That scenario alone provided the only plausible answer that explained the cello painting’s existence in China, and Redding would have willingly accepted it except for one outstanding fact that couldn’t be ignored. The original painting had never been found.
* * *
Embedded in the historical notation was one additional link related to the painting. It turned out to be a press release that left him utterly stunned.
A Belgian family, who were the rightful owners of the missing oil canvas, had sold an option on the painting to Le Musee Angladon. The option allowed the museum to purchase the painting for a mere three million Euros, provided that the painting was recovered, but their ten- year option was set to expire in four years. The painting’s actual value was probably closer to twelve million Euros. Le Musee Angladon, in an attempt to unearth the painting, had offered a finder’s fee of an amount equal to ten percent of their purchase price.
Redding ran the numbers in his head. The finder’s fee would be approximately four hundred thousand dollars. That would be enough to resolve his financial issues with Yves and leave a nice remainder.
* * *
While researching at the city library, Redding found a commentary on the painting, but it wasn’t much help. It explored the significance of the cellist in the painting playing a D-flat note. After a thorough analysis of the photograph, it had been determined that the cellist held a static position. The position was supposedly one that Deiter had determined to be the most naturally artistic. The painting clearly showed the position of the cellist’s left hand and fingers on the neck of the cello pressing the strings against the ebony board and the position of his right arm to draw and return the bow. Unquestionably, the cellist was playing a D-flat note, but that fact was considered insignificant except insofar that it enhanced the painting’s composition.
Redding thought otherwise. Artists rarely painted anything arbitrarily. Deiter’s real reason for using D-flat would likely never be known, but it was the perfect note to accompany the cellist’s forlorn expression. Although Redding’s background in music was fairly limited, he knew the sound of D-flat. If he thought about it he could hear its mournful baying resonating in his ears.
In spite of his persistence, he found no additional information related to the cello painting. All he had to work from was the old, scarred, black-and-white photograph. A color photograph would have been immensely helpful. Unfortunately, there was little chance that a color photograph existed, since the advent of color photography was in the same timeframe as when the painting was confiscated.
He studied every nuance of the black-and-white photograph, trying to extract even the minutest of details. The baroque cello rested on a small padded stool that elevated it to a level that allowed the cellist to envelop the instrument. The man playing the cello appeared to be middle-aged with a receding hairline. He was dressed in dark pants and a light colored shirt with a minimal collar and he sat on a wooden chair with the cello between his knees. His head was tilted towards the neck of the cello and his expression seemed somewhat dejected, if not completely absent of any intensity or focus while he played the instrument.
The cello was probably a caramel color that accented the smoky grains of the wood. There was really no way to tell. The baritone instrument was painted in such a way that it gave the impression that its lacquered finish had been partially worn away. The vase and flowers that sat on a decorative wall table in the background seemed out of place, if not contrived. The variety of flower was undetermined and so the actual color of the flowers was unknown. As for the light source of the painting, it was somewhere to the right, off of the canvas. Most likely it was a window or a doorway that Deiter had decided to leave out of the painting.
* * *
Redding sat at his desk. Instead of working, he just stared at the black–and-white photograph of the cello painting on his computer. There was something about the man’s expression and the sad condition of the cello that made them inseparable. It was as if they knew they were both destined to play D-flat forever.
He had become so engrossed in the painting that he had failed to notice Pila standing in front of him. As she laid some material contracts on his desk, she glanced at his computer. Seeing the black-and-white image of the cello painting, she nodded her head as if she suddenly knew.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to Europe?”
“I’m not!”
“Then where are you going?”
“China!” Redding said.
Chapter Four
Redding had exhausted all avenues of research on Deiter and the painting before turning his attention to China. It was during the waiting period between booking his flight and applying for a visa that he began unearthing every reference that could be found, relevant or otherwise, about the old city of Suzhou.
Information pertaining to the old city was readily available, but it lacked the level of detail that he wanted. At the very least, he hoped to find something that defined the old city’s geographic footprint, but there was nothing. Of the references he found, most only touted the beauty and tranquility of the old city’s ancient gardens. He found several maps of Suzhou, but none were any help. They identified the old city only as a pinpoint that approximated its location within Suzhou proper.
As only a speck on the map of China, Suzhou seemed insignificant, but it was hardly a small city, not with a population of six million. In a city of that size, an individual could spend a lifetime searching for a painting and still come away empty-handed, but based on his findings, the old city existed as only a mere fraction of greater Suzhou.
Whether his foray into China produced any results or not, Redding wasn’t about to let Yves muscle him out of the company, no matter how much pressure was applied. His livelihood may have been threatened, but that alone didn’t justify his decision to chase after the missing artwork. He avoided all logical and practical arguments that centered on the idiocy of the search. It wasn’t something that he could easily explain, but the need was real enough. He knew the reported sighting could hardly be counted as reliable. It had come from untrained eyes and already it was months old. Whatever painting had surfaced in the old city, the likelihood of it being an original seemed exceedingly remote. He knew he wasn’t being completely honest with himself, but the subjective side of his nature had won the argument. Still, he couldn’t shake off the disturbing notion that his foray into China to search for the cello painting was nothing more than a desperate man chasing a red herring.
* * *
The flight to Shanghai wasn’t uncomfortable, nor was it any worse than a flight to Europe. On the few occasions that he actually nodded off, his sleep was superficial and dreamless. It never mattered whether he was fully conscious or not; time on overseas flights always seemed to move slowly. Aside from the rigors of travel, he was relieved to have a break from the office. Yves was right. He needed some time away, but concerns about the company still loomed in his thoughts.
A week before his departure, he managed to coerce four small production runs from one of his clients. They weren’t enough to save the company, but they would keep the company functioning in his absence. He tried not to think too much about the problems that surrounded the business or the partnership. He had to stay focused on the missing painting, but a lack of sleep had limited his ability to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes.
The bus ride from Pu Dong International Airport left him feeling as if all life had been bled from him. It wasn’t so much the distance or even that the bus had exceeded its capacity, but the noxious diesel fumes that leaked in from below and saturated the air inside the bus.
At the Suzhou depot, he claimed his luggage from the underbelly of the bus and then secured a taxi using a hotel card printed in Chinese. As the taxi headed into the city, Redding let the air from an open window wash over his face in an effort to ease the residual effects of the noxious fumes.
When he finally arrived at the Ba
mboo Grove Hotel, a temporary elation overshadowed all symptoms of exhaustion. He only partially unpacked before retreating to a hot shower, which left him feeling a bit reinvigorated. The sun had nearly set and it would be dark in little more than an hour. Despite his fatigue, he pulled on some fresh clothes. He could ill afford to waste any time learning his way around Suzhou. More importantly, he needed to develop a sense of direction and a bearing on the old city. Before leaving the hotel he inquired at the concierge desk about a city map. The map would play a crucial role in the execution of his search. Knowing the exact boundaries of the old city wasn’t only a necessity, it was a priority. Only then would he be able to determine a strategy that would turn the old city inside out, inch by inch.
The concierge should have been an invaluable resource, but that was not the case. He removed an unfiltered cigarette from his lips and fanned away the smoke before starting a longwinded explanation about some canals. He loosely waved his pen over a map to indicate the abstract nature of the old city’s boundaries. He spouted off as if every word he imparted held the utmost importance until he seemingly became confused by his own explanation.
The daylight was waning and Redding had heard enough. While the concierge collected his thoughts, Redding swept up the map and headed out into the unseasonable warmth of an October evening.
* * *
Every part of Suzhou was interesting and yet strangely ordinary. The boulevard was congested with taxis, motorcycles, and buses that seemed intent on polluting the air. Pedestrians were in a constant flurry of motion, congregating only at traffic signals to form into clusters that crossed in masse whether the light was green or not. It wasn’t exactly what Redding had expected of the city, but it didn’t seem unreasonable either.
Suzhou had long ago overgrown its feudalist boundaries in a way that seemed to erase any connection with the past. In seemingly every direction, high-rise construction was redefining the skyline, but sadly without the aesthetics of Asian accents. Sandwiched between the towering cement monoliths were smaller older buildings, some with pitched cornices and intricate Oriental facades. At one time, the smaller buildings may have played an important part in Suzhou’s past, but already they seemed out of place.
Although armed with a map of the city, Redding still had no idea where he was going. So, simple landmarks were committed to memory to stave off the possibility of becoming lost. He crossed one major boulevard, a couple of busy streets, and had changed direction once or twice. In spite of all conscious efforts, he had become slightly disoriented, but was fairly confident that he could retrace his path by way of the landmarks. Throughout the city, the signage was predominately displayed in Chinese characters, but halfway down one block there was a sign that stood out. The only part of the sign that he could read was “Tours.” Of the few pedestrians that he had imposed himself upon in hopes of asking directions, all spoke little or no English. Faced with few alternatives, he headed for the “Tours” sign.
* * *
A startled young woman opened her eyes and raised her head off of the counter upon hearing the door open. She stared at Redding intently, as if he were nothing other than wayward curiosity standing in the doorway. Then suddenly she straightened up and feigned a smile.
“We have many tours.” She waved her hand past the various tours posters mounted on the walls. “You like what one?”
“I’m not interested in any of that,” Redding said, without so much as glancing at the display of posters. “What I want is a tour guide, someone who can speak English well. And they should be very familiar with the old city.”
“English, no problem,” she said. “You want old city tour, how many peoples?”
“Just one. Only me.”
“Tour buses have group rates. See many things, not have to walk. That best choice for you.” She said, clearly intending to slot him into an empty seat on one of their buses.
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not looking to join a tour. I just want to hire a tour guide for the day. And the only place I want to see is the old city.”
“Sure, you want personal tour, no problem. It includes two stops, the Humble Administrator’s Garden and the Lion Grove Garden.”
If there had been a way to circumvent the tour stops Redding would have seized it, but somehow that didn’t seem feasible. He had been on enough tours in Europe to know how the system worked. Tour stops were the nuts and bolts of the business and diverting a tour guide from their set schedule simply wasn’t realistic. The gardens were a necessary evil that he would have to endure in order to become familiar with the old city’s streets.
“And there will be enough time left over to see other things?”
“No worry about time. You can see everything two times, but nothing to see outside gardens.”
Satisfied with the arrangement, he paid for the tour and was told that he would meet his guide in the morning at nine o’clock sharp.
* * *
Outside the tour office the sky was dark, but the monsoon maritime climate hadn’t yet given away any of its warmth. Redding retraced his route using the visual markers that had been committed to memory, but the absence of daylight made everything less recognizable. He knew almost nothing about the city, yet its pulse of change was evident, with construction seemingly everywhere. Cranes that sat atop of partially constructed buildings were like trumpets heralding a rebirth from an ancient past to a modern beginning. Suzhou was a city clearly in transition, racing towards a new future. It could have been any city almost anywhere, but the occasional ornate accents, the people on the street, and the language of the city, clearly proclaimed it as Chinese.
By the time Redding reached the hotel, his body ached with a fatigue that could only be allayed by long hours of sleep. A full four weeks had passed since he first identified the artwork mentioned by Mrs. Geary, and within the allotted timeframe of only two weeks he had to find the painting. He wouldn’t be able to hold Yves off of the buyout any longer. Since his time was limited, every aspect of the search would have to be carefully planned, but before he could plan anything, he had to identify the boundaries of the old city. That question he intended to have answered during the tour. Yet there was that other, underlying concern that continued to smolder in his consciousness. Whatever painting was found would in all probability be something other than the original.
* * *
Under an overcast morning sky, Redding set out in the direction of the tour office. He had slept well and felt renewed, aside from the disquieting dream. He wouldn’t have even given it a second thought, except that he had had that dream twice before. The first time had been some weeks earlier, in about the same timeframe that he’d identified the cello painting. Just like any other dream, it was forgotten moments after he had awakened. The second time, he knew the dream from before, but could only remember pieces and fragments. This time was different. It was all there, still in his head.
It started with a large cumulus cloud in the shape of a cello that divided itself in two, and then four, and so on. Then, the dozens of cellos careened around a racetrack, each one vying for the lead position. As the cellos raced, a few spun out of control, sending them skidding across the pavement, trailed by thick smoke and the dull screeching sound of D-flat. Then without warning, the cellos suddenly started smashing into one another as if each were hell bent on self-destruction. When the dream ended, all that was left were splintered fragments and the mangled carcasses of the cellos.
* * *
He arrived at the tour office with fifteen minutes to spare, only to witness the confusion caused by an overlapping of schedules. The individual who was supposed to lead his tour had also been scheduled on a tour bus for Luzhi. Redding fully expected that he would receive some contrived excuse followed by a postponement of his tour. A bus already loaded with paying customers would certainly take precedence over one individual requesting a walking tour of the old city. A man dressed in a white shirt and tie approached the counter. He introduce
d himself as Ching, the manager and owner of the tour company.
“We have little problem, but I can fix. One moment, please.” Ching said.
Redding managed a smile, but said nothing. He stood quietly at the counter and watched as the confusion unfolded, becoming increasingly more impatient with each passing minute. By his assessment of Ching’s actions, conflicting schedules were nothing new.
Ching padded back and forth between employees as if understanding the error would somehow fix the problem. He raised his index finger to Redding as if to reassure him that he was only moments away from a solution. Then, Ching turned to one of the female employees. He spoke to her in a serious tone, but at the level of a whisper. She stood attentively, listening to his every word and nodding at the appropriate intervals.
Redding wouldn’t have even noticed her except that she glanced in his direction. She had soft features and, without a hint of makeup, her complexion was naturally flawless. She possessed an exquisite, yet delicate appearance that would have held his complete attention had he not been distracted by the uncertainty of his tour. When Ching had finished, he moved away, leaving her standing alone at the counter.
“Mr. Redding Teska, my name is Lin Ming. I will be your tour guide,” she said in perfect English as she made her way around to the front side of the counter. “The old city is a few kilometers from here. So, if you are ready, our driver is waiting outside.”
Redding nodded his approval, but had only half heard what was said. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her. A segment of her hair had fallen across her face and without a conscious thought, she swept the black strands away. In that one innocuous act, she had unwittingly revealed a subtle elegance that seemed to underscore not only confidence but also vulnerability.