by Greg Arritt
Several minutes passed before the gong sounded and his number was displayed. As he approached the teller window, the teller signaled for a supervisor.
“May I help you?” the supervisor asked.
“Yes, I would like to open an account.”
“You must walk to the last window,” he said, motioning with his hand in the direction Redding was to take. “There, someone will help you with new accounts.”
Redding headed to the last window, which appeared to be closed. Just as he walked up to the window a woman approached from the other side of the counter.
“You want to open an account?” she asked while shuffling some forms onto the counter.
After filling out the new account forms and endorsing two thousand dollars in traveler’s checks, he handed over his passport for identification purposes. Throughout the process Redding belabored the question of being able to withdraw a large sum of currency without any delay. Both the teller and a supervisor gave the needed assurances, as long as sufficient notice was provided. His plan was to transfer twenty-five thousand from his savings to his Yangtze Bank account using the computers in the hotel business center. That would provide him with the necessary funds to purchase the painting, leaving a small remainder for any unforeseen expenses. With his account number and the bank’s routing number in hand, he left the bank.
Chapter Eighteen
The morning arrived with the abruptness of a wakeup call. Redding had spent half the night trying to settle into sleep that was more evasive than not. When he finally did drift off, the cellos returned to wreak havoc in his dreams. He hadn’t been dwelling on Lin Ming’s departure, but he thought her decision might have contributed to his restless night. He wasn’t given to insomnia, but a lack of quality sleep always brought out the edgy side of his personality. The D-flat note in his head had finally subsided, but that incessantly eerie tone had seriously tried his limits. It produced one side effect that he detested. It always seemed to remind him of his partnership issues, and that was the last thing he wanted to think about.
* * *
Purchasing the train ticket was more of an annoyance than Redding had expected, but with some patience and persistence he got through it. He could have used a little something to eat while he waited for the train. A cup of that soup with the meatballs would have done nicely, but there weren’t any vendors to be found. He thought of Lin Ming and wished that she were there, not just to ease his travel arrangements but because he was already missing her.
All of the currency requirements needed to complete the purchase of the painting had already been handled. He had arrived at the Yangtze Bank even before it opened. Upon requesting the withdrawal, he was subjected to the same archaic process of verification as he had been the day before. Then one teller and two supervisors labored for twenty-five minutes just to count out the equivalent of twenty-five-thousand dollars in Chinese currency. To transport the money, he had brought along the document pouch that the old woman had coerced him into buying. As the Chinese yuan was handed over, he stuffed the money into the pouch. He closed and secured the flap with its two buckles and then slung the strap over his shoulder.
He had already mentally processed every possible scenario that Jian would likely present. Whether Jian accepted, vacillated, or outright declined the offer, he was prepared. He had a contingency plan. Instead of the twenty thousand he originally offered, there was twenty-five thousand in the document pouch. He figured the additional five thousand would be enough to sway any misgivings that Jian might have about selling the painting. As a cautionary measure, he wouldn’t say anything about the purchase until Jian introduced the subject. As ridiculous as the display of artwork in Jian’s store may have seemed, it was clearly an integral part of his life. Jian had already shown the unpredictable side of his personality and Redding wanted to avoid triggering any emotional attachment to the painting.
Under his breath, Redding cursed the train for its late departure. He had been staring out the window with only his thoughts and a view of a dreary landscape for company. Although he had mentally prepared himself for the monotony of the trip, his eagerness to arrive only lengthened the distance. He rechecked the money in the document bag, and that’s when it occurred to him that he hadn’t made any arrangements to transport the painting. The idea that he would carry the painting, fully exposed and unprotected, all the way back to Suzhou was absolutely absurd. He could place the painting in a Next Trend shopping bag and then pad both sides with additional bags. Still, the thought of carrying it in a shopping bag was a little unsettling. Any surge of passengers in the station or onboard the train could easily damage the masterpiece.
Forgetting a detail as important as transporting the painting certainly wasn’t like him, and he hadn’t given much thought to leaving China with the painting either. It wasn’t negligence on his part that caused him to forget, but the uncertainty of actually recovering the lost artwork. With the painting all but in his possession, he had to carefully consider the safest means to transport the fragile canvas and without attracting any unwanted attention. There was still one other issue he hadn’t really thought out, and that centered on Le Musee Angladon. Eventually, he would need to contact the museum. That would likely set off an intense series of questions. Questions about possession and authentication that would be best answered once the painting was out of China. Any contact with Le Musee Angladon would have to wait until he returned to the States.
In retrospect, the train ride seemed quite palatable in comparison with the taxi altercation. Redding had no sooner handed over the Next Trend business card than the driver held out his hand, gesturing to be paid in advance. Redding shook his head and pointed at the meter as if to insist on its use, but the driver yelled something in Chinese.
“Use the goddamn meter!” Redding demanded.
The driver may not have understood English, but he knew what Redding meant. Still, he kept gesturing to be paid in advance which, according to Lin Ming, was the same as being overcharged. He wasn’t backing down and neither was Redding. It was either pay the advance fee or find another taxi. Redding pointed at the Next Trend business card, still in the driver’s possession, and motioned for it to be returned. That’s when the driver realized that he was about to lose the fare. Instead of handing back the card, he turned on the meter and then surged into traffic. The altercation had sullied Redding’s mood, but his frame of mind dramatically improved when they turned onto the street where Next Trend was located.
* * *
Everything about the store seemed to be exactly as it was the day before. Still, the moment Redding entered, he sensed that something was wrong. Jian seemed out of place and not because he was dressed as a baseball fan in a jersey with a cap worn backwards. He stood listlessly in the middle of the store, mumbling to himself, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. He didn’t even notice Redding. He just stared at the empty space on the wall where the cello painted had been the day before. It seemed premature to have already taken the painting down, but in order to perform a detailed inspection, Redding would need physical access. He glanced around the floor area and to the tables at the front and back of the store, but didn’t see the painting anywhere.
“Jian, where is it?”
It wasn’t until Jian whipped around to face him that Redding saw the contortion of anger in his face. His animated expression had been usurped by the tightening of his facial muscles. His eyes seemed to burn with intensity and his lips quivered as he strained to breathe through his nostrils.
“Why you steal my painting?” he screamed.
“Jian, no!” Redding couldn’t believe the words he had just heard. The painting had been stolen. It had been so close it was almost in his grasp, and now it was gone.
“Why? Why? You are Americans! Americans are rich! You have lots of money, so why you steal my painting?” His voice seethed with anger. He grabbed at shirts on hangers and a display of socks and threw them violently across the store.
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“Jian, really, I would never…”
“You Americans are not welcome here,” Jian shrieked. He dropped his head and panted as though he were trying to catch his breath. “Get out! Go far away from here!” he yelled as he grabbed at whatever he could tear from the racks and threw them at Redding.
Redding retreated toward the door while the verbal assault, laced with an occasional insertion of Mandarin, continued unabated.
“I hate you Americans! Shame on you!”
Redding stood motionless at the door as if all life had been drained away and he had been turned to stone. His mind scrambled to make sense of the situation. He wanted to plead his case, but arguing with Jian wouldn’t have changed the facts. The painting was gone. He wasn’t sure what had transpired in the past twenty-four hours, but any kind of calm discussion wasn’t likely. Redding pushed at the door and left without looking back.
* * *
Redding’s mood had turned foul and sourness churned deep inside his gut. He was plagued by nausea even though his stomach was empty. It wasn’t just the loss of the painting that caused him to feel this way but the fact that Jian blamed him for the theft. He stood curbside for a full five minutes and not a single taxi passed by.
The whole nightmarish confrontation played over and over in his head, and the one specific thing that stood out was Jian’s reference to Americans. He spoke English well enough that an error in the pluralized form seemed unlikely. It also seemed unlikely that his reference to Americans would have included Lin Ming. She was every bit as Chinese as Jian. Redding considered the possibility that he was over-analyzing the pluralized reference, but still there was something about the comment that he couldn’t escape. Considering the level of Jian’s rage, the correct usage of grammar was probably the least of his concerns. The only other explanation for Jian’s reference would have to include some other American.
“That fucking art dealer!” Redding blurted out.
The reference that Jian had made about Americans must have alluded to Joran Hausen.
“That goddamn son-of-a-bitch!”
He had been stalking Redding’s every move for the past few days. He could have easily been on the same train when Lin Ming brought him to Jian’s store.
The only other possibility would have been still another American. Joran had learned about the painting’s existence in China, so it was completely plausible that there were others who also knew about the painting. It just seemed extremely coincidental that the painting was stolen the same day he had discovered it.
“There’s just no fucking way!” Redding cursed aloud, not caring if anyone heard him.
The more he thought about it, the more upset he became. It had to have been Joran. He had already supplied a few clues to his deceptive nature and he could have easily followed him and Lin Ming to Shanghai.
* * *
Purchasing the return ticket tested the last of Redding’s patience, causing him to nearly miss the train. The whole return trip to Suzhou was a blur, and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. There was a metallic screeching sound, but it wasn’t coming from the train. It was the endless assault of a D-flat note somewhere inside his head.
Somehow that D-flat note just seemed to personify his whole life and his inability to salvage his livelihood. The one exception might have been Lin Ming, but she had purposely distanced herself from him. The company he had spent years building was being squeezed out from under him. The painting that would have salvaged his retirement had been stolen away to become the private possession of some art collector. The entire trip to China had been a complete waste of time and money.
As he felt the tightening of every muscle in his back, he was reminded of the cello in the painting. Somehow the tension that was borne by the neck and shell of the cello seemed eerily similar. Just like the cello, he was empty on the inside, with a lackluster veneer on the outside. He would have wished away any parallels between the cello and himself, but that dull and dismal note continually harmonized deep inside his head.
If only he had taken some precautions, but there was nothing he could have done. There wasn’t any way he could have anticipated the theft. The damage was complete.
Joran had probably followed them on the train. Once he had discovered the location of the painting all he had to do was wait. He would have carefully walked the neighborhood and most certainly watched as Jian closed the store. He undoubtedly knew what it would take to gain access to the locked building. He would have checked into a nearby hotel. Maybe he’d slept awhile and later had a nice dinner. Then, in the very late hours of the night, he’d ventured out to wrestle the painting from the Next Trend store. After the late-night larceny, he would have returned to the hotel essentially unnoticed by anyone except a drowsy doorman.
The acid in Redding’s stomach continued to churn, keeping him on the edge of nausea. The slight swaying motion of the train made him feel dizzy, and each sequential traverse between the two cities seemed to take even longer than the one before.
His thoughts returned to Joran and the painting. Joran’s cold, calculating demeanor would have precluded any arbitrary break-in. Prior to the break-in, he had to have known that the painting was the real article. On the pretense of shopping, he would have entered the store, but his real intent would have been a closer examination of the painting. He wasn’t foolish enough to break in and steal a creative interpretation of the original.
It didn’t matter that Redding knew the name of Joran’s hotel in Suzhou: there was nothing he could do. It was very likely that Joran had already checked out. He would return to New York and the painting would soon be lost for the next fifty years.
Chapter Nineteen
The Bamboo Grove hotel was no more than two kilometers from the Suzhou Railway Station. He had hired a taxi, but halfway to the hotel he asked the driver to stop. When the taxi pulled up to the curb, he threw some cash at the driver and bailed out without bothering to collect his change. His disposition had soured to the point that he just couldn’t suffer the confines of a hotel room. Without any set destination, he just wandered through the downtown section of Suzhou. He trudged along, block after block, mired deep in a malaise that had rendered him mentally opaque.
When the light signal changed, he stepped into the crosswalk, but his presence did little to deter the onslaught of vehicles turning through the intersection. The flow of traffic relentlessly weaved around him, blocking any possible retreat. In a back-and-forth routine, he continuously dodged the traffic as he worked his way across the boulevard. He was but three steps away from the opposite curb when there was an exceedingly near miss by a couple of motorcycles.
“Those fucking cellos!”
Suddenly struck with the realization of what he had said, he cursed himself. Still, there was no taking it back. It was one thing to visualize himself as a cello in the mirror, but it was something else altogether when the phantoms of his imagination began vocalizing out loud. Its cause was likely a byproduct of his anger and disappointment at losing the painting, but that still didn’t make it any easier to stomach.
Any sense of appetite had long since been lost, but he knew he had to eat something even if meant forcing some food into his stomach. It didn’t help that he had skipped breakfast to catch the train to Shanghai, or that he had made the return trip to Suzhou without ever stopping to eat. He lingered for a while outside of a fast-food outlet that specialized in chicken. It certainly wouldn’t have been his first choice, but other than Chinese cuisine, there weren’t many options.
* * *
The only unoccupied table in the chicken franchise was situated against the window fronting the street. As he sat down, he happened to glance outside for no particular reason, least of all expecting to see someone he knew. But there was Joran Hausen, window-shopping for luggage. Redding took a bite of the chicken, completely oblivious to its taste while he watched. As sure as he could be, he knew that Joran had stolen the painting and yet there was nothing h
e could do about it.
Something in the store must have caught Joran’s attention, because a moment later he disappeared inside. Redding set his chicken down and started in on the potatoes, but the food didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t fathom why Joran wasn’t already on his way to New York. He had the painting; of that much Redding was sure. He pushed his tray aside and sipped his Coke without ever taking his eyes off the luggage store.
Some ten minutes passed before Joran emerged. He was lugging a dark-blue garment bag that had been folded over into the form of a suitcase. It wasn’t the color of the garment bag or its orange handle and trim that caused Redding to take notice. It was the fact the Joran had purchased a garment bag. That told him exactly what Joran was planning. As opposed to packing and shipping the painting, the garment bag would provide a simple alternative. It would be the vehicle that carried the painting out of China.
Redding had been so intently focused on his search for the painting, he hadn’t really thought much about the issues of transporting the artwork. There were other options for shipping the painting, but the garment bag made the most sense. The painting could have easily been sandwiched inside any large-volume suitcase, but there were inherent risks. A painting confined to a suitcase would be at the mercy of baggage handlers and any abuse the luggage suffered might be transferred to the magnum opus. Even if the suitcase survived the cargo hold with minimal abuse, there were still other hazards. There was always the potential for theft in addition to the possibility of lost luggage. Clearly, the garment bag was Joran’s safest choice. It was essentially a piece of carry-on luggage that would never leave his possession. All at once, Redding’s thoughts coalesced. In an instant of acute clarity, a window of opportunity was revealed. It may have been a limited opportunity, but it provided him a marginal shot at recovering the painting. There were some serious obstacles that needed to be considered. His idea wasn’t necessarily complicated, but there were a number of unknown variables that could easily ruin his chances. In spite of the few critical unknowns, it was still possible as long as the variables worked in his favor. He waited until he was sure that Joran was far enough away before trashing his half-eaten meal and heading for the luggage store.