by Greg Arritt
He had turned the television on as a distraction, but hadn’t paid it any attention. It was some program about China’s economy, so he turned the volume down. He dissolved a foreign-made seltzer tablet in a glass of water. If the painting didn’t arrive, his problems in New York would multiply exponentially. He was totally at Redding’s mercy. He sipped a little of the carbonated water and recognized its familiar taste, but it neither settled his stomach nor made him feel any better. Rising up somewhere deep inside was the realization that he had made the mistake of a lifetime. He cursed Redding and was swearing revenge when the phone rang. He snatched the receiver from the cradle.
“The painting is at the reception desk,” the voice said and then the caller hung up before Joran could even respond.
The customary pleasantries weren’t needed; he had recognized the voice.
He wasn’t offended by the abruptness of the call nor was he interested in having some drawn out conversation with Redding. He only needed to know that the painting had been delivered. He felt a small wave of relief, but it could have just as easily gone the other direction. He snuffed out a cigarette, buttoned his shirt, and pulled on his shoes, and then the phone rang again.
“Mr. Hausen?” The question came from a young woman. “This is the reception desk. We have package for you. Should we bring to your room?”
“No! I will be right down,” Joran said slowly and deliberately so as not to be misunderstood. The fewer people that handled the painting, the less chance there would be of damage.
* * *
It seemed as if he waited forever before one of the desk clerks had finally finished with another guest and was able to assist him.
“Room 1630. You have a package for me.” Joran said.
The young woman glanced around behind the counter for the package before disappearing into the back office. A moment later, she returned, holding a soiled cardboard box away from her uniform. She didn’t have a firm grasp on the box as she attempted to hoist the package over the reception counter. Instead of handing the box to Joran, she banged the box on the marble slab.
“Please, be careful.” Joran winced.
He thrust his arm at the package in hopes of catching the box before it could be slammed into the counter a second time. He pulled it from her arms and turned away, holding it at arms’ length. He never bothered to thank the young woman. It wasn’t his intention to be impolite; he was just overwhelmed by the condition of the box. Its surface was absolutely horrendous. Bits of gravel were imbedded in the skin of the cardboard, and in one place the cardboard was nearly worn away. The box looked as if it had fallen from a moving truck. Even though it was well soiled and heavily scuffed, its integrity seemed to be intact. The overall durability of the box suggested its contents were adequately protected. Still, its soiled appearance made him uneasy.
* * *
He placed the cardboard box on the bed and stripped off the tape. Any sense of elation that he may have had was clouded over with fear. A painting that fragile inside of a box with that much surface damage made him wonder if it had actually survived. He removed the foam padding and extracted the painting. He set it on one side of the bed and flung the cardboard remains across the room. He then removed the plastic wrapping and looked over the painting. There weren’t any signs of visible damage. He set the garment bag next to the painting. Then he carefully inserted the painting into the net sleeve so it was well protected by the heavy clothing. After he zipped up the garment bag, he started packing.
He called the Metro Grand Hotel to confirm his reservation for the night. With the painting back in his possession, he intended to take every precaution necessary to make sure that he didn’t lose it. To minimize the chances of something going wrong, he had decided to change hotels. He dialed guest services and requested that they prepare his bill. He would be checking out. He didn’t want Redding knocking on his door, or anyone else that might know about the painting.
Whether the bellboy liked it or not, he had no intention of surrendering the garment bag to the trolley. The garment bag would be in his possession at all times, even when his luggage was loaded into the trunk of the taxi. He would fold the garment bag in half and it would ride with him in the backseat.
* * *
The Metro Grand Hotel was no more than two kilometers from Le Meridian. Nothing struck Joran as unusual during the whole registration process. Still, he couldn’t relax. He held the garment bag close while his eyes skirted the lobby. Hotel guests moved about and the uniformed staff tended to their busy work. The young woman processing his registration examined his passport and credit card before setting them aside. A male desk clerk stepped up and began examining the passport. The young woman snatched the passport from his hand and said something to him in Chinese. She was clearly irritated, but he didn’t back away. It didn’t make any difference to Joran who handled his registration, as long as it was handled quickly. He cast another glance around the lobby. As the young woman completed the registration, the male clerk remained in close proximity, listening intently as if he had a particular interest in the transaction.
“How many days will you be staying?”
“Just two nights. I’ll be checking out on Saturday morning and I’ll need a taxi to take me to Pu Dong Airport.”
“There is a bus to the airport…
“No, I definitely want a taxi.” Joran interrupted.
* * *
Inside his hotel room, he breathed a little easier once the door locked behind him. He planned to sequester himself for the duration of his stay. He had no intention of leaving the painting unattended, not even for a solitary minute. Not so much as a foot would be set outside the door until he checked out.
The garment bag was laid on the bed and unzipped. He had lacked the necessary time to thoroughly examine the artwork prior to leaving the Le Meridian Hotel. The clothing that served as padding was lifted away and the painting was revealed. He removed the painting from the confines of the net sleeve and laid it flat on the bed. Then, he slowly and methodically examined the artwork until he was assured that its condition had not been compromised.
His appetite was nonexistent. Still, he called room service and ordered a sandwich. When the sandwich arrived, he took the tray at the door and handed the uniformed boy the ice bucket with instructions to fill it. When the young man returned, Joran tipped him and then locked the door. He immediately tossed some ice cubes into a glass and made himself a drink. Then he sat down and thought through his travel arrangements.
When he’d delayed his original departure, he had been forced to accept an alternate flight on Saturday afternoon. The flight would take him into Vancouver, Canada, and then on to Montreal. He would stay only one night, which would provide him sufficient time to package the painting in a crush-proof container. It would be addressed to the Aztec Gallery, in New York City and shipped by Federal Express for next-day delivery. Then he would fly to New York empty handed, bypassing all customs declaration requirements.
His decision to take a taxi from Suzhou to the Pu Dong International Airport had been based solely on practicality. Booking a seat on either the bus or the train had its share of difficulties, but that wasn’t his concern. His worries were about the other passengers. In a tightly constrained environment, he wouldn’t be able to adequately protect the painting from a crush of people. The possibility of accidental damage was too great. As an alternative, he had tried to book a regional flight from Suzhou, but there weren’t any seats available. His only other option was a taxi. It may have been the most expensive means of transportation, but it would save him from ticketing agents and overcrowded terminals.
He flipped through channels on the television, but most of the programming was in Chinese or some other foreign language. The chances of watching something decent seemed remote. He settled on a World News program, but it failed to hold his interest. His appetite hadn’t returned and he had no intention of forcing down the sandwich, so he set the tray outside
his door. He had everything planned right down to the last detail, but still he just couldn’t seem to relax. So he lit a cigarette and mixed another drink.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Redding laid a shirt, trousers, and sport coat on the bed. Although he had showered and felt renewed, he was still edgy about Sam, but it wasn’t something that needed to be verbalized. It wasn’t as though the breach of trust had damaged their friendship. They were barely beyond the stage of acquaintances. He could work alongside Sam without issue, but a close friendship was unlikely. He would make new friends soon enough, but until then he had to rely on Sam during his transition into teaching.
He pulled on his pants and fastened his belt. Then he faced the mirror and straightened his tie, but somehow he seemed overdressed. He stripped off the tie and stared into the mirror. It only returned his reflection. He knew the image of the cello wouldn’t be returning, and neither would the dreams.
* * *
Sam’s quasi betrayal had brought the issues with Yves back into focus. He had been avoiding Yves only because he had wanted to save the partnership, but everything had changed. No part of his future had anything in common with the parts-manufacturing business or the partnership. He dialed the phone and heard the line ring just before the receiver was picked up. He heard the grousing of Yves’ voice in the receiver, and then nothing else.
“Yves, wake up!”
“Goddammit Redding… Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, about that,” Redding said, but he neither cared what time it was nor that he had awakened Yves. He had finally made up his mind and was anxious to put the partnership issues behind him.
“Holy Christ! It’s three-thirty in the morning,” Yves moaned.
Redding heard the faint strains of conversation in the background. Yves was telling his wife to go back to sleep. Then he returned to the phone.
“What’s so damned important?”
“Do you want to do this or not?” Redding asked. He knew that Yves was awake and fully cognizant of why he had called. The grousing was just a ploy to slant the negotiations.
“All right! Let me turn on a light.” A full minute passed before Yves returned to the phone. Redding knew Yves had been going over the numbers in his head and probably rehearsing his pitch.
“Yeah, it’s real simple. I buy you out for six hundred thousand, minus your hundred thousand debt. You sign some papers, I give you a check for five hundred thousand, and we’re done. What do you say?”
Their friendship and partnership had endured for years, so Redding wanted to avoid any of the unpleasant aspects often associated with buyouts. He didn’t immediately respond to Yves’ offer; he just rolled the proposal around in his head. Somehow the subject of China came into the conversation. It wasn’t his original intention, but Redding used the diversion as a stall tactic. He had already analyzed every aspect of the partnership and its subsequent dissolution. They had each invested funds during the company’s inception. Equipment that had been leased or purchased as new would have held a diminished resale value. The clientele that they were so dependent upon were virtually nonexistent. Without expanding into new markets there was a very real prospect that the company would fail. Those impending issues were exactly the reason why Yves wanted to move the company to Arizona. Redding had already made up his mind about the partnership, but he wasn’t about to be rushed into an answer.
The proposed buyout had weighed heavily on his mind even before China. The company faced an uncertain future and he was somewhat relieved to have an option. The value of the company should have been its client base, but the diminished base was almost worthless. That meant the only asset the company possessed was the existing equipment, and half of that was leased.
“I’m willing to sell, but let’s make it seven hundred thousand and you wash the hundred thousand debt,” Redding countered. That was approximately what he had invested as start-up capital ten years earlier.
“Come on, Redding, be a little bit reasonable, for Christ’s sake!” Yves said. Signs of exasperation were leaking into his voice. “I’m telling you straight up, my offer is generous.”
“Maybe, but at that price, I’d rather take my chances on liquidation,” Redding said. “And we both know that replacing all that equipment will cost you at least a million and a half out of pocket.”
He knew he had knocked Yves off balance. It wasn’t meant to be some coup de grace moment, but it had the same effect. Yves had shorted his offer and fully expected a counter, but Redding’s maneuver edged dangerously close to extortion.
Redding knew that Yves had already planned his entire move, right down to what equipment he was taking, what equipment would stay, and what he would lease on the other end. The effects of liquidation would have been devastating and Yves knew well enough that Redding wasn’t bluffing. The financial hit would have been bad enough, but worse yet, Yves wouldn’t be able to replace the equipment in time to save his contracts.
“Can you give me a break, maybe cut fifty thousand from the deal?” Yves pleaded.
“Yeah, I’d say that’s workable.”
“Alright, we’re done. Six hundred and fifty and I’ll wash the debt.” Yves said. “I’ll have the attorneys draw up the paperwork.”
* * *
No sooner had he concluded his conversation with Yves than Redding’s thoughts turned to Lin Ming. Ever since that afternoon in the Savory Hotel, it seemed as if every thought either started or ended with her. Each time the thought passed, his mind clouded over with the vague, yet distant feeling of loneliness.
The loneliness felt exactly the same as it had during his college years. Satisfying the physical aspect had always been easy enough. He never had to look very far to find a willing partner, but the sharing of physical passion rarely erased the feelings.
He couldn’t deny the loneliness, nor could he deny another set of feelings that he had managed to hold at bay. Those were his feelings for Lin Ming. He wanted more than just to be near her, close enough to smell her fragrance or feel her breath on his face. He wanted more than to hear the softness in her voice and feel her touch. He wanted her to be part of his life.
That night outside the Savory Hotel, she said she didn’t blame him; she only blamed herself. They both knew that wasn’t true. She said her life would have been better if she had never met him. That singular statement may have explained why he had buried his feelings. He was shouldering plenty of the blame, but it didn’t solve anything. If only he had realized the depth of his feelings sooner, he might have been able to change the course of events. He knew she never intended to see him again, but he had to try.
* * *
“I’m looking for a blank card with an envelope,” Redding said to the clerk as he glanced around the gift store. He wanted something plain and ordinary, just a blank-faced card, but she apparently didn’t understand. She led him to a display of postcards. Rather than trying to explain, he thanked her and wandered away. Between a display of decorator chopsticks and imitation antique vases, he found individual Chinese gift cards. They were of a traditional appearance, embossed with gold Chinese characters set on a background of red. The cards lacked a subtle quality, but at least the interior panels were blank. As he set the card on the counter, the cashier eyed him suspiciously.
“Maybe a different card would be better,” she said.
“Why? What does it say?”
“Well, it has two identical characters. One and two,” she said as she pointed to each character individually. “One character by itself means, ‘to like.’ Two characters together mean, ‘double happiness,’ but maybe this is the wrong card for you.”
“What could possibly be wrong with double happiness?” Redding asked.
“Double happiness signifies marriage.”
With the cashier’s words echoing in his ears, he tried to image how Lin Ming would react to the card. The woman picked up the card as if she were going to return it to the rack.
/> “No, I’m buying that card,” he said.
After he paid, he stood off to the side. While twirling a pen between his fingers, he formulated his thoughts. He wrote Lin Ming’s name on the envelope and only one complete sentence inside the card before signing his name. He stuffed the card back into the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The only thing that Redding had expected from the evening was a decent meal and some mundane conversation, but there in the middle of the teahouse stood Lin Ming. The moment he saw her all sensations of hunger dissipated. She was standing all alone, seemingly lost in thought, as if waiting for someone. She seemed so Chinese and yet so out of place. It was her sleeveless red dress, with its Mao collar, that set her apart from the usual teahouse clientele. The dress had delicate yellow and magenta plum blossom flowers woven into the fabric, but it was the way the dress held the contours of her slender body that drew his attention. Then, as if his presence had touched her, she turned and looked in his direction. The eye contact between them was brief, if not painful. She immediately looked away. They hadn’t even exchanged a word and already an uncomfortable silence seemed to have permeated the teahouse.
No one in the teahouse other than Ting had paid any attention to either of them. She had her hands full behind the counter, but she kept an eye on them. Sam never looked up from his newspaper. As usual, he was soundly oblivious to the whole café. Even if he had looked up, he wasn’t about to be torn away from his table.