How I longed to step into that clearing. To touch the stonework and discover what lay hidden behind the exotic foliage was an almost irresistible desire. Especially after illness damaged my right leg, I cherished the picture as my imaginative escape route. I spent hours dreaming of jungle expeditions and devouring maps and geographies and tales of exploration.
Later, I grew interested in the personality, as well as the adventures, of this intriguing figure, and what I discovered only enhanced his appeal. Intelligent and fearless, Petrus Jonken was further distinguished by the great sorrow of his life, which completed his romantic image in my eyes and won my impressionable heart. As befitted my age, his tragedy was conveyed obliquely at first.
“Poor Uncle Petrus,” my mother would say. “He didn’t have a very happy life, for all his great discovery.” And later, “It was his wife’s death. He never got over losing her.” And finally, when I was maybe twelve: “She was lost on his third expedition. A great mystery—she disappeared and was never seen again. You can imagine,” Mother said. “Not even a grave to visit, unless you consider that whole place a tomb with all its altars and bones and whatnot.”
“It must have been dreadful for him!” I was on the verge of tears, so closely had I identified with my gallant relative, whose strength and skill had carried him places that I, with one severely crippled leg, could only dream of.
“Hard? It broke his heart, your great-grandmother said. He was never the same. He worked on, of course. But he was never the same. It’s difficult to get over things when there’s so many questions.”
“What questions?” I asked.
“What had happened to Alice, of course.”
I somehow knew better than to point out that was only one question and contented myself with the romance and tragedy of my illustrious great uncle. The magic of his image led me to my profession, and though extensive field work was out of the question, I gained a modest reputation for my skill at interpreting artifacts and for mining neglected museum warehouses for new patterns and insights.
At first, I was scrupulously careful to avoid treading in Uncle Petrus’s footsteps, though I must admit that bearing the famous Jonken name didn’t hurt my career. I started out in Caribbean archeology then moved over to Mesoamerican pottery. Having achieved a degree of eminence, I was hired by my famous relative’s alma mater and found myself, junior but tenured, with access to all his papers and collections.
Even then, a kind of delicacy, part professional and part personal, kept me aloof from these treasures. But as my interests began to converge on his most famous discovery, I was the logical choice when the university decided to mount a major exhibition of Petrus Jonken’s life and work.
This was a massive project, because the great Jonken Bequest had never been fully catalogued. Successive generations of students and scholars had explored bits and pieces, producing monographs on the pots and textiles, and on the metal work and the fabulously detailed architectural drawings produced by his expeditions, but no one had tackled the whole, sprawling Edwardian treasure.
Amos Brisco, the energetic museum director, young and recently hired like myself, had plans for a new approach to the material. “Life and work,” he told me, his dark features glowing. “We need to convey the passion and excitement of the man. And to make his work accessible.”
The museum, I did not need to be told, relied a great deal on student groups.
“Plus—and this may be difficult and why I pushed very hard for your involvement, as I know you’re sympathetic—we want to be inclusive. Though Jonken’s the very peak of American archeology, he didn’t do it all by himself. We want to get a feel for the contributions of the local people.”