"From down here, yes. From nearby it's just a pile of steel mesh and bare bulbs. I think Andrew Ryan's like that. Nice at a distance, but up close he's a tangled mess."

Chapter 26

The Beraqan are a horticultural people living in longhouse vil ages on the island of Borneo. When I taught introductory anthropology, I used them as an il ustration of the absurdity of Western funerary practices.

According to Berawan beliefs, the souls of the dead are released to the afterlife only when the flesh has decomposed. Until that point, the deceased hover in limbo, no longer part of the living, but unable to join the dead. And there's a hitch. Their bodies can be reanimated by malevolent spirits roaming the world in search of housing. Once revived, these living-dead cannot be kil ed. Needless to say, the vil agers are not wild about having them around.

The Berawan were repulsed and horrified when their ethnographer responded to questions about American customs. In their view, embalming, treatment with cosmetics and waxes, and burial in watertight coffins and vaults are actions of pure fol y. Not only are we prolonging the transition of our loved ones, but our cemeteries provide vast storehouses for potential zombies.

I wondered how the Berawan would react to Bernard Silvestre, centerpiece of the photo in my hand. The fish was taking forever to defrost, and in the interim Kit and I were working our way through Kate's col ection.

Silvestre lay in his coffin, mustache and sideburns spread symmetrical y on each cheek, hands folded piously on his black leather jacket. Ten men crouched in a semicircle below, denimed and booted, while four stood flanking the open casket. Except for the dress and mangy appearance, they looked like a fraternity at a Paddy Murphy party

Elaborate bouquets stretched from one side of the photo to the other, a mini Rose Bowl of floral condolences. One said "Slick" in blue on yel ow, another "Good-bye BS," in shades of red and pink. Carnations forming the number "13" rose directly behind the coffin, flaunting "Slick's" connection to pot or meth.

But best of show was the rectangle on the upper right, a petal mosaic of cycle and rider, complete with whiskers, shades, and angel's wings. I tried, but was unable to read the banners above the helmet and below the front tire.

"Know anything about Slick?" asked Kit.

"He doesn't look like the pick of the litter."

"Yeah, even from that motley litter." He flipped the picture. "Heck, this guy croaked when I was three years old."

There were two more photos of Slick's funeral, both taken from a distance, one at the cemetery the other on the church steps. Many of the mourners wore caps riding their eyebrows, and bandannas stretched to cover their mouths.