A Cello In Abstract Read online



  A Cello in Abstract

  by

  Greg Arritt

  Copyright © 2014 by Greg Arritt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

  A Cello in Abstract is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Cover Design by Nancy Razo

  Chapter One

  Pelted by a September morning rain, Redding Teska bolted from his Mercedes, across the parking lot, and into the office lobby. There, he slipped off his jacket and shook away the remaining droplets before they seeped into the material. Only then did he really notice his surroundings. Everything from the desks to the décor looked dated; even the paint seemed drab. It seemed odd that he hadn’t noticed it before, especially since he was there nearly every day, but during lean times, things got overlooked. The past few years, things had been really tough. A few months, they didn’t even have enough in the bank to meet payroll, but all that was about to change.

  Yesterday, just as the day ended and he was about to leave, a gift from the gods landed on his desk. It arrived in the form of a sizable purchase order from K’Myles. The company had once been a leading client until the relationship soured. After that, Redding never expected to hear from them again, but even more surprising than their sudden return was the size of the purchase order. It would run their production at eighty percent capacity for the next twelve months. More importantly, it would infuse badly needed capital into the company.

  * * *

  His taste for the precision manufacturing business had soured some time ago, but he still had certain responsibilities. The downturn in the aerospace industry had pretty much turned their company upside down. They were once flush with clients, but now they fought in an overly competitive market for every deal that came in the door. Any enthusiasm he once held for the business had evaporated long ago. Every hour of the day was dreaded, especially the task of having to lay off employees. Despite a shrinking client base and diminishing revenues, he couldn’t exactly quit the business. He held a half-interest in the company and he was sadly lacking any alternatives.

  * * *

  His office was at one end of the complex, separated from Yves’ office by a cluster of cubicles. At one time, every cubicle had been occupied; now all but three were empty. He had no sooner sat down behind his desk than Pila barged in wielding a cup of coffee. As the office administrator, she figured she had carte blanche to do as she pleased. Set in her ways and abrasive to a fault, she made Redding often wish that she would just retire. The only reason they tolerated her intrusive manner was that she was so damned efficient.

  “Yves wants to meet with you today,” she said brusquely, stopping only to sip her coffee. “And the purchase order for K’Myles is already in preproduction.” With that, she was out the door.

  Yves Lachaud had been his partner for nearly twelve years. Yves’ primary focus had been on manufacturing, and Redding was responsible for the marketing side of the business. All financial, personnel, and corporate decisions were made jointly. The division of management had worked well and the company had thrived until the crash of the aerospace industry.

  Their partnership was no different than any other collaboration. They had their share of disagreements and most were resolved amicably enough, but in the earlier years, arguments often coursed out of control with raging tempers. In hindsight, it was just sheer luck that got them through those exchanges before any real damage was done to the partnership.

  * * *

  People who knew him well called him Red, but at times the familiar nickname seemed like an unnatural fit. Mostly it was because he had a full head of dark hair, which in the last few years had given way to an encroachment of gray at the temples. He wasn’t bothered by the gray or even the deepening creases at the outer edges of his eyes. They were just everyday reminders of the years that had already passed. Only eight months shy of turning fifty, Redding was grateful his looks hadn’t yet betrayed his age.

  It had been some three years since his divorce from Victoria, yet he still missed lying around in bed with her on the weekends. They would read out loud to each other, every week a different novel. They had once been best friends until everything went awry.

  He dated sporadically, but had no interest in developing a relationship. It hadn’t been intentional, but increasingly, he found himself becoming something of a loner. There was a period of adjustment that followed the divorce, but living alone wasn’t so bad.

  * * *

  When he was married, business had been good. He had landed one contract after another, and Victoria’s real estate company had nearly tripled its sales volume. Flush with income, they dumped a lot of money into a venture capital scheme that subsequently failed. Their decision to invest wasn’t well thought out and the losses were staggering. They argued about it constantly, passing the blame back and forth until it reached a point that it had damaged their marriage.

  The failed investment wasn’t the only issue that plagued their marriage. Redding had wanted a family, but all attempts were unsuccessful due to Victoria’s inability to have children. Redding suggested that they pursue some of the alternatives, but she resisted. She claimed to be lacking any sense of maternal instinct and even remarked that it was probably for the best. It was never quite understood why she was so averse to raising a family. He liked the idea of having children and all of the daily disruptions that made up family life. Several times he asked her to reconsider, but she refused to discuss the matter any further.

  Eventually, they just drifted apart and began to lead separate lives. Still living under the same roof, they ignored each other and slept in separate bedrooms. In hindsight, the divorce was inevitable, but through its ashes they had managed to remain friends, sometimes even intimate.

  The division of assets had been skewed in Victoria’s favor, leaving him with a condominium that was mortgage free, a Keogh that was worth a couple hundred thousand, and his half-interest in the partnership. The marriage had lasted for seven years, but it was the two years of living together prior to the marriage that he valued the most.

  * * *

  It was mid-afternoon when Yves appeared in the doorway of his office. His tie had been loosened and his collar unbuttoned, which usually meant he was having a bad day. The bags under his eyes seemed darker than usual, but it probably wasn’t just from a lack of sleep. Most likely, he was worrying about something. He walked in and sat heavily in a chair across from Redding. He ran his hand over his nearly bald head, knocking back a few errant strands of hair.

  “Well, congratulation on that K’Myles order, that one should save our asses.”

  “Can you believe it? That’s our first order from them in over two years,” Redding said. It was one of those higher-margin deals that would do more than solve their cash flow problems. It would allow Yves to draw back his recent infusion of cash into the company.

  Redding had stumbled onto the K’Myles account quite by accident. They weren’t even remotely related to the aerospace industry, but they had been an apex client until he’d run afoul of their purchasing procedures.

  Yves sat there blindly staring at Redding but saying nothing. A lot of things bothered him, but making money was the only thing he worried about. A few months back, he had loaned the company two hundred thousand to cover some pressing debts, and Redding was responsible for half. They had considered a business loan, but their balance sheet wasn’t worthy of bank credit. Anyway, Yves had argued against the bank loan. Money wasn’t a problem for him. He came from money, but for Redding it was a different situatio
n.

  “I haven’t forgotten about the hundred thousand. I just need some time,” Redding said.

  “Hell, I know that.” Yves said.

  “Alright, so what’s this about?”

  “I’m going to be out of the office all day tomorrow and I was wondering if you could follow up on few things for me. There are some receivables that need attention and we’ve got a few production orders closing in on their deadline. Pila has the paperwork.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”

  Yves stood up and headed toward the door, but stopped short. He turned around to face Redding.

  “Is there something else?” Redding asked.

  “Well, do you realize that’s been over two years since you’ve taken any time off?”

  Redding leaned back in his chair and eyed Yves suspiciously. Something about the question struck him as inherently strange. Yves was a dedicated workaholic, through and through. He generally thought of vacations as a waste of productive time.

  “Really, has it been that long?” Redding ran a few mental calculations. The last time he took any time off was shortly after his divorce. He flew to the Netherlands to tour the regional museums of art. It was something he had always wanted to do, but Victoria always objected. For her, if it wasn’t France, Spain, or Italy, it was out of the question.

  After Yves left, Redding turned his attention back to the K’Myles order. The production prep was complete and the first run was set to begin in the morning. Then, he finished the day by completing some paperwork and was out of the office by four-thirty. There was another matter that required his attention, so he put all thoughts of business away.

  * * *

  The Pasadena Library of Fine Arts was holding a special exhibit and, as a patron of the library, Redding had been invited. The reason for this particular exhibit had been the acquisition of three well-known paintings. The library had acquired a Romanelli and a Poussin at auction. A third painting by Degas had been donated by a Pasadena resident from his private collection. As much as the exhibit was supposed to be about art, it was also to a lesser degree a social event. He would have preferred to bypass the entire social aspect of the exhibit, but that was unrealistic. He had little patience for boring conversations and his affection for art ran deeper than that of most individuals he encountered. There was always conversation about some painting or artist, but most were in attendance simply to be seen as supporting the arts. Everyone had a reason for attending and he was no different. His reason centered on his passion for realism.

  Realism had been the catalyst that inspired his love for art. It took hold of his consciousness in a way that no other period of art ever had. His understanding of realism seemed to reach beyond the canvas, almost as though he could sense the artist’s thoughts. After a few quiet moments of viewing, a painting would come alive often drawing out an unexpected emotion. He would study the images and the perspective, the source of lighting, and the contrast of colors. Close attention was paid to every nuance that brought the painting to life. He was a firm believer that a painting had to be felt in order to be understood and truly appreciated.

  * * *

  The reception in the lobby of the museum was already crowded with guests by the time he arrived. He hadn’t taken two steps through the door when Judith Mullooly spotted him. She quickly made her way over to him, grabbing onto an arm with both hands. She was one of the people he dreaded running into at these events. She came to the exhibits not for the art, but to find a husband. He had managed to stay clear of her until she discovered that he was no longer married.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she gushed as they made their way into the lobby. “I thought we could see the exhibit together.”

  He had no intention of seeing this exhibit or any other with her. He preferred to view the paintings alone, without interruption. He couldn’t deny that she was attractive, but her brash demeanor just didn’t sit well with him. She clung to his arm as if asserting her claim and announcing to all others that he was taken. He resented the implication and was just about to extricate himself from her grasp when Mrs. Lillian Geary walked over.

  “Mr. Teska, may I have a word with you?” she said before turning to Judith. “This shouldn’t take too long.”

  Mrs. Geary was one of the few people that he actually looked forward to seeing. She had to be well into her sixties and yet she continued to teach art history at a community college. It was through her class that his fascination for the historic canvasses began to develop. He was only a week into the course when a painting captured his eye. It would be the first of many, but the accompanying notation wasn’t enough to satisfy his curiosity. He wanted the full provenance, not just a cursory blurb. He scoured the library archives, unearthing every detail related to the painting, until there was nothing else to find. That set him apart from all the other students and had caused Mrs. Geary to take notice.

  “Really, Mr. Teska, you’ve been divorced how long?” she said as they walked back to where Mr. Geary was standing. “I would really think you would know how to handle that kind of situation by now.”

  “She just wanted some conversation,” he said, trying to be polite.

  “Is that what she wanted?” Mrs. Geary asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer before addressing what was really on her mind. “Well you know, actually I wanted to ask you about a painting.”

  She often relied on him for additional research that centered on some particular artist or painting. She had the resources, but most likely she didn’t have time. He not only relished the task of ferreting out the provenance of some obscure artwork, but also enjoyed the recognition from her as a quasi authority.

  “One of my students mentioned a painting that she viewed while visiting China. I think it was in Suzhou.” She paused.

  “Suzhou?” he asked.

  “No, no! It was the old city of Suzhou. That’s what she said, the old city. Well, why not? There are famous paintings in museums all over the world, so why not China,” she answered, as if she expected to be questioned. “Anyway, it was supposedly a realist painting in a European setting. It was a painting of a man playing an old, weathered cello, and supposedly there was a contrast between the old and the new. The old was the weathered cello and it was held against a backdrop of new, fresh-cut flowers.”

  “An old, weathered cello?” Redding’s voice trailed off. There was something in her description that made him feel as though he should know the painting and yet nothing came to mind.

  “Yes, are you familiar with it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You don’t happen to know the artist?”

  “Afraid not! If I knew who the artist was, I could look up the painting myself,” Mrs. Geary said, sounding a little sour.

  “Well, it shouldn’t be too difficult to uncover something. I’ll have a look, then I’ll let you know.”

  Seemingly satisfied with his offer, Mrs. Geary nodded her head before being pulled away into a conversation with another attendee. Having no interest in socializing any further, Redding drifted away from the reception area and into the exhibit hall.

  Chapter Two

  Early the next morning, Redding cracked the blinds in his office to let in the morning sunlight, then slipped his jacket off and hung it on the coat stand. Settling in his chair, he began thumbing through a stack of new paperwork that had been placed on his desk. He pulled an invoice from the stack and had started working his way through the numbers when something caused him to look up. Standing right in front of his desk was Pila, who never knocked or asked permission. She would just barge into his office, interrupting phone calls and meetings, which he hated.

  “I hope you can handle some bad news,” she said.

  Setting the invoice on his desk, he leaned back into his chair and feigned a halfhearted interest in whatever she had to say.

  “K’Myles cancelled the order.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Redding barked. “Those goddamn bastards,
the whole fucking lot of them! What the hell happened?”

  “Don’t you dare use that vulgar language near me. And I don’t know what happened! Argus called first thing this morning and cancelled it.”

  Upsetting her sensibilities was the least of his concerns. The largest purchase order they had seen in years had just evaporated. It had been a fat one, and it would have set the company straight, but now they were right back in deep financial water. He had to call Argus, the purchasing agent at K’Myles, and find out what happened. One way or another, he had to convince Argus to reissue the purchase order. As it was, they barely had enough production to keep the doors open.

  “Here are the production runs that are getting close to their due dates,” Pila said as she dropped a computer printout on his desk.

  Yves was out of the office for the day and the job of following up on the production orders had fallen to him. Having finished with the invoices, he headed out to the machine shop, then to fabrication, and from there to shipping. It didn’t seem to matter where he was, the overall atmosphere was decidedly tense. The employees had heard that a layoff was coming, which may have explained why production orders were taking longer than the time allocated. When he finally returned to his office, he half expected to find another pile of invoices, but there was nothing other than two e-mails in his inbox. The first one was from a friend who used to work for K’Myles:

  Just wanted to give you a heads up. K’Myles filed for protection this morning, in other words, they’re bankrupt.

  That explained the cancellation of the purchase order, which meant calling Argus would have been pointless. The second e-mail was from Mrs. Geary:

  I am so sorry! The painting in question is apparently nothing more than a red herring. When I talked to the student this morning, she told me that she didn’t see the painting in a museum, but in a trendy clothing store. Certainly, no painting of any significance would be displayed in a clothing store. I sincerely apologize.