by Greg Arritt
* * *
Inside the terminal building, four rows of wooden benches faced each other. The benches were crowded beyond capacity with forlorn passengers fanning their sweat-lined faces. The building hummed with the reverberation of sound echoing off the walls. The constant level of noise was cut only by the sharp, intermittent cries of an infant. The uncomfortably humid building had a stale, musty smell that mixed with the pungent aroma of body odor. His lungs seized in mid-breath after having pulled the rank smell through his nostrils. Suddenly, he understood why Lin Ming had insisted that they wait outside until it was time to board. She led him through the terminal and directly to the gate.
The passengers who were boarding the train were huddled together in a dense mass. As the gate opened, the crowd surged forward and then sideways. That quickly, he had become separated from Lin Ming. He tried to ply himself between the other passengers, but they seemed unwilling to let him through. He scanned the crowd, but couldn’t find her in the wave of boarding passengers. Slowly, the crowd started to thin and he caught sight of Lin Ming. She waved him in her direction and then she climbed aboard the train. When he finally caught up with her, she was holding two of the last available seats in the overcrowded passenger car.
Although still quite functional, the passenger cars, like the terminal, were somewhat outdated. The ventilation system was woefully inadequate and, although aided by a number of open windows, the air inside remained stale.
On schedule, the train slowly pulled away from the terminal and began to accelerate. Some passengers were engaged in conversations while others were blindly staring off into space. A few were reading, some were even sleeping, and the unfortunate few that had to stand were swaying to the motion of the train.
“Is everything all right with your family?” Redding asked, but not for the sake of being polite. What he really wanted to know was whether he had been the catalyst that had caused her father to become so upset.
“Shanghai is eight-six kilometers from Suzhou, so we’ll be there in about one hour,” Lin Ming replied. She had understood his question well enough, but instead she offered only an unrelated response.
It couldn’t have been any more obvious that she was trying to change the subject. Whatever transpired the day before she may not have been willing to discuss, but Redding felt fairly confident the matter would surface soon enough.
The train established a moderate speed, causing the wheels to howl as they rolled along the steel tracks. Overhead, the ventilation system whirred as the aging passenger car creaked incessantly. The combination of individual noises created a din that made conversation almost laborious.
“Is the tour company busy?” he asked.
He was referring to the remarks she made the day before in the foyer. She had stated that she was unable to spend the rest of the day with him. Supposedly, she had to work in the tour company office. That was the reason she had given, but he figured the real reason was probably related to her father’s outburst. However, she had offered to accompany him to Shanghai, so he couldn’t exactly press the issue.
“Busy? I suppose,” Lin Ming said. She turned her gaze to the window and stared at the distant landscape.
His intentions had been to open a conversation and then revisit the issues surrounding yesterday’s incident, but Lin Ming had made it clear that she didn’t want to talk. She had been somewhat aloof all morning, seeming lost in her own world. At first Redding hadn’t even noticed. He had been so distracted by thoughts of recovering the painting. Her amiable personality may have been absent, but he wasn’t overly concerned. His focus was also elsewhere.
His mind had been racing from one thought to another and all of it related to the painting. He thought about contacting Le Musee Angladon and the likely involved process of collecting the finder’s fee. He thought about how the fee would fatten his bank account, but more importantly, that he would finally be on an even parity with Yves. That meant all decisions about a buyout would be made jointly, without the pressure of capital. Yves would need his approval, and he had no intention of rolling over and accepting a forced offer.
The train maintained a constant speed and the passengers had quietly succumbed to its monotonous sounds, except for Lin Ming. She seemed nervous and agitated, which caused Redding some concern. Her eyes were focused everywhere, and nowhere. It was as if she didn’t even know that he was sitting next to her.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry. The train is a little tedious,” she offered up the feeble excuse as a means to quiet him, and they both knew it.
“Is something bothering you?”
A long moment passed and he had begun to wonder if she had any intention of answering his question.
“No! I’m just fine.” She glared at him for a moment before looking away again.
It felt as if he was sitting next to a stranger, and yet this particular stranger was someone that he had been intimate with just two nights before. They had shared their bodies in the consumption of passion and without reservation, and now it was as if she didn’t even know he existed.
“Lin Ming, is this about the night we spent together?”
She quickly looked around at the other passengers seated in their immediate vicinity to make sure he hadn’t been overheard.
“Everything is fine. We’ll be there soon, and you will see the painting,” she said. Her voice was laden with frustration and her answer was nothing more than an attempt to placate him.
Redding sat back. He realized that nothing would be gained by pressuring her, so he decided to leave the issue alone. Soon enough they would arrive in Shanghai and his attention would then be entirely focused on the painting. He unwittingly listened to the droning sounds of the train and as he stared off into space, time passed.
* * *
As they neared Shanghai, Lin Ming nudged him. She began pointing out certain landmarks.
“Shanghai has changed so much,” she said. “Every time I come here, it seems so different.”
The amiable side of her personality, with just a twinge of shyness, had returned. He was relieved that the Lin Ming he knew was back. He thought it would be best to abandon any further questions related to her family.
“So, tell me about Jian,” Redding said. “How well do you know him?”
“I don’t know him well at all.” Lin Ming paused. “I only know him because I used to shop in his store. I wouldn’t say he is a friend, but he is the kind of person that thinks everybody is his friend.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jian had always intended to complete his business degree, except that he had been sorely pressed for time. Every spare minute had been dedicated to his fledgling business, which caused his studies to falter. Having to make a choice, he accepted the inevitable and quit the university.
His first foray into the apparel business consisted of nothing more than a stall in an open-air market that sold relabeled clothing. The local residents that frequented the market were his primary source of revenue. Aside from the residents, the market was also a popular venue for tourists, and Jian had a particular liking for foreigners. They were easily sold on his apparel and rarely negotiated for a better price. Although the local residents may have provided a steady flow of income, it was through the tourists that he greatly improved his margins.
He occupied the same space in the open-air market for two years before he made his first move. He sold the business to another vendor and opened a retail store in the old city. He considered the possibility of designing his own clothing line and even manufacturing the garments. He possessed an affinity for rendering and designing, but manufacturing wasn’t only time consuming, it wasn’t cost effective. The optimum route to success hinged on his ability to act as both buyer and store manager. His buying decisions were usually based on secondhand fashion magazines that he perused to determine what fashions were currently in demand and then had a wholesaler provide the manufactured goods.
The store�
��s location in the old city may have been less than desirable, but Jian wasn’t dissuaded. He adopted a trendy motif in an effort to set his store apart from the competition. He had always envisioned himself at the forefront of fashion, but in reality, he was one full step behind. The racks and shelves were stocked with merchandise that was actually outdated. This was in essence a benefit for the store. The goods that he stocked were usually last season’s proven sellers and in spite of his lack of fashion insight, the store did well.
The store was provided with an artistic edge when Jian brought in his own personal artwork, including a painting given to him by his grandfather. The artwork was meant to provide the store with a voguish appearance, and in Jian’s mind, that was key in attracting an upscale clientele. Customers may have been drawn in by the trendy motif, but their purchases of the outdated apparel were based primarily on the offered discount.
The store had only been open a mere three months when the building’s owner notified Jian that he would have to increase the rent. He was the only tenant of the building who received a rent increase and he attributed that to his success.
The following month, he vacated the space in the old city and acquired a new location in the downtown shopping district. The new location had been made available, but for only six months, so the rent was relatively cheap. He didn’t mind that the space was temporary. With each successive move, his business was expanding. Five months later, he moved to his current location in a small shopping district on the west side of Shanghai.
* * *
Redding figured they had already wasted enough time meandering outside while Lin Ming surveyed the shopping district that included Jian’s store. The taxi had long since departed after lingering at the curb in search of another fare. With a little prodding on Redding’s part, they finally made their way into the Next Trend clothing store.
Elevated at the center of the store was a bizarre display of three manikins. All were dressed to express some fashionable new style, each with its arms splayed and holding “Next Trend” shopping bags. At the front was a cashier’s counter and towards the back of the store was a folding table. Behind the table and mounted on the back wall were three large mirrors, each framed in a different style but stained the same dark color. On both sides of the manikins were sets of racks that held pants and jackets. There were also racks mounted on the walls that held a variety of button-up and pullover shirts, and situated between the wall-mounted racks was a curious display of art.
It consisted of a Van Gogh poster, a Rembrandt print cut from a magazine and pasted into a frame, a few poorly painted copies of works by Renoir and Degas, and even a self-portrait of Jian. Most of the art collection had been centered between the wall racks and was clearly visible except for one painting that had been all but obscured from view by a rack of shirts. Only a small portion of the painting was visible; still, it was unmistakable. It was “A Man with a Cello.”
Jian had been fully engrossed in a phone conversation up until the moment he recognized Lin Ming. He abruptly discontinued his call by dropping the phone on the folding table and then he let out a ridiculous scream to accentuate his surprise.
“So happy to see you, Lin Ming.” Jian said. “And, you have a friend.”
He sauntered gracefully forward, stopping only to pull hanging garments outward from a rack to display their fabrics as if they were one of a kind. He may have been in his mid-twenties, but his appearance remained juvenile, if not slightly ridiculous. His gelled, spiked hair overstated his tall, slender frame and, with a camouflage-print shirt and a set of gold dog tags around his neck, he didn’t exactly fit the mold of a businessman. He exuded a persona awash in comical mannerisms while acting as if he were the epitome of fashion.
As soon as the introductions were complete, Jian spoke with Lin Ming in Chinese. Redding might have guessed the nature of their conversation if he hadn’t been distracted. His attention had been drawn to the partially but shrewdly covered painting.
“Lin Ming says that you’ve come to Shanghai to see my painting,” Jian said.
It took a moment before Redding realized that Jian was speaking to him. Before he could respond, Jian turned and darted between the clothing racks to a position just below the cello painting. Using a pole with an end hook, he removed the shirts that obscured the painting from view.
When the painting was fully revealed in all its color and intensity Redding was held spellbound and astonished. The painting was nothing less than incredible. It possessed all of the characteristics of an original realist masterpiece. Any expectation that a painting of that quality could have possibly been a copy seemed near impossible. Any copy artist would have been severely limited with only a black-and-white photograph as a guide. If it was a reproduction, it was equal to the masterpiece. Although he had only been exposed to the painting a mere two minutes, Redding was already convinced that it was no reproduction. The painting had to be genuine.
As remarkable as the painting was, the frame was another story. It had suffered numerous scratches, chips and dings, along with some recent touchups and its style was certainly not typical of the painting’s period. Without a doubt, it was a replacement for the original, which was likely damaged and discarded years ago.
Redding tried to study the painting’s every nuance in a desperate attempt to commit every line, color, and brush stroke to memory. There was an unusual characteristic shared by both the man and the cello. They both seemed to manifest the same pathetic, forlorn mood. The man’s clothing was clean but lifeless, the worn-out fabric draped over his frame. His hair was in complete disarray and his craggy face seemed almost expressionless. The only sign of emotion was the intensity with which his body enveloped the cello.
The cello was the real focal point of the painting. In some places across the surface of the shell, the highly polished finish had been worn away, exposing natural wood. Even though the cello was an inanimate object, it seemed somewhat distressed in its struggle to exude music.
Redding had become so absorbed in the painting that he didn’t even realize he was mumbling. In the few moments that he had managed to block out everything except for the painting, he must have said something.
“What do you mean ‘a painting in D-flat?’” Lin Ming asked.
Redding didn’t answer her. His intense interest in the painting seemed to have put Jian on edge. In Jian’s eyes, Redding saw something he hadn’t expected. It was absolute fear. He had inadvertently overstepped some unknown boundary. Most likely, his exacting study of the painting had likely been perceived as a threat.
Jian’s edginess seemed to quickly intensify, almost as if bordering on panic, and then his mood swung one–hundred-eighty degrees. He sent shirts on hangers flying onto the rack in a frantic effort to return the painting to its obscure existence. Redding knew instinctively that he had to back away.
“We should buy something. Anything!” Redding said to Lin Ming in a quiet, but terse voice. They started rummaging through the various racks of shirts. He needed to reach Jian on a non-threatening level. Only then would he be able to introduce a conversation aimed at the purchase of the painting.
“What does D-flat mean?” Lin Ming asked again as she held a shirt to Redding’s chest for color and size.
“In the painting, did you see the way he was holding the bow and the position of his fingers on the neck of the cello? He is forever playing a D-flat note, and the rest of the concerto is lost.”
“What do you mean it’s lost?”
“Well, the painting conveys the impression that he’s supposedly playing some concerto, but there’s no way to tell what it is because the painting only reveals that one note.”
They had made their selections and Jian proceeded to total the purchases: a plain, button- down shirt for Lin Ming and an imitation polo shirt for Redding that was probably too small.
“Is everything in the store for sale?” Redding asked as he pulled some Chinese currency from his pocket.
&n
bsp; “No, not everything! Just clothes!” Jian said, bristling and twitching in an uneasy manner.
Redding knew that Jian was well aware the question was really about the cello painting. It was a safe guess that other customers had also taken a keen interest in the artwork, and that would explain his suspicious nature.
Jian was in the middle of folding and bagging their purchases when Lin Ming invited him to lunch. Whether her invitation was a fluke or a stroke of brilliance, Redding wasn’t sure. Either way, Jian was enthused.
“So you will join us?” Lin Ming said. “I’m sure you know the best places to eat.”
“I know a place where the noodles are so delicious,” Jian said as he tried to mimic delicious.
* * *
The Japanese-style noodle shop was only half a block down the street. After they settled in at the only available table, Jian started to rattle on about his expansion plans. He said something about a larger store and a possible location in a shopping mall.
He continued on about his prospective plan, which included new décor and additional artwork, but stated coldly that the cello painting would not be displayed. It had already attracted too much unwanted attention.
As Redding listened, one thought continually resonated in his head. He knew that any expansion of a business required capital, and Jian’s plans were no exception. Jian had already introduced the subject of the painting and Redding wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass.
“So, where did you find that painting?” Redding asked in the most mundane tone he could muster.
Jian stated simply that his grandfather had given him the painting and then he fell silent. He seemed somewhat undecided about whether he really wanted to relay any additional information. Then he stared intently at Redding and Lin Ming as if he were about to reveal some secret.