they say. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.”
“That’s an oldie-” Alred said, pulling her red jacket around her.
“-but a nice one!” Porter finished with a smile. “As far as scholars go, the biggest hang-up can be found in their general lack of interest in things that would be embarrassing to believe.”
Pause. “Like the idea that what the Mormons profess is real?” Alred said carefully, no malice in her voice. Of course she needed to validate Masterson’s warning of a Mormon bias in the project.
Porter nodded without a word. He sat forward, slowly this time, and rested his arms on the table. “I like you, Erma. You’re all right. The number one concern I have with most scholars in your field of Mesoamerican Archaeology is…they choose not to acknowledge the possibility of a possibility that what the Mormons say about the ancient Americas is true. I’m not talking about dealing with truths here…but possibilities. You said yourself it’s short-sighted for religious scholars to conclude that secular scholars are automatically wrong when their papers contradict biblical themes.”
Alred nodded, but kept her face and all emotions hidden behind tight skin.
“Why then would secular scholars automatically assume papers written by religious scholars…unworthy of a thorough reading based on the premise that religious academics are ‘Old School?’ To tell you the truth, I know a good number of very talented Mormon scholars who have published numerous books and papers in the secular realm. But few in that society recognize their existence. Is anyone reading their papers, or do they see the name, the title, the thesis, and quickly turn to the next essay.”
Alred closed her green eyes and opened them again. “I can see why you are praised for your work. You’ve obviously thought out your arguments.”
Nodding, Porter added in a soft voice, “I look forward to working with you, Erma…though I admit I was steamed when I found out I had to share Dr. Ulman’s codex. I know it will be a challenge-it is whenever I work with someone else. My ideas are often extreme, but I’m sure you’ll keep me in line,” he said in a sarcastic tone.
“Count on it,” she said with the same voice.
“But, Erma, let me say one more thing.” He licked his lips and said slowly, “I will have a great deal more respect for you as a scholar if you admit the possibility…that there is a possibility…that what I present is true. I’m not asking you to believe me. Everyone follows their own paths, and no outside individual has a right to change another person. You are in charge of you. I am only asking you to not be an enlightened scholar who presumes to already have the answers. After all, we’re moving into new territory-case closed. I’m asking you…as a scholar…to keep an open mind. Come to your own conclusions, but don’t shrug off others because you’re worried about what reviews your dissertation will receive.”
She nodded and stood. “We’ll see.” Her voice was hard. Turning to the door, as Porter leaned back in his chair and scratched his head with a clawed hand, Alred said, “Oh…Porter?”
“Yeah.”
She pushed the door open and faced him. “Don’t ever call me Erma again. That’s my aunt’s name, and I’d prefer not to think about her right now. I hate the name, but out of respect for my parents I will not change it. Understand?”
April 10
6:18 p.m. PST
He was late, and he knew it. But there wouldn’t be a problem.
Checking his $4,000 watch, snug on his wrist, he waited as the elevator flew another fifty stories. He brushed away a white spec that had landed on his thousand dollar, dark navy suit. With a flash of his eyes, he made sure the white cuffs of his shirt protruded exactly one quarter inch from his jacket. One glance at his Italian shoes made of black leather, and he knew the tone and the shine couldn’t be more perfect.
He never once let go of the briefcase, even though it was much heavier than usual. Standing in the rear of the elevator, he let his muscles relax as he examined the heads of all those standing with him.
Two red heads.
Partly bald man, who smelled of spent cigarette cinders.
