Redding had hoped that Jian’s acceptance of the money would absolve him of his guilt. Jian had never actually agreed to sell the painting, but that day at lunch, he was clearly considering the offer. The hundred thousand was five times more than what Jian would have received if he had sold the painting outright. Redding figured the arrangement was fair enough. If he hadn’t been involved, then Jian would have received nothing.
“All for me, really?” Jian continued to examine the currency.
“Would your grandfather approve?”
“I don’t know! He died a long time ago.”
“So why did you say you wanted his approval?”
“I was negotiating. I wanted a better price,” Jian said while his hands continuously milled through the money. “How much is this?”
“About seven hundred thousand yuan,” Redding said. He paused and took a deep breath. “Look Jian, I haven’t exactly told you the whole truth and you have a right to know.”
“I don’t want to know!” He looked Redding straight in the eyes. “I have a good price for my painting.”
It took a few moments for the actual sum of money to register in Jian’s head. Redding could see his eyes shift from side to side as he traded one thought for another. His demeanor seemed to vacillate between exuberance and paranoia. He slammed the case shut, picked it up and held it across his chest. He wove his way between the racks and then slowly approached the front of the store. From the store window, he surveyed the activity on the street. Satisfied that nothing outside seemed unusual, his fear seemed to ease, but as a precautionary measure he locked the door.
“You can have anything you like,” Jian said as he waved his arm around the store.
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary.”
Redding didn’t even give the offer a second thought. There wasn’t anything in the store that he wanted, nor was it his intention to make Jian feel obligated in any way. He knew Jian’s offer wasn’t meant as some arbitrary gift exchange. It was simply an anemic attempt to encourage him to leave. Any animosity or blame that had existed between them had been erased.
“I know for you the painting is important,” Jian said, still holding the case with both arms wrapped around it. “For me, I like the painting very much, but the money is more important.”
Redding only nodded. There was plenty he could have said, but Jian made it clear that it wasn’t important. It was probably the only redemption that he would receive, and there was relief in knowing that the deal was square.
Jian was amiable enough, but just the way he held the briefcase suggested that he was becoming anxious. He wanted to be alone so he could count the money. Redding moved to the front of the store and said goodbye. Jian quickly ushered him out and locked the door behind him. Then he changed the sign in the window from “Open” to “Closed.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The inescapable smell of foul Chinese food permeated the interior of the Suzhou bound train. Redding moved from car to car hoping to escape the smell, but it was everywhere. He tried staring out the window as a means of distracting his mind, but the distraction he had hoped for was nonexistent. He stared out at the landscape as the train streamed by, but any beauty that once existed had been stripped away for the sake of commerce. The countryside had been dissected by new highways, ostensibly leading somewhere, and at odd intervals buildings at various stages of construction rose up. The incomplete buildings seemed to overpower the countryside and offered little in the way of distraction. Most of the passengers seemed indifferent to the foul smell and had been lulled into a catatonic state by the swaying motion of the train. Redding was no exception. He felt the lulling effect, but it did little to offset the odor.
* * *
The cool afternoon air of Suzhou was a welcome relief. Redding shook off the drowsy effects of the train and headed straight to his hotel. He couldn’t waste any time, not if he intended to use the daylight. He had to collect the twenty-five thousand locked in his room safe. That money was earmarked for Sam and Ting. After the exchange had been made, he planned to spend a few minutes alone with the painting. He wanted to study every nuance, from soft-edged brush strokes to the complexity of technique, and that would be his only opportunity. He would position the painting near the windows in such a way that it would be illuminated by daylight. The natural lighting would expose the richness of the colors and accent the depth of realism. Only after the color and images had washed over and saturated his mind would he slip the painting back into the portfolio.
* * *
He arrived at the school with barely any daylight left. All class sessions had ended and most of the students had already gone. Sam was on the half court shooting baskets with some of the older students. He waved Redding toward the court, ostensibly to join the game, but Redding continued on to the first-grade classroom. He couldn’t afford to waste the daylight.
The first-grade classroom seemed strangely quiet and lifeless absent its young charges. Although light from the outside streamed through the windows, he automatically reached for the wall switch and flipped on the lights. He glanced around the room, letting his eyes settle on the rear wall. Still wrapped in clear plastic, the painting hung well out of reach. He retrieved a child’s chair and tested it for sturdiness. Satisfied that it would bear his weight, he positioned the chair directly below the painting.
He pulled the document bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto a table. Then, he climbed onto the chair and raised his arms toward the painting. It was barely within reach. He stretched his fingers around the bottom of the painting, but his hold on the outer edges was precarious at best. Without a secure hold he risked prematurely dislodging the artwork and possibly sending it crashing to the floor. The thought of damaging the painting sent chills down his spine. He repositioned the chair closer to the wall for a second attempt. Balanced on the chair, he pressed his body against the wall and rose on the balls of his feet. His second attempt provided him with a much better hold. He lifted the painting from its anchor and allowed it to descend while his fingers gripped its outer edges. Once the painting was safely in his hands, he stepped down from the chair.
The fading light that streamed through the windows was concentrated on only one side of the classroom. Redding propped the painting on a chair and positioned it to take full advantage of the natural light. Wanting to eliminate the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting, he switched off one half of the lights. After the layers of plastic wrap were removed, he made a cursory inspection for damage. The painting was void of any surface damage or mechanical cracks that would have been caused by an external impact. The colors were still quite brilliant, although years of dust and nicotine were imbedded in the paint. Overall, the painting’s condition was nothing short of remarkable given that it had spent years in questionable environments.
Sam appeared at the doorway lugging a stepladder. He took one look at Redding with the painting and started to say something, but didn’t. Then, he and the stepladder were gone.
Although void of any damage, the painting was laced with age cracks, a common hallmark of oil paintings. As the painting aged, the oils dried and became brittle, resulting in hairline cracks. The hundreds of hairline fissures coursed and intersected with each other to create a unique mosaic pattern. Each painting had its own unique pattern that served as a sort of fingerprint, a means of confirming identification, but for the cello painting there would be no such records. The only way to authenticate the cello painting would be through a methodical process conducted by a panel of experts.
Inch by inch, Redding meticulously studied the painting, noting every subtle nuance from brush strokes to blended colors. He continuously repositioned the artwork toward the light to augment the colors. Then he would take a step back and let the images and color wash over him. By all standards, the painting was nothing short of extraordinary and it should have been shared with the world.
While repositioning the painting on the chair, it occurred to him
that the painting seemed heavier than it should. He carefully pivoted the painting to reveal the backside and its support framework.
The canvas was stretched over an adjustable support frame and tacked into place, but one of the frame’s corner supports was missing. The missing support may have been made from poor quality or fractured wood that had deteriorated over the years. To provide support for that corner and for the rest of the frame, someone had ingeniously crafted a substitute frame that fit securely inside the original. The secondary frame had been so well crafted that the aging canvas was not subjected to any additional stress.
The secondary frame had to have been the handiwork of a master craftsman. Each piece of the frame was precision cut and likely assembled with dowels. The slightly ornate frame had been stained a dark reddish color and finished with a fine lacquer coat. The frame had been made in such a way that it was securely held inside the original, but without tacks or any other visible means. Redding mused that it was one artwork inside of another. Then it occurred to him that the secondary frame actually lent some credibility to Jian’s story of his grandfather.
He had just reset the painting in the light when Sam came through the doorway. Sam dumped a cardboard box, some foam rubber, and shipping tape onto one of the tables. Redding glanced up from the painting. He had half expected Sam to come through the door with the leather portfolio, but the box seemed adequate in size and there was a sufficient amount of padding. He returned his attention to the painting, standing away and slightly off center to gain a different perspective. Sam came around to have a look at the painting, but stepped directly into the path of the only remaining rays of light.
Redding would have said something, but the natural light had already faded to the point that it was no longer useful. He stared at the painting one last time and tried to internalize every last detail. Then he carefully rewrapped the artwork in plastic before padding the front, back and sides with the heavy foam. The box that Sam had supplied was a near perfect fit for the painting. Redding had only to pad the bottom of the box before slipping the painting inside. Satisfied that the painting was adequately protected, he applied one final piece of foam to the top before sealing the box with tape.
The whole exercise in packaging the painting seemed unnecessary. The travel time to Joran’s hotel couldn’t have been a whole fifteen minutes. The business portfolio had been used to transport the painting from the hotel, so it seemed only natural that it would have been used for the return trip, but Sam just happened to have these packing materials. In one short synaptic flash a realization took hold, and Redding knew.
He set the cardboard box aside, picked up the document bag with twenty-five-thousand dollars in Chinese currency, and tossed it to Sam.
“I’m kind of curious,” Redding said. “So what stopped you? I mean, why didn’t you take off with the painting?”
Sam let out an audible sigh that seemed to acknowledge the fact that he had been caught.
“Well, we gave it some thought, but there were just too many complications. We didn’t think we could pull it off,” Sam said, seemingly ashamed. “How did you know?”
Redding shook his head as if to say it wasn’t important.
“Are you pissed?” Sam asked.
He was, but he tried not to show it. It felt as if Sam had shoved a knife in his gut. He had already been betrayed by Yves, and now by Sam. He was definitely pissed, but it wasn’t in his best interests to let Sam know.
“I’m staying in China and I plan to teach English, so I need you to put me in touch with the right people.”
“What about the painting and the finder’s fee?”
“I’ve already made arrangements for the painting.”
“Are you really serious about teaching English?” Sam was far from convinced.
Redding simply nodded.
“Anybody can do two days in a classroom, but that doesn’t make them a teacher. There will be good days and bad ones, and two months from now you might be regretting your decision,” Sam said as he slung the strap of the document bag onto his shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, I need another teacher, but if your decision is based on Lin Ming, then you’re the wrong guy.”
“Well, this isn’t about Lin Ming.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s supposedly engaged to somebody,” Redding said. “And my decision to stay is about me. I want to do something worthwhile with my time and I like the idea of teaching.”
“All right, I’ll put you together with some people to handle the formalities. You know, like work permits and housing.”
“The sooner the better.” Redding picked up the box and started toward the door.
“Ting wants to celebrate and I’m supposed to invite you. So I hope you don’t have any plans,” Sam called after Redding. “The teahouse, seven-thirty.”
* * *
Redding had no desire to wait outside the school on the off chance that a taxi would happen by. He headed in the direction of Xi Huan Road, but no more than a block from the school he already regretted that he hadn’t made a handle for the box. The weight wasn’t an issue. The box was just cumbersome in size, which made it difficult to hold under one arm. The only other option would have been to hold it with both hands. He turned onto a narrow but busy street one block short of Xi Huan Road. That late in the afternoon he figured the busy street offered a better chance of finding a taxi as opposed to the main boulevard.
There were a couple of taxis just down the street on the opposite side. Redding raised his hand to signal one of the taxis while he stood curbside with the box under his other arm. He was faced away from oncoming traffic and didn’t see the slow-moving motorcycle that had drifted in close to the curb. Just as the motorcycle came abreast, the rider’s arm swung out from his body. His arm accidentally struck the box, knocking it loose from under Redding’s arm. Redding’s initial reaction was instinctively fast, but instead of catching the box, his right hand had snagged the pocket of the motorcycle rider’s jacket. It wasn’t intentional, but it was just enough to unbalance the rider.
Redding’s efforts to regain control of the fumbled box had caused it to pitch forward, bouncing off his knee, and finally landing flat in the street with a thud. It was only a mere three feet in front of him, but there wasn’t time to retrieve it. A second motorcycle was bearing down on the box. Redding took one step off the curb and kicked the box out of the motorcycle’s path. Then, he jumped back to avoid the motorcycle, tripped over the curb, and fell backward onto the sidewalk. The box skidded across the street, but came to a stop well short of the opposite curb, directly in the path of an approaching taxi. There was little Redding could do other than scream at the taxi, not that the driver would have ever heard him.
The box would have been crushed and the painting along with it, except that the box had stopped evenly between the wheels and was passed over without contact ever being made. Although still intact, the box wasn’t out of danger. Traffic that was behind the taxi was now bearing down on the package.
As Redding scrambled to his feet, he could feel his heart pounding wildly inside his chest. Infused with adrenaline, he bolted into traffic. He was narrowly missed by one car, causing the driver to brake heavily and sound the horn. In one fluid motion he snatched the box from the street and bounded onto the opposite curb.
* * *
The motorcyclist had made a futile attempt to regain control. A hundred feet away, the unbalanced motorcycle had crashed on its side, dumping the rider into the street.
Redding wasn’t sure who the bikers were and he had no intention of waiting around to find out. He signaled an approaching taxi. The downed rider was up on his feet and seething with anger. Even from that distance the lacerations on the biker’s hands and knees were all too visible. When he removed his helmet it was obvious that he wasn’t one of Joran’s thugs. He was just a young kid, maybe sixteen years old. The second motorcyclist had stopped alongside the first. They were just a couple of high
school students. The first rider was probably trying to signal the second rider when he accidentally dislodged the box from under Redding’s arm. Redding decided to skip any apologies as he climbed into the backseat of the taxi. It all just seemed a little too coincidental.
He had allowed complacency to overrule his need to always be aware of his surroundings. Thoughts of the motorcycle gang came racing back into his head. Images of bamboo canes striking from every direction caused him to flinch. He had repeatedly warned himself about maintaining situational awareness. He sat back in the taxi, sucking in air as fast as his lungs could process the oxygen. With his heart still pounding, he slumped down in the seat and tried to relax.
* * *
Redding half expected Joran to be waiting outside the hotel for the painting to arrive, but thankfully, he wasn’t. Returning the painting to Joran was bad enough, but handing it over personally would have been humiliating. He knew Joran’s intentions for the painting and he was sick that he had been a participant. Joran would auction the painting and it would be hidden away from public eyes for years to come. As much as Redding hated the idea of delivering the painting into obscurity, the painting wasn’t the real reason he had come to China. It had always been about the money.
He set the box on the reception counter and asked for a pen. On one side of the box bits of gravel were imbedded in the cardboard, and on one edge, the outer layer had been all but sheared away. Aside from the surface damage, he was fairly confident that the painting had been adequately protected. He flipped the box over to the undamaged side and wrote Joran’s name and room number. Then, he asked for the house phone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It had been a long and difficult day. Joran had paced the room back and forth countless times as he waited for some word, any word, about the painting. He had taken a tremendous risk by wiring the five hundred thousand dollars, and he did so only because he had been backed into a corner. He didn’t have the upper hand; Redding did. He had received confirmation of the wire, but it didn’t make him feel any better. In some ways, it actually made him feel worse. He could visualize the painting hanging on a wall in Le Musee Angladon. Redding could have already contacted the museum and walked away with the five hundred thousand dollars. The more he thought about it, the more it tied his stomach in knots.