by Greg Arritt
After considering all factors, he revised his timeline estimate. He originally thought that it would take maybe six to seven days to complete his search, but now he knew that wasn’t realistic. The sad reality was that his two weeks in China might not be enough time.
* * *
It had been a long day of solid legwork, up one street and down another. The late-afternoon temperatures had finally leveled off while the humidity remained within tolerable limits. Having removed it hours ago, he carried his coat slung over his shoulder. Under the shade of a tree, he uncapped a bottle of water and raised it to his lips. That’s when he saw the American who had bumped into Lin Ming the day before, still some distance up the street. If he had been anyone else, he probably would have gone unnoticed, but his previous behavior had made him overtly recognizable.
As the American closed the distance between them, he broke his gait just long enough to light a cigarette. He was no more than a hundred feet away when he happened to catch sight of Redding. In an instant, he turned and stepped into the street. Then he hailed an approaching taxi and flicked away his cigarette, all in one motion. After he climbed into the passenger side, the taxi immediately merged into traffic.
The shade had provided only minimal relief, and Redding simply couldn’t afford to waste any time. He worked his way along the street, but nothing stood out until he arrived at the same place where he had just seen the American. In that location was a business that he categorized as scrap, or something analogous to a lesser second-hand store. Like so many other businesses with roll-up doors, it was without a façade, which allowed its wares to be exhibited all over the sidewalk.
* * *
He stepped inside, but due to the absence of interior lighting, it took Redding’s eyes a full minute to adjust to the darkened interior. Every square inch was crammed with something useless, and it all probably should have been discarded. There were mismatched dishes and cups of Oriental design, most of them marred with chips and cracks. Precariously tied to the ceiling were lamps, bicycle frames, and birdcages, all heavily inundated with cobwebs. Boxes that held everything from woks to carburetors were stacked on each other, many already having split their seams and on the verge of spilling their contents. Furniture was stacked from floor to ceiling and a collection of used VCR tapes and books was piled high on a table. There were a few imitation Art Deco pieces, but there weren’t any paintings. The store was a collection of everything used and nothing antique.
He was still trying to assimilate the density when an elderly woman with small eyes and wiry gray hair shuffled from the back of the store.
“Yes, many good things to buy,” she smiled, revealing her teeth, stained and crooked.
“I’m just looking.”
“So what are you looking for? Maybe something special?”
Redding had no intention of actually answering her question, so he shifted the conversation. “You speak English very well.”
“Yeah, I’m Chinese and I can speak English.” A condescending tone could clearly be heard in her voice. “Maybe you are looking for a painting?”
Her unexpected reply caught Redding by surprise. He didn’t want to give any information away, but he definitely wanted to know what she knew about the cello painting, if anything.
“Do you have any paintings?”
“I can find a painting for you,” she said, as she pulled a business card from her pocket. “This man, he is also looking for a painting. A painting with a musician and flowers.”
That answered his question. She didn’t know anything about the painting and the man she was referring to was most likely the other American.
“May I see it?” Redding asked as he held his hand out for the business card.
She quickly pulled her hand away, and then slipped the card back into her pocket.
There was little doubt in his mind, but he needed to know for sure. If some other individual was also looking for the cello painting, then he wanted to know who that person was, especially if it was that American. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his money clip. He peeled off a one-hundred-yuan note.
“May I see it?” he asked again as he offered her the currency.
“Two hundred and you can have it.”
Without hesitation he peeled off another hundred yuan note, and then purposely returned the money clip to his pocket. He wanted to make sure she understood that the price had been set. He handed her both bills and she handed him the business card.
“Now, you buy something from my store,” she said, waving her arm to indicate the store’s abundance. Backing slowly through the meandering aisle, she lifted one item after another for his consideration, always watching for any sign of interest. With each item she chose she gasped with surprise as if she had just uncovered some forgotten treasure.
“Oh, so pretty…. Yes, very nice.… Such wonderful colors.”
She grabbed at everything within reach: a chipped ceramic bowl, an empty picture frame, a percolator coffee pot. The store had nothing Redding wanted and certainly nothing he needed. She pulled an old courier pouch from under a pile of magazines. She held the pouch by the shoulder strap and lifted the flap, the whole time watching his eyes for any spark of interest. Redding recognized the ploy. She intended to squeeze him for every last yuan until he had nothing left. He reached into his pocket and retrieved another hundred yuan. He handed her the currency, took the pouch and left without even asking the price or saying goodbye.
The moment he stepped outside he set his eyes on the business card. It was from the Meridian Plaza Hotel, and written on the back of the card was the name “Joran Hausen” and the room number 1630.
He wasn’t sure if Joran Hausen and the American were one and the same, but it seemed likely. The only thing that was certain was Joran Hausen’s interest in the cello painting. It wasn’t relevant how he came to know its whereabouts, nor was that a question Redding ever expected to have answered.
Still, there was a demoralizing aspect in knowing that someone else was combing the streets for the painting, but it wasn’t totally unexpected. That had always been a variable from the very beginning. The real question hinged on if anyone else knew, and that in turn increased the possibility that every inch of the old city had already been scoured.
* * *
Every street within the old city seemed like a world unto itself, inundated with small-time businesses that often spilled out onto the sidewalks. An array of businesses in seemingly unrelated markets sat side by side, along with a few that seemed to defy classification. Produce markets, repair shops, and eateries, along with an unfinished construction project, a burned-out building, and buildings that should have been condemned were all completely ignored. All other businesses, especially the secondhand stores, the clothing boutiques, and the furniture outlets commanded his full attention.
After canvassing the first segment, he retraced his route to uncover businesses that weren’t yet open on his first pass, but the effort yielded few results. Of the locations that still weren’t open, some were again marked on his map for follow-up, but those without any signage were simply crossed off.
If he could have, he would have continued well into the night, but he had less than an hour before he was supposed to meet Lin Ming and her friends for dinner. He felt the slight tinge of fatigue in his legs, but it wasn’t from a lack of conditioning. If anything, it was the humidity exacting a toll. It would likely be days before his body acclimated to the change of climate, and until then he would just have to deal with the uncomfortable warmth. With a wave of his hand, he coaxed a taxi to the curb.
The driver merely glanced at the hotel card before acknowledging that he was familiar with the Bamboo Grove Hotel. He allowed the taxi to inch forward a little at a time while trying to merge into traffic behind a truck with a flat tire. That’s when Redding saw the American again, partially concealed in a narrow walkway between two buildings. His eyes were locked dead-on Redding while he stood frozen in the
shadows. There, he never would have been noticed had the driver not been forced to merge so slowly.
* * *
Well past the old city’s ancient canals, Redding could still feel the acidic intensity of the American watching him. When the taxi finally rolled onto the hotel’s apron, he tossed a few bills to the driver and bolted into the lobby.
With the image of the American still in his head, he made a straight line for the hotel’s business center. If he had had more time, he would have pulled everything related to Joran Hausen off the computer himself. Instead, he quickly drafted an e-mail to Lillian Geary. She knew everybody who was anybody in the art world. If Joran Hausen were someone significant, she would know. After sending the e-mail, he headed straight for his room. With the little time he had left, he still had to shower and change.
* * *
In spite of its overly ornate furnishings and traditional red décor, the restaurant managed a subtle elegance. The meal started with egg flower soup, but in Redding’s opinion, it wasn’t anything special. It seemed to be lacking in flavor, but he sipped away at it without comment. The steamed fish with ginger was the highlight of the meal, but overall he was disillusioned. The connection he felt with Lin Ming the day before seemed to be absent. Maybe he had misread her and was expecting something that didn’t exist. He tried reaching her on something more than a superficial level, but having Ting and Sam hovering over them muted his efforts.
“So, what exactly do you want from me tomorrow?” Redding asked, referring to Sam’s request for assistance at the school.
“Not much, really. You’re just going to read a story to some first graders.”
“And they understand English?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders, not to indicate that he didn’t know, but that it wasn’t important. “I’m not worried about them understanding the story. I just want them to have some exposure to English. It’s actually time well spent, because at that age they have a natural ability to grasp and understand.”
If there had been any way out of the commitment, Redding would have seized it. Reading a story was all well and good, except that he lacked the necessary skills to deal with children. A morning that should have been spent canvassing the old city would instead be wasted away in a classroom.
“After you’re finished with the reading, we will have a tour of Wuzhen.” Lin Ming said. “That’s where you will find what you have been looking for.”
It wasn’t what she said that caught him by surprise, but how she said it. The hint of excitement in her voice had removed all doubt. She was still interested in him. He feigned enthusiasm for the tour and set aside his angst over the loss of time.
“Lin Ming thinks that your interest in the old city is the same as it is for others,” Sam said. “I mean, outside of the gardens, there’s really not much to see.”
“I’m not sure I understand. What others are we talking about?” Redding asked, just as an image of Joran popped into his head.
“Tourists! That’s what we’re talking about. They think that by seeing the old city they’re going to be able to connect with the past, the way China used to be before modernization,” Sam said. “You know, see the real China, get a taste of the real culture, but the old city isn’t so old anymore. It’s just an old section of a larger city. Wuzhen will give you a sense of what China’s past was really like.”
Chapter Ten
After a night of restless sleep, Redding was roused by a jarring wake-up call. He shaved hastily before the mirror steamed over, and then it appeared again. His reflection as a cello was staring back at him, but as disturbing as the image was he hardly gave it a thought. There was nothing real about the image. The physiology of it was all in his head and it could have been caused by anything, such as a mineral deficiency or even sleep deprivation, but was most likely a byproduct of stress.
The phone rang and the image instantaneously vanished. He thought of Lin Ming already waiting in the lobby, but she would have been an hour early. He set the receiver on his shoulder and tilted his head to hold it in place, only to hear Yves’ voice on the other end.
“Yeah, Red, I thought we could talk some business.”
That was Yves’ usual prelude to some potentially expensive issue related to their company, and Redding responded with his typical outburst of annoyance.
“Goddammit, Yves! What is it this time?”
“I just wanted to see if you had any thoughts about the buyout?”
“What the hell is the matter with you? I’ve been here two whole days. I haven’t even seen shit yet, and you want to know if I had any thoughts?”
“Take it easy, Red. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just called to see if you had any questions.”
Discussing the buyout face to face was bad enough, but there was no way Redding was about to discuss the matter long distance. He told Yves that he would call if any thoughts came to mind. Then he slammed down the phone. He didn’t like losing his temper, but the idea of being shut out of his own company made him really edgy.
Without the business, he would still have the condo and he wouldn’t go hungry. But he wouldn’t have any real money either and that wasn’t the way he wanted to live. He was halfway around the world and the business was bearing down on him. He could feel Yves tearing their partnership asunder. At least, that’s the way it seemed.
* * *
Lin Ming wasn’t due for another ten minutes, so he headed into the business center to check his e-mail. There was one from Mrs. Lillian Geary.
Well, I must tell you, Mr. Teska, I am quite surprised that you asked about Mr. Hausen. I don’t know him personally, but I have heard the stories. He’s one of those New York art gallery dealers that should never have been allowed a business license. The story is that he was caught in some nasty business with a stolen painting. So I certainly hope you are not involved in any dealings with his gallery. Do have the good common sense to avoid him.
For you convenience, I have attached a couple of links regarding Mr. Hausen.
The first was a website for the Hausen Art Gallery in New York City, which listed Joran as the chief executive officer. The website touted services related to consignment sales, along with a calendar of upcoming exhibitions featuring local artists. It also mentioned that services could be tailored to meet the specific needs of the client, no matter what the requirements.
The second link produced a newspaper article that detailed the sale of a stolen million-dollar painting. The seller of the consigned painting never materialized, and the authorities had questioned Joran at length. The paperwork related to the consignment was carefully analyzed and the gallery was searched front to back, but there wasn’t any evidence suggesting that Joran had had prior knowledge. Eventually, the district attorney’s office backed away from the investigation and no charges were ever filed.
Redding hadn’t even finished the article before he knew that Joran and the American were one and the same. He also knew the truth, whether or not any charges were ever filed. The world was full of ruthless people and Joran was one of them. If there had to be another person searching the old city, it was just a damn shame that it turned out to be him.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Joran. Had he already turned over every stone in the old city looking for the painting? Was he efficient and calculating, or sloppy and lazy and just hoping to stumble onto it? There weren’t any easy answers, so Redding tried to push the questions out of his head. If he were to be successful, he couldn’t allow anyone, not even a thieving art dealer, to distract him. He had barely covered the first section of the old city and was nowhere near ready to call it quits. Still, somewhere in the back of his mind there was a defeatist’s argument and it continually gnawed away at him.
The morning would be a complete waste. It was essentially spent and it had nothing to do with the painting. Not wanting to upset his nervous stomach, he had skipped breakfast. He met up with Lin Ming in the hotel lobby
and they queued up for a taxi. At dinner the night before, Sam had filled him in on the basics of what to expect in the classroom, but that did little to settle his nervousness. The fact that Lin Ming was accompanying him had a calming effect, but her enthusiasm was a little disturbing.
* * *
The taxi plied through the morning traffic, accelerating at every opportunity, only to speed right past the school. When the driver realized what he had done, he immediately came to a stop, set the taxi in reverse, and started backing through the approaching traffic. He continued on, even over all objections, refusing to stop until Redding opened the passenger door.
His hands actually trembled when he paid the taxi driver, but it had nothing to do with the driving. As they walked back to the school, he began cursing himself for becoming involved. He was usually too sharp to get caught in situations that were out of his element. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he was the wrong person for the task of reading to a classroom of students. Someone who knew how to handle children should have been selected, and he wasn’t that person.
The school would have been indistinguishable from the rest of the neighborhood except that its masonry walls had recently been painted and a sign had been mounted at the gate, identifying it in both Chinese and English. Through the large steel gate, a driveway led to a half- dozen parking spaces. Beyond the parking area was an L-shaped, two-story building that ran along one side of the property and across the back. Opposite the parking area was a concrete surface that had on one side a makeshift backboard and hoop. Between the half court and the school was a grassy area, well trampled and desperately in need of water. According to Sam, this was supposedly the typical Chinese school.