A Cello In Abstract

by Greg Arritt

“What if Lin Ming finds out about this? She will be very angry with us.” Ting’s concern had suddenly shifted.

  “How’s she going to find out? She’s not seeing Redding anymore,” Sam said.

  “She was here today. She asked about Redding.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “What if Redding comes here and makes trouble?” Ting said.

  “Why would he do that? He won’t know who took the painting. Hell, he saw it hanging there in the classroom. Anybody could have walked off with it. And it’s not like he can go to the police. What would he tell them? Somebody took his stolen painting. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s not going to make any trouble.”

  Sam had hung the painting in the classroom only as a means of distancing himself from the artwork. Leaving the painting at the teahouse was asking for trouble and he wasn’t comfortable storing the stolen artwork at home. The classroom provided a safe enough environment, but it wasn’t completely without risk. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but in hindsight storing the painting in a classroom was a brilliant move. He would tell Redding that the painting had been taken some time during the night and let him draw his own conclusions. He had taken the painting from the art dealer, so it only made sense that the art dealer had turned the tables.

  The loud and unruly behavior outside progressively ground to a halt as individual bikers departed. Ting had tried to busy herself in the back of the teahouse while Sam continued to sift through the Internet. Every so often she would slide behind him to gauge what progress had been made.

  “Did you find it yet?”

  “Not yet, and I’ve logged on to just about every museum and art library in North America. I’ve even tried an art conservatory and some bibliotheca in Spain,” Sam said.

  “What are we going to do?” Ting asked as she stood behind Sam, gently massaging his shoulders and neck.

  “We’ll look a little deeper in Europe.”

  He had started with the United States and Canada before delving into Spain, eliminating one country after another. His process was meticulous, searching every viable source that might possibly return the desired results. There had been a few false leads that originally seemed promising, but they quickly dead-ended. After exhausting Spain, he moved onto England. England also failed to yield any real leads, but it did produce an article about the authentication process.

  “What exactly is the authentication process?” Ting had taken to hovering over Sam.

  “It’s a process used to determine if a work of art is genuine. In other words, it’s not a copy or a fraud.”

  “Why are you wasting time on that? If we don’t find out who’s willing to pay for that painting, it won’t make any difference whether it’s real or not.”

  Ting sat down next to Sam. She leaned against him and tried to rest her head on his shoulder. Every time he typed something into the computer, he moved, and every time she had drifted into a state of near sleep she was jostled awake. She had had enough of Sam’s shoulder. She lowered her head onto the table in the cradle of her arms and closed her eyes.

  The street traffic had dwindled to nothing. The disruptive bikers were long gone and Ting had fallen asleep. The teahouse had taken on a late-hour quietness that Sam much preferred. He gave up on Italy and honed in on the larger cities of France. If that failed, then he would redirect his efforts towards Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands.

  * * *

  Ting sneezed and awoke.

  “What time is it?” She raised her head, stretched her arms, and yawned.

  Sam didn’t answer. His full concentration was held by something on the computer, so she pulled at his arm to get a look at his watch.

  “Oh, my God! We’re going to be so tired tomorrow.”

  Her eyes drifted to the computer screen. It took her a moment to realize that there was something familiar about the text.

  “Is that the same article on authentication?”

  Sam nodded.

  “You’re wasting valuable time on that?”

  “Ting, I already found the finder’s fee. It’s at Le Musee Angladon in Avignon, France. They’re the ones offering the reward,” Sam said. “The reason I came back to this article is because the authentication process directly affects us. For some works of art to be declared authentic, it can take upwards of a year or more. There are actually paintings out there that have never been authenticated. It generally requires a consensus of art experts. That means that the painting is studied by a panel of experts, usually art curators that are recognized in some specific field of art, maybe, like oil paintings. They study the painting’s style and technique and even the brush strokes. Then, they delve into any historical information that might be available for comparison, and they even study other works of art by the same artist. There are literally dozens of criteria that come into play during the whole process.”

  “What does this mean to us?” she asked.

  “It means we could be waiting a year or more to collect the money.”

  “That’s a long time. We need the money now! What are we going to do?”

  “What can we do?” Sam said. “We don’t even know if the painting is real. Hell, China is full of people that do nothing all day long but copy famous paintings.”

  Neither was willing to concede defeat, so they ignored the hour and wrestled with their options. Ting tended to lean heavily on the easiest path, always with some impractical solution, while Sam’s approach was somewhat more analytical and pragmatic. She suggested sending a photo of the painting and demanding an advance on the finder’s fee, but Sam dismissed the idea. Every solution suggested was inevitably flawed in one way or another. Sam concluded that nothing could be done on their part to shorten the time frame of the authentication process. They would be at the mercy of Le Musee Angladon. To collect the finder’s fee they would have no choice other than to deliver the painting, but that alone didn’t guarantee anything. There would be questions about how they came into possession of the artwork.

  Drafting a credible story that explained their possession of the painting presented a new set of issues. Aside from a plausible explanation, they also lacked tangible evidence that would support their possession. Worn down from exhaustion and frustration, Ting threw her hands up and railed against the system. She was midway through condemning the French when it occurred to her that she didn’t even know the amount of the finder’s fee.

  “The money… how much is it?”

  “In U.S. dollars, about four hundred thousand!” Sam said, emphasizing the dollar amount.

  As if suddenly revitalized, Ting began reexamining the whole impasse, down and through the minutiae in an effort to explain their possession of the artwork.

  “We have to do this. It’s so much money. Then we can leave for the United States.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Like fingernails being drawn across a blackboard, the D-flat note reverberated through Redding’s head with a jarring intensity. It had returned sometime after dinner and stayed well into the night. The monotonous sound possessed a cyclical, yet sadistic quality. It started the cycle at full intensity and over time diminished to a point that he thought the D-flat note might fade away. Then suddenly, it would ramp up to full intensity and the cycle would start again. He took a couple of aspirin and made himself comfortable on the bed. As he lay in the darkness, he tried to think past the jarring echo, but the intensity robbed him of his ability to concentrate. The dull screeching sound seemed to make the back of his eyes hurt, even when his eyes were closed. He tried holding pillows against his ears, but the effort was ineffective. The sound emanated from inside his head, just like everything else. If it wasn’t the reoccurring dream or a mirror image, then it was that damned D-flat note. Vicious and unrelenting, it just went on and on, over and over, forever.

  He wasn’t usually given to stress, in spite of the excessive demands of the aircraft-parts business. Under pressure he was a fairly durable ind
ividual, but he had known plenty of others that had fallen victim. He certainly wasn’t immune, but for him stress was something of a rare companion. He thrived on the pressure, the deadlines, and the competition, up until the industry had tracked sideways. The dreams, the images, and the D-flat note – all could have been stress, but it didn’t seem right.

  Eventually, his consciousness gave way and he drifted into a light sleep. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but something had caused him to sit upright in bed, fully awakened. He didn’t know if it had been a dream or if it was some other stimulus. He lay back down and struggled to draw out whatever was residing in his subconscious. The only thing he knew for sure was that he hadn’t been awakened by the sound of D-flat. That effect had completely subsided. He wrestled with his thoughts until they began to congeal. Then, as if a catharsis had suddenly taken place, everything seemed clear. The dream of the cellos racing around the track crashing into each other and the distorted image in the mirror were simply a self-reflection. He had been holding onto a distorted impression of his life and failed to recognize its overall impact. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. This wasn’t about stress. This was about the emptiness in his life and the totality of his existence. One that included a failing partnership, a non-existent social life, and the ending strands of a friendship with his ex-wife. His life was an empty vessel, a hollow shell, a cello in abstract without meaning or purpose.

  Layer by layer, he stripped away the pretense to face the uncertainty of his future, and one thought stood out more than all the others. Even if Joran came through with the money it wouldn’t solve his partnership problems. If anything, the partnership was already well into the process of disintegration. Yves may have masked his real intentions under the guise of a buyout, but Redding couldn’t blame him for his own shortcomings. Whether the partnership survived or not didn’t really matter. His life was still set on a dead-end course. Exposing his existence bare wasn’t easy, but there were decisions that had to be made. He stared up at the ceiling and began the process of accountability. Where he had been wasn’t so important, but who he was and what he wanted from life now was crucial.

  * * *

  After a breakfast of coffee and toast, he headed straight for the hotel business center. The time allowed for Joran to transfer the money had expired. If the wire hadn’t come in, then he would contact Le Musee Angladon and make whatever arrangements were necessary for the museum to receive the painting.

  On one of the computers he accessed the Yangtze Bank’s website and then entered his account number. When his account appeared on the screen, he was somewhat stunned, but mostly relieved. He just sat there staring at the screen showing his inflated account balance. His ploy for the money had actually worked. Then he typed in the necessary information to access his bank account in the United States. His stateside account also held an additional two hundred fifty thousand dollars.

  * * *

  Redding had arrived at the bank only minutes after it opened, but it was already crowded. He pulled a number from the dispenser and paced back and forth while he waited. When his number was displayed, he approached the teller’s window and the teller immediately signaled for a supervisor. With a gesture of the supervisor’s hand, he was directed to the last window. He was already familiar with the whole procedure for withdrawing funds. The twenty-five thousand dollars in Chinese currency he had previously withdrawn was still crammed into his room safe. That money was earmarked for Sam and Ting when the exchange was made for the painting.

  The teller was midway through explaining that all large withdrawals required advance notice when her supervisor intervened. The two of them conferred privately and as soon as they had finished she turned her attention back to Redding.

  “There’s no problem. Your funds will be ready in one hour,” the teller said.

  The idea of wasting an hour didn’t sit well with Redding, but it wasn’t as though he had any other choice. As he made himself comfortable in a chair, he set a new leather briefcase on the floor between his legs. He had had the foresight to purchase the briefcase when he realized that the document bag wasn’t nearly sufficient to handle that large a sum of money.

  Only forty minutes had passed when he noticed the supervisor gesturing to him from behind the counter. His withdrawal was ready. Under the watchful eye of two supervisors, the teller inspected his identification and signature a second time. When the teller and supervisors were satisfied that all documentation was in order, the equivalency of one hundred thousand U.S. dollars in Chinese currency was set on the counter. He neatly stacked the money into the briefcase.

  Outside the bank entrance, he grabbed a taxi for the short jaunt to the train station. He dreaded the whole train ritual, not just the actual transit, but also the waiting, the lines, and the ticket counters. Any other day the whole routine might have pushed him past his limits, but he had some unfinished business in Shanghai that he was anxious to resolve.

  * * *

  Everything went like clockwork. The train arrived on schedule and he headed directly for Jian’s store. It was already past noon and he worried that Jian might have left for lunch, but that wasn’t the case. The lights were on, the door was unlocked, and Jian was busy parading through the store with a customer in tow.

  He moved from one display to another, pulling shirts away from racks and holding them aloft for consideration. His overall demeanor had shifted to a more mature, settled style. Even his appearance edged toward the conservative, with the exception of his hair parted down the center and some ridiculous red-framed glasses. He never actually made eye contact, but Redding knew that Jian was aware of his presence. Even the customer seemed distracted by his standing in their midst, but Jian never acknowledged him. Maybe Jian thought that he would take the hint and leave, but Redding fully intended to wait.

  At the front counter, Jian and his customer chatted in Chinese while Jian tabulated the purchases and bagged the selected items. When the transaction was completed, he walked his customer to the door. Gracious to a fault, Jian thanked his customer profusely before saying goodbye. The door closed with a thud and then Jian turned to face Redding. In the slivers of his eyes an icy stare delivered an unwelcome message.

  Redding shrugged off the cold reception. He had expected a certain amount of animosity based on their last interaction. He lifted the briefcase as if it were a peace offering.

  Jian simply scoffed. He pointed with his finger toward the door.

  “You must leave and never come back!”

  He started fussing with the manikins as if they needed some immediate attention. They were still dressed exactly as they were the last time Redding was there, with one exception. Instead of carrying Next Trend shopping bags, the manikins now each held small Chinese lanterns in their hands.

  Jian’s bitterness was understandable and Redding had no intention of furthering the animosity. The sour reception had caused him to set aside any notion of explaining his presence. He wound his way around the racks and manikins to the back of the store. There, he laid the briefcase on the folding table. A forward look into one of the wall mirrors confirmed that he had Jian’s attention. He unsnapped the latches and opened the briefcase. Then, he took one step to the side and deliberately spun the briefcase a quarter turn. He wanted to make sure that Jian had an unfettered view.

  “I’m not sure that I can explain, but this money is yours,” Redding said.

  The briefcase full of money held Jian’s attention with vice-like intensity. He stared, stunned and unbalanced. He leaned as if magnetically drawn to the briefcase, somewhat precariously yet frozen in place. Still awkwardly balanced, he stumbled forward, nearly falling. As he moved closer to the money, his breathing became labored and his facial expression morphed from excited to fearful.

  “This is for me?” Jian asked while trying to control his hyperventilated breathing.

  “Yeah, it’s all yours.” At first, Redding thought Jian’s reactions wer
e almost comical, but as his breathing accelerated, he wondered if Jian might pass out. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I can keep this money?” Jian asked, wanting to assuage his need for reassurance.

  Redding nodded. He was pleased that Jian seemed to accept the money, but it didn’t quiet the compelling argument inside him. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had a driving need for some measure of redemption. He wasn’t the one that initially stole the painting, but he was guilty enough. He had set the ransom in motion, and he was the one that determined how the money would be split. Without Jian’s knowledge or permission, he had traded off the painting and trampled his own ethics in the process.

  Jian had to know that something unethical had taken place. That much had to be exceedingly obvious. He hadn’t obligated himself, yet he was faced with a choice. Accept the money, which was tantamount to selling the painting, or demand the painting and receive nothing. It wasn’t exactly a choice. He didn’t know who had the painting or where it was, so any claim to the artwork was useless.

  Redding didn’t find it easy to justify his actions, but there was one absolute truth. Someday, someone would recognize the painting and Jian would have lost it for sure. If it weren’t someone like Joran, then it probably would have been some government official.

  “Why you give me this money?” Jian asked, clearly suspicious. “You said you didn’t take my painting.”

  Redding thought about disclosing everything, right down to the last detail. Supposedly, there was no such thing as redemption without full disclosure. His participation in the whole gamut had been absolutely criminal, and yet he was walking away with the largest piece of the pie. If he disclosed everything, it wouldn’t be hard to guess Jian’s reaction.

  “I didn’t steal your painting, but I found the guy who did and I convinced him to come up with the money.”

  “I know you didn’t steal my painting. I thought maybe you were just bad luck.” Jian said. Then he turned his attention back to the money.