A Cello In Abstract

by Greg Arritt

  “My grandfather was a master craftsman. He could make just about anything out of wood. It didn’t matter whether the wood was mahogany, cedar, or birch,” Jian said while he wielded chopsticks in one hand and mimicked woodworking with the other. “Everything he made was exquisite.”

  * * *

  The heart of Jian’s story centered on World War II and the Japanese occupation of China. The Japanese had pressed his grandfather into service for only one reason: to build a traditional Japanese bathhouse. Under brutally harsh conditions, he labored for nearly three months. When the bathhouse was completed, the Japanese inspected every minute detail. They never actually acknowledged the quality of the work, but suddenly his skills were in demand. His workmanship on the bathhouse led to a series of additional projects, all centered on the fabrication of Japanese-style furniture. The most notable was a traditional-style table that he was required to build for one of the officers. When the table was finished, he and another worker carried the table to the officer’s house under the escort of armed guards. The house was conspicuously empty, without so much as a single piece of furniture. Aside from the table, the only other item in the living room was a painting that hung on the wall.

  Jian was interrupted as the waitress set three bowls of spring onion soup with noodles on the table. With ladle spoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other, Jian started on the noodles while intermittently continuing with his grandfather’s story.

  “That was the first time my grandfather saw the painting,” Jian said with a mouth full of noodles. “When the guards saw my grandfather looking at the painting, they beat him. They were always so mean and cruel to him.”

  He emphasized the hardships that his grandfather had to endure over the years. Then one gray, cold morning, his grandfather awoke and everything had changed. The day was no different than any other, except the Japanese were gone. They had all left quietly during the night. Nearly starving, his grandfather searched the Japanese compound for food, but there was none to be found. In house after house, all he found was the furniture he had made, but other than the furniture, the houses were empty. He found nothing but emptiness and trash, until he searched that one officer’s house. There in the room with the traditional table, the painting still hung on the wall.

  “All the years that my grandfather had to work for the Japanese, he received nothing except imprisonment, abuse, and inadequate portions of food. So, he took the painting as compensation.” Jian said while he picked at the last few remaining noodles in his bowl. “When I moved to Suzhou, my grandfather gave me the painting. He said he didn’t want to look at it anymore, because all he ever saw in it were bad memories.”

  * * *

  Several times during Jian’s discourse, Redding traded glances with Lin Ming. Divining fact from fiction was most likely a futile exercise. Maybe elements of the story had been overly embellished, but Redding wasn’t about to challenge Jian. The fact that the painting had passed from the Japanese to Jian’s grandfather was the only significant aspect of the story.

  Redding had already discounted the idea of pulling Jian into a conversation about the inherent costs of his future expansion plans. An outright offer to buy the painting was clearly the best approach. His instincts told him that anything else would be a waste of time. Jian had already shown an emotional attachment to the painting and using indirect tactics might give him the impression that he was being deceived.

  “I think the painting is absolutely amazing. Is there any chance that you would consider selling it?” Redding returned to casually sipping his soup. He was killing time. He wanted to hear the question.

  “How much will you pay?” Jian asked.

  That was the question. It indicated that the painting could be had if the money was right.

  “Well, let’s see. How about twenty thousand dollars?” Redding said, carefully watching for Jian’s reaction. Not only did his eyes reflect utter surprise, so did Lin Ming’s.

  “That’s about one hundred forty thousand yuan,” Lin Ming said, her tone somewhere between shocked and surprised.

  Redding had purposely made a generous offer. An offer that he hoped would seal the deal and wouldn’t call into question the intrinsic value of the painting. With a little luck, he would just be perceived as an eccentric American.

  Jian just sat there lost in his own mental calculations. The money offered had evidently clouded his thought process. His animated expressions changed from one extreme to the other. He seemed unsure of how he should respond.

  Redding had wanted to seal the deal with a single offer, but clearly he had overbid. If he had offered a lesser amount, he might already have his answer and the painting.

  “I don’t know,” Jian’s voice trembled. “My grandfather gave me the painting.”

  “I have an idea,” Lin Ming said. “Maybe Jian should ask his grandfather.”

  “Yes, I will ask, and tomorrow you will come shopping, again,” Jian said.

  Redding was absolutely incensed, but he held his disappointment inside. Lin Ming may have torpedoed the deal without even realizing it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The taxi seemed worn and threadbare, hardly roadworthy, but as it turned out, the driver was well seasoned. He knew exactly how to maneuver it through Shanghai’s traffic, and that lessened Redding’s concerns. It was right after they had said their goodbyes to Jian that Lin Ming became withdrawn for a second time that day. It was the same moodiness that Redding had noticed earlier, but he didn’t bother to question it. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts, all of which were related to the painting. They had both become so caught up in their own thoughts that neither was aware of their arrival when the taxi stopped at the Shanghai Railway Station. The driver yelled something in Chinese and both were instantly startled into awareness.

  “You will have your painting soon,” Lin Ming said, as if they were in the middle of conversation. “Then it will be over.”

  “What will be over?” Redding asked, but Lin Ming had already climbed out of the taxi and he was still busy paying the driver.

  As they made their way into the station, Lin Ming told Redding to pay close attention. Her comment struck him as unusual. He couldn’t fathom why he needed to pay attention to the ticketing process, especially if she was with him.

  Concerns about the ticketing process were soon abandoned and his thoughts reverted back to the issue of the painting. If the purchase were to take place, then he needed to wire in some funds. Upon returning to Suzhou, he would open a bank account, but it was important that he choose the right bank. He needed a bank that would be able to convert his wire to cash without any delay.

  Some years back, he had set up a savings account that was accessible via the Internet. In the event of an emergency while traveling in Europe, he would have funds readily available. The last time he’d traveled anywhere was to Amsterdam, and the twenty-five thousand that he had placed in his savings account then was still there, collecting interest.

  “Are you paying attention?” Lin Ming asked. “Tomorrow, I won’t be able to come with you, and you will have to purchase the tickets yourself.”

  There was something absent and yet ominous in her statement, and Redding saw this as a clear indication that there was an issue looming between them.

  At the ticketing windows there were dozens of people waiting to purchase tickets. Some lines were shorter than others, but Lin Ming had different criteria for determining which line they would wait in to purchase their tickets.

  “Why won’t you be coming with me tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I’ll explain everything later. Right now, you should listen carefully.”

  Lin Ming explained the procedure for purchasing the return ticket. Then, she wrote out a schedule with the departure times and corresponding gate numbers. She stipulated which ticket windows he should use and which ones he should avoid. Before leaving the ticketing area, she delved into the potential problems often encountered by foreign tourist
s and how best to avoid those situations.

  “The ticketing agent will probably be able to speak English, but if you have any problems, their supervisor should be close by and they will be able to help you.”

  After they secured their tickets for the return trip, they headed toward the waiting area for the Suzhou train. On the way, Lin Ming pointed out certain Chinese characters that Redding need not commit to memory but should be familiar with. They included the gate number, train number, the two characters that represented Shanghai, and the ones that represented Suzhou. Just to be safe, Redding copied down the necessary characters.

  * * *

  Lin Ming had garnered a window seat and Redding the seat next to her. Her gaze was focused somewhere outside, well beyond the few remaining passengers who were scrambling to board. Once again, she was quiet and unwilling to talk. As the train pulled away from the station, Redding let his thoughts drift back to the lunch with Jian. In his head, he replayed the whole story of Jian’s grandfather, the Japanese, and the painting.

  Ever since he had first identified the artwork, he tried to imagine what avenues the painting might have taken on its path to China. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he seemed to remember something about the Japanese aligning themselves with the Germans during the war. He couldn’t remember whether it was something he had heard or read, but somehow it seemed factual as opposed to wartime fiction. Setting uncertainty aside, the existence of an alliance did provide a plausible explanation for the painting’s whereabouts, which led to more questions. Why had the painting passed from the Germans to the Japanese? Was it exchanged as a gift for the purpose of promoting the alliance? If so, how did it wind up in the hands of the Japanese field officer? The avenues of possibility seemed endless. Still, the alliance between the Japanese and the Germans best explained the existence of the painting in China.

  Redding’s gut reaction to the painting defined it as the genuine article, but he couldn’t take any chances. He was nowhere close to being an expert, yet he was no fool either. Before the transaction was to be concluded, he planned to make a thorough inspection of the painting, covering every square inch. With his extensive background in style, technique, and art history, he wouldn’t be easily fooled. Still, if any doubts were left after a full examination, he would simply call the deal off.

  He had offered a substantial amount of money for the painting based only on gut instinct, but that wasn’t the part that bothered him about the proposed transaction. It was the underlying thought that he was taking advantage of Jian. In the realm of art, Jian was naïve. He had no idea that the painting in his possession was likely a highly valued work. He wouldn’t have even considered the offer if he knew the real value of the painting and it certainly wouldn’t have been on display. If Jian agreed to sell for a mere twenty thousand dollars, Redding would essentially be stealing the painting. However, if the offer was refused and Jian continued to display the painting, it would eventually be discovered and in all likelihood surrendered to its rightful owners.

  Lin Ming had spent the first half of the return trip staring out the window, almost as though she were avoiding Redding. He was sitting right next to her and they hadn’t spoken since the train left the station. As if in a catatonic state, she only stared at the distant landscape. He had intended to leave her alone, but suddenly she was no longer staring out the window. She was looking directly at him.

  “Redding, there is something I have to explain, but the train is too crowded.”

  “Well, I’m ready to listen.”

  “I know, but it will have to wait until we arrive in Suzhou,” she said. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been very good company.” Then, she turned her gaze back to the scenery outside.

  Redding wasn’t sure what to make of the conversation, but whatever it was, his patience was running a little thin. Even though the train was packed and every seat was filled, they wouldn’t have been overheard. The train was decades old and the interior was permeated with a din that seemed to have a disengaging effect on its passengers. Those who weren’t reading, sleeping, or conversing were simply staring out the windows. Whatever was bothering Lin Ming could have easily been discussed without risk of being overheard.

  * * *

  The train pulled into Suzhou Station only ten minutes behind schedule. Even before the train had stopped, passengers began squeezing into the exits, all of them trying to edge ahead of the next individual. Redding and Lin Ming remained seated until the crowd had thinned before they disembarked. Then they made their way through the terminal building and out onto the plaza. It had been an exceedingly warm day and the plaza’s asphalt surface radiated with heat. Ignoring the discomfort, Lin Ming led Redding to the far edge of the plaza, away from all the other commuters.

  “Before I start, do you have any questions about buying your ticket, or which train you should take?” she asked.

  “I’m sure I can figure it out,” Redding replied.

  She looked out on the street that passed in front of Suzhou Station. There, taxi and pedicab drivers were vying for fares as a seemingly unending stream of passengers emerged from the station.

  “Redding, I don’t think you need a tour guide anymore.”

  “That’s why you’re upset? This is about you being my guide?” Redding asked, in disbelief. “Sorry, but I don’t accept that.”

  She turned away from him to wipe the tears from her eyes. He hated seeing her cry, especially since he knew he was the reason. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt, but it was the real meaning of her words that caused him to be a little edgy.

  “Redding, please understand. I can’t see you anymore!”

  He understood all too well. He had heard that line a few times before, but then it usually pertained to some inconsequential romance. This time it was different and it wasn’t something that he could easily explain. Their attraction for each other was well beyond the original allure that brought them together. It had been supplanted with a commonality that encompassed a much deeper feeling. He not only understood her words, he wore them like millstones around his neck.

  “Tell me why? Why can’t we see each other?”

  He wanted so much to put his arms around her and hold her close, but as he approached, she backed away from his reach.

  “Tomorrow, you will have your painting. That’s why you came to China.”

  “I’m going to be here for another week.”

  “Then what? You will go home to America, and I will still be here.”

  Her words not only had a stinging effect, they left him without any notion of how to respond. The practical aspects of a long-distance relationship were nonexistent, and exploring other possibilities was essentially a waste of time.

  “Redding, please don’t make this difficult. I know that you care for me, but I can’t.” She struggled to get the words out while tears streamed down her face.

  “If I can find a way…” Even before he had finished speaking, she was already shaking her head as if she couldn’t bear to hear another word.

  “We can’t see each other anymore! You must stay away,” she said, taking two steps backward. “I have to leave.” Then she turned and hurried toward the nearest taxi.

  He wanted to chase after her, but he knew the effort would be pointless. He watched as her taxi disappeared into the traffic. Maybe her departure was inevitable, and maybe he was a fool for ignoring the eventual outcome. Without her, he would still be stumbling around the old city, canvassing every possible venue, no matter how remote. He wouldn’t have been any closer to the cello painting and that lousy art dealer would still be biting at his heals.

  It hadn’t been his intention to waste time milling around the plaza, but he found himself caught in a mental rehash of what had just transpired with Lin Ming. As much as he tried to rationalize the end result, he couldn’t seem to alter his feelings for her. This wasn’t some woman from a past encounter. This was Lin Ming, and he doubted that her decision to leave him was entirel
y hers. Cultural issues or not, her family had to be the driving component behind this separation. They had known each other only a few days, and had spent only one night together, but already she had left an imprint on his soul.

  As if her departure had not been distracting enough, his thoughts were bombarded by a noise that was stuck in his head. The noise wasn’t a song or a melody. It was only one continuous, monotonous note: D-flat. Its effect was similar to that of a mild headache, about as tolerable as it was irritating.

  The asphalt plaza radiated enough heat that already Redding had begun to sweat. He wished for the relief of his air-conditioned hotel room, but he had another crucial matter to deal with if he intended to purchase the painting. It was vital that he make some financial arrangements. It hadn’t previously been a concern only because he had expected Lin Ming’s assistance, but that was no longer possible. From the backseat of a taxi, he scanned the commercial district for a bank. A block from his hotel, he signaled the taxi driver to stop.

  * * *

  There wasn’t anything that set the Yangtze Bank apart from any other. The standard marble floor, veneered teller windows, and a few decorative plants gave it the unmistakable appearance of a bank. The tellers were all smartly dressed and hovering nearby were the supervisors in white shirts and ties. Placards hung above each section of the bank, but this provided Redding with little information because all of the placards were printed in Chinese. As customers entered the bank, they would pull a numbered slip from a dispenser and then would seat themselves on one of the couches that were clustered together across from the teller windows. When a teller became available, a gong would softly sound and the next slip number would be displayed on an electronic board.

  There was nothing difficult about understanding the flow of the bank, and after a few moments of observing the process, Redding pulled a number from the dispenser. Then he joined the other bank customers seated on the couches.