Daniel McKeon enjoyed his work. His analytic skills were perfect for it. He was relaxed with the separation his cubicle provided from his I.T. colleagues and the satisfaction of solving a problem and finishing a project, sustained him day to day. He was unaware that his problem-solving skills were about to be tested in a completely different and bizarre way.
Daniel’s private life was quiet, by most thirty-year old’s standards. He hadn’t had much luck with girls and it didn’t really bother him. The black rimmed glasses and plumpish figure gave him a nerdish look. He lived in a one bedroom apartment in Richmond, a short tram ride to Melbourne city. His live-in companion was Plato, his Burmese cat. He named him Plato because he thought the cat looked like he was always about to say something profound. One Saturday morning in June, following the usual long black at his favourite Bridge Street cafe, Daniel was on the lookout for homeware items – items that would stamp his own unique character on the decor in the unit.
The dingy-looking shop cluttered with all manner of old furniture and unrecognizable smaller items looked perfect. He walked in and moved slowly around examining pieces as he went.
Something not too small... not too big ... unusual... perhaps from overseas, he thought. He stared intently at a carved voodoo mask sitting on a wall shelf. He picked it up, noticed the ‘made in China’ sticker and moved on. A porcelain piece placed on an eye-level shelf attracted his attention. It was very much like a vase for long-stemmed flowers, similar size but with a flared opening. Daniel appreciated the exquisite Japanese-style decoration of animals and flowers. He looked at the manufacturer's mark on the base. It was a simple blue line marked sun about the size of a ten cent piece with a smiling face in it. It didn’t mean anything to him. He checked the price, 195 dollars. Quite a bit more than he wanted to pay but he thought it reflected his unique style. He bought it.
Placed in the centre of the coffee table Daniel thought it looked spectacular, a great conversation piece if anyone ever visited. “Plato, what do you think?” he asked glancing at the cat. Plato looked at him condescendingly, but, as usual, he didn’t respond. Daniel sat on the sofa and lifted the vase to examine it closely. He heard a faint clinking noise from inside. Peering into the flared opening he could see a small round porcelain plate. It was a false bottom. He tried to manoeuvre it aside. He tipped the vase upside down with his hand held firmly over the opening. Two items fell onto his palm, a round cover plate, and a small flat half circle bottle. The bottle reminded Daniel of a perfume bottle but with a screw top lid. He held it up to the light that flooded through his glass patio doors. It was completely filled with a golden coloured viscous liquid. Floating suspended inside was what looked very much like, a human ear. Daniel wondered how you could put an ear into that type of bottle. It would need to be rolled up and poked through the opening, he thought. A small rectangle of discoloured paper was stuck on the flat surface of the bottle. The word ‘BRODEUR’ was written on it in faded black ink. Was that a place – a person? Daniel’s mind went to overdrive. Was it a fake - clue to murder - practical joke? He thought about how to find the story behind this ear. Daniel smiled and looked at Plato. “I think we have a little mystery to solve here mate.” He quickly opened his laptop and researched ‘BRODEUR’. It was a common French surname - nothing notable about it. Next would be a visit to Daniel’s doctor friend Chris. He phoned and arranged to meet at Chris’s place that evening.
“The liquid in the bottle is honey,” Chris said. “The ear is a real ear that’s been removed from a real adult’s head, probably male from the hirsute appearance. It looks to me to be well preserved. Honey is a good preserving agent. It was used in some ancient civilisations to mummify.”
“So it’s an ancient artifact?” Daniel asked.
“Well no, I’m pretty sure it’s not ancient. The bottle is relatively modern, so probably not Tutankhamen’s ear. The Egyptian’s approach was more holistic, not just ears,” he said. “It could have come from a dead person or a live one; you can get more info from DNA analysis. It may relate to some criminal act - I would go to the police for them to check,” he said, but Daniel wanted to do his own research.
Now that Daniel knew he had a real ear he decided that his next visit would be back to the shop where he bought the vase. The next opportunity would be next Saturday. So he had a week to contemplate the possibilities of the origin of the ear. He found concentration difficult during the days at work. He was itching to get to the shop on Saturday.
“Hi, I bought this vase from your shop last Saturday. Do you know where it came from?” He had his phone open showing a picture he had taken at home. The large bearded man behind the counter leaned forward and looked down at the phone.
“Well, Daniel when you say where it came from, do mean where it was made?”
“No, I mean ‘where did you get it from’. I’m trying to trace the owner.”
“Ok - and by the way, it’s not a vase it’s a spitting bowl,” the big man said.
Daniel raised his eyebrows. “Really, spitting bowl, it looks Japanese I think they do a bit of spitting over there.”
“It’s not Japanese it was made in France around the time of Louis the fourteenth - made by Saint-Cloud and has a blue sun mark on the base. I remember it had a few chips and imperfections otherwise it would have been a lot more expensive,” the big man said with a smile. He reached under the counter and produced a dog eared brown hard covered foolscap book. He flipped a few pages and ran his stubby finger down a list of names and item descriptions. “Yes, here it is. I bought three items, all porcelain French manufactured items, all average condition from a D Perrin. Daniel was disappointed that the name wasn’t Brodeur.
“Any address?” he asked.
“No, but I’ve got a phone number,” the big man replied.
Daniel wrote down the number, thanked the big man and headed back home. He phoned the number immediately on his return. An elderly female voice answered. Her name was Diane Perrin. She confirmed she had sold the porcelain items to the shop owner. She was very accommodating and was happy to speak to Daniel about the items. She confided that she lived alone and didn’t appear to be the slightest bit concerned about having Daniel visit her. He set off to walk the few kilometres to her house in Fitzroy.
Diane Perrin lived in a typical single-level Fitzroy brick terrace house. The heavy dark timber front door was a metre from the wrought iron fence. The paved front area did not allow for vegetation, apart from a large clay pot containing a struggling spindly ficus tree. Daniel knocked and the door opened slowly.
“Hi, I’m Daniel. I rang you earlier.”
“Yes, hello... come in,” she pulled the door open wide and Daniel went inside. Her hair was styled, grey and short. She wore expensive looking ornate glasses with neat yellow slacks and a floral top. They walked down the narrow hallway past two closed doors on the left into a larger family room which opened on to a small kitchen area. The house was very neat with modern furniture pieces. It was remarkably uncluttered. This was unusual in Daniel’s experience as the older folk tended to treasure their knick-knacks.
Diane directed Daniel to a chrome plastic backed chair at the kitchen table. She sat opposite. “What can I help you with Daniel?”
Daniel had thought about how to approach this subject and thought that showing the ear straight up was not prudent. He would ask about the name.
“Thanks for talking with me Mrs. Perrin, I really appreciate it.”
“It’s Diane, and it’s no trouble,” she said.
“I told you I bought one of the items you sold to the shop in Richmond – the spitting bowl. Well, it had a small bottle with a name on it, in a false bottom,” he said.
“Ah, the spitting bowl, my husband Thomas had some porcelain handed down through his French ancestors. What was the name?” she asked.
“Brodeau,” he replied.
“That rings a bell,” she said looking at the ceiling. “Thomas had a document with his family tree. Just hang on a minute I’ll get it,” she stood up and quickly went down the hall to the first bedroom. She returned with a plastic folder open in her hands, removed an A4 single sheet of paper and placed it on the table. She sat and pointed. “See here if we go backward from Thomas, his Dad Edmond and wife Florine came out to Australia just before the depression in 1925. Before that Thomas’s grandfather, Andre Perrin married Rachel Brodeur in 1890 - there’s the name you’re looking for,” she said with a smile.
“So the porcelain bowl would have originally been owned by Rachel Brodeur?” Daniel asked.
“Yes, I would say definitely.”
“Do you know if Rachel’s husband Andre was in World War One,” Daniel asked, fishing for something that may involve him losing an ear.
“I don’t believe so. He was too old at the time,” she replied.
Daniel was thinking he was at a dead end. “I wonder who had the bowl before Rachel?” he asked, feeling a little deflated.
“There is a colourful story there,” she said. “Thomas would never tell anyone other than family about this... the bowl came from a brothel where Rachel was a prostitute. You can imagine a spitting bowl was probably well used.”
Daniel sat up straight in his chair.
“Apparently Rachel was a beautiful woman. She took up the profession as a young girl before she met Thomas’s Grandad. It was said that among her admirers were some of the well-known artist set in Aries – Paul Gauguin and Vincent Van Gogh.”
Daniel was now sitting perfectly upright with eyes wide open, staring intently at Diane. “Vincent Van Gogh, who lost his ear?” he asked in a squeaky high pitched tone.
“Yes, Thomas told me the Perrin family believe that he either cut it off because Rachel rejected him for Andre, or Paul Gauguin cut it off in a fight over Rachel.”
Daniel was stunned. The tingles were dancing up and down his spine. He had Van Gogh’s ear. It had to be. Should he tell Diane? No!
The walk home was a blur – the fame – the notoriety – the money. What to do next?
He unlocked his front door and went through to the kitchen where he had left the bottle on the bench. The sparkling shards of glass sparkled on the floor tiles. Daniel stood motionless looking down. He fell to his knees. The honey was in a gooey puddle. The ear was not there.
Plato sat on the bench licking his paws and washing his face. He looked like he was about to say something.