A Cello In Abstract Read online

  He winced at having completely forgotten to research the painting, but at least there was some relief in knowing that it all would have been for naught.

  * * *

  Before leaving the office, Redding changed into his running gear. If there had been sufficient light he would have preferred the trails of the Santa Monica Mountains, but already the sun had nearly set. That meant he was relegated to the track at the city college. The track didn’t possess the challenges of the mountain trails, but it still provided a decent workout and that was exactly what he needed to clear his mind of all work-related issues.

  For the first three or four laps, he sporadically adjusted his stride as a means of controlling his breathing. Once his breathing was under control, he mentally set himself on automatic and let his thoughts drift away.

  The daylight soon turned to darkness, but he stayed on the track, aided only by a rising three-quarter moon. He pounded the track, lap after lap, constantly pushing the limits of his one-hundred-ninety-pound, six-foot frame. Over the years, he’d made an effort to keep himself in shape, but the physique of his youth had long ago been replaced by a more mature, yet slightly less muscular form.

  He never bothered to count the laps. Instead he just let his mind wander, completely oblivious to the outside world. He pushed his body toward exhaustion while not necessarily thinking of anything. That’s when the image popped into his head. It was the painting that Mrs. Geary had mentioned. He had seen it before, or more accurately, had seen a picture of the painting somewhere.

  * * *

  Soaked in sweat, he had meant to shower the moment he walked through the door, but instead he headed straight for the den. He stood for a full minute staring at the art history books that lined the shelves, trying to decide where to start. At one time or another he had read all of them, but many were no longer familiar. The only criterion that seemed viable meant focusing largely on the lesser-known artists of the nineteenth century. After identifying a number of books, he started pulling them from the shelves, one after another, until he caught a whiff of his own stale sweat.

  Everything was set aside just long enough for a shower and a change of clothes. Then, settling into a leather chair and pulling the first book from the top of the stack, he began the task. He thumbed through the book, scanning it page by page for the image in his head. Then, he checked the index for both “cello” and “man plays cello” to insure that he hadn’t missed the painting. After the seventh book, he decided he was wasting too much time perusing the entire contents of each, so he went directly to the index. By the eleventh book, he began questioning his methods. Some eighty books on the subject of art still remained on the shelves, but he was sure that the image in his head lay somewhere within their collective pages. He was just finishing the eighteenth book and was about to call it quits when it seemed to jump off the page at him. Listed in the index was the painting, “A Man with a Cello” by Xavier Deiter.

  The picture that had been published was of an old, scarred, black-and-white photograph. It had been included alongside a few color photographs of other paintings. Collectively, they were used to illustrate the variations in realist paintings. Aside from its illustrative value, it was unusual that a black-and-white photograph of such poor quality would have been published, but the unusual characteristics of the book were exactly why he had purchased it.

  The citation under the black-and-white photograph provided the name of the painting, the artist, and a date of 1861. It also mentioned the medium as oil on canvas and that its size was approximately twenty by twenty inches.

  Based only on the black-and-white photograph, the painting was quite impressive. It featured a middle-aged man sitting on a chair in a somewhat stark room playing an old weathered cello. Behind the man, a vase filled with flowers had been set on a small table that was positioned against the back wall. Aside from the caption below the painting, there was no additional information.

  Redding logged on to the websites of several local museums, but failed to find any additional information on either the painting or the artist. He searched through the resources of the Smithsonian, along with all the major museums of Chicago and New York City, but with no luck. He also tried the Library of Congress and several notable European museums without any success. Perplexed by the lack of results, and irritated by a constant flashing of an inbox alert, he decided to postpone any further efforts.

  Everything in his inbox was essentially garbage, except for an e-mail from Victoria that he was apprehensive about opening. Her e-mails more often than not had an agenda that was tied to real estate.

  Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling and leaving messages, but you haven’t called me back. I really hate having to say this in an e-mail. I wanted to tell you in person, but apparently that’s not going to happen. I wanted to let you know that I met someone special and we’re going to get married.

  Details later, Victoria

  P.S. I just listed a really nice house in the hills above Studio City. You should definitely see it. I’m sure you would like it. Besides, it’s time for you to let go of your condo and move up in the world.

  As if his synapses had suddenly overloaded, his thoughts were sent in a dozen different directions all at once. A series of vignettes about his life with Victoria played in his head, jumbled together and overlapping each other. Although they were divorced, they still interacted and had been somewhat dependent on each other. Now that she was about to remarry, his attachment to her, however slight, would end permanently.

  He read the e-mail a second time, only to realize the extent of his feelings. It was one thing that they were divorced and still another that she planned to remarry.

  They had gone their separate ways, but still relied on each other for advice, a sympathetic ear, and occasionally, companionship. One would call the other and they would arrange to meet. At least twelve times over the last three years they had spent the night together. It usually started with dinner and drinks, but there was never any pretense of returning to a permanent relationship. Her pending marriage would undoubtedly end the friendship of convenience and that realization brought with it a shudder of loneliness.

  The absence of any meaningful attachment reminded him not of his marriage, but of his university years. He had taken his studies seriously, but diversions were inevitable such as the need to quell the youthful itch. Aside from his one serious romance, most of them were nothing more than a casual meeting and a solitary night of passion. He could still see some of their faces, but most of their names had been forgotten. With each of those nights, his needs had been physically satisfied, but they came with an undeniable emptiness.

  Not wanting to read the e-mail again, he clicked delete. His life may have been stagnant, but it was unfair to blame Victoria. Although he still had a need for companionship, he purposely dated less frequently, only because everything had become far more complicated. Most of the women he met either harbored a specific agenda or carried the scars of some past relationship.

  He had wallowed in self-pity long enough that his stomach felt as if it were tied in knots. The divorce was a fact and thinking about it was just a waste of time.

  Chapter Three

  When Redding arrived, every light in the complex was on, including the unoccupied offices, which meant Yves had returned. He bypassed all the cubicles with nothing more than a nod towards an employee and headed straight for his office. Pila was there, rummaging through some paperwork on his desk. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, and already she was trying his patience. They had had words about her intrusiveness more than once, but he knew she would never change. Most of his time was spent out of the office, so he usually didn’t have to deal with her, and Yves swore that the company would implode if she ever quit. Setting aside all officious behavior, there was no denying that she was a capable administrator.

  “Good morning,” he said to purposefully announce his presence.

  She ignored the pleasantry. “I’m lo
oking for the payroll report. Tomorrow is Friday, so where is it?”

  “Damn, I don’t know!” he snapped. “You seem to know more about my desk than I do.”

  “Are you going to Europe, again?” she asked while pulling the payroll report from a stack of papers in his outbox.

  “Europe? No! What makes you think I’m going anywhere?”

  “Yves said you were thinking about taking some time off, so I figured you would probably head back to Paris or Rome.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She just pivoted on her heels and walked out.

  “And what makes him think I’m taking any time off?” he called out, but his question was wasted on the empty doorway.

  He had been to Paris several times with Victoria, but he had little interest in the city other than the museums. Victoria loved the historic appeal and ambiance of Paris, especially in the evenings. They would sit at some corner café sipping coffee as they watched the evening unfold while chatting about the day. She never did share his passion for art, so he usually perused the museums alone. With an unrestricted pass, he literally spent hours immersed in the paintings of the Musee d’Orsay.

  The Musee d’Orsay! He rolled his head from side to side in disbelief. He had completely overlooked the museum. After all the time he had spent there, it seemed incredible that it had slipped his mind. If anything, it should have been an obvious choice given that Musee d’Orsay maintained an online archive in English.

  Although his morning had been turned upside down by some revised specifications on a production run, he still managed a few minutes to access the Musee d’Orsay’s library. He executed a search for “A Man with a Cello” which returned only one result. The finding was a short biographical notation about the artist, Xavier Deiter.

  * * *

  The fact that Xavier Deiter was not a well-known artist had been attributed to his limited body of work. Only seventeen known paintings had been authenticated as originals. Although the totality of his work was considered negligible, he was regarded as an exceptional unschooled artist. His early works centered on realism, but there were a few later pieces that explored impressionism. The biography concluded by mentioning that his limited number of works was the unfortunate result of a prolonged terminal illness. He died from tuberculosis in his early thirties.

  Although the published photograph was in monochrome, the painting had to have been one of Deiter’s early successes in realism. The painting had embraced style and content in such a way that it exposed and highlighted details that provided a vivid impression of the scene.

  Overall, the short biography was a disappointment. It was barely a notation and Redding had wanted something more substantial. Just below the biography was the standard disclosure that typically stated which paintings the Musee d’Orsay currently had on display by that particular artist. As for Xavier Deiter, they did not display any of his original works, but the disclosure did reference Le Musee Angladon in Avignon, France.

  * * *

  Redding tried to focus on the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, but had accomplished little by late afternoon. His thoughts continually vacillated between the loss of the K’Myles order and the black-and-white image of the cello painting. Other than resolving some existing production issues, the day had been wasted. He shuffled through the remaining paperwork to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything critical. Then, he set everything aside and was getting ready to leave when Yves walked in and sat down.

  “There is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” Yves said. He leaned back in the chair and looked upward as if he were trying to find the right words. With his hands held behind his head and his fingers interlocked, he focused on Redding. “The company hasn’t been doing so well, so I think the only real solution is to dissolve the partnership. I think I should buy you out.”

  “What the hell?” Redding slammed his hand onto his desk as he stood up. This was the last thing he expected from Yves. They had built the company from the ground up. Yves had been more than just a partner. He had been a trusted friend.

  “It’s not personal. It’s just business, and we’ve got a real cash-flow problem,” Yves tried to reason while looking to Redding for some form of understanding.

  The muscles in Redding’s face had tensed. He was sure there had to be an alternative to the buyout, but he needed time to think. He could hold Yves at bay if he had a solid argument, but nothing came to mind. Feeling overwhelmed, he slumped back into his chair.

  “Yeah, I was thinking about maybe mortgaging…”

  “Red, let me finish!” Yves interrupted. “With the K’Myles order we were back in the game. That one order would have solved a number of problems, but now we have to infuse some cash into the company to keep it afloat.”

  Redding just sat there, wanting to respond, but still not knowing what to say. Putting a mortgage on his condo was a lousy idea and Yves knew it. Even with the infusion of cash, there was a real possibility that the company would eventually fail.

  The idea of being pushed into a buyout really irked him. He considered himself at least ten years short of retirement and he wasn’t even close to having the necessary assets. His prospects for finding a management position within the industry were severely limited. Even if he did land another job, it wasn’t likely that it would meet his salary requirement of $138,000 per year.

  He had never given any serious thought to retirement. When the money had been good, he set little aside. Only now had the extent of his careless ways become apparent. All he had was his condo, now worth six hundred thousand; two hundred thousand in a Keogh account; and whatever equity he still held in the company minus his debt to Yves.

  “Listen, take some time off and think it over,” Yves said. “Nothing is set in stone and when you get back we can talk. Either way, we’ll have to lay some people off.”

  Redding just sat there glaring at Yves while trying to focus his thoughts. They were right on the edge of having a full-blown argument, and they both knew it.

  “Yeah, I’ll think it over,” Redding said, holding back his anger. “And when I get back, you can be damn sure we’re going to talk about this.”

  It was straight-out obvious that Yves had planned everything well in advance. His intent wasn’t to close Redding on the idea, only to plant the seed. Without saying another word, he headed straight for the door.

  As soon as he left, Redding leaned forward in his chair and, with his elbows resting on the desk, he buried his face in his hands. He was pissed. He should have seen a buyout coming, not that it would have made any difference.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, they avoided each other, just as they had with past confrontations. Redding focused most of his energy on trying to generate new contracts and spent his evenings researching the cello painting and Deiter.

  The link to Le Musee Angladon opened a page that highlighted the three original Deiter paintings that were in the museum’s possession. On the page was a color photograph of each painting with captions that identified each of the artworks and at the bottom of the page there was a comprehensive list of all known works by Deiter. The second-to-the-last notation listed the painting, “A Man with a Cello.”

  Redding clicked on the cello painting notation which opened another page. On the left-hand side of the page appeared the same photograph that had been published in the art history book. On the right-hand side was essentially the same biographical information he had found on the Musee d’Orsay’s site. Halfway down the page was an article whose headline stated the painting was one of many that had been confiscated by the Germans during World War II.

  The article recounted the difficulties in the years following the war as attempts were made to return many original works of art to their rightful owners. However, the consequences of war were many, and an undetermined number of paintings and other works of art were inevitably lost. Although claims for many of these works of art still exist, a significant number have never been recovere
d. The painting “A Man with a Cello” by Xavier Deiter was still listed as missing.

  * * *

  The probability of the sighting mentioned by Mrs. Geary and the original painting being one and the same seemed to reach beyond all reason. It seemed almost unfathomable that such an acclaimed painting could turn up in a clothing store. While the possibility existed, it seemed exceedingly remote. It also raised the question, “How could a painting that had been confiscated by the Nazis find its way into China?” It could have been sold by the Germans to raise needed capital, or maybe it had been appropriated by some German officer during the fall of Berlin. Still, every scenario was only guesswork and there was no single scenario that viably explained the painting’s existence in China. There was certainly no wartime alliance between Germany and China. In fact, Germany’s only ally in the east was Japan, and even that was debatable.

  There were no easy answers. If the cello painting was in China, it could have come by endless means. Redding turned one scenario after another over in his head, but each was as improbable as the next. As unlikely as each scenario seemed, there was one feasible explanation. The painting in China was most likely a copy, or more accurately, it was someone’s interpretation of the original. Any skilled artist could have easily duplicated the artwork based on the black-and-white photograph. It would have only been a question of color, and that was simply guesswork.

  China had its share of skilled artists, and many made a living reproducing classic artworks. The replicated paintings were never meant as counterfeits, not that anyone would ever have been fooled into thinking that a Van Gogh reproduction was real. They were just hyper fakes painted with flair and individualism, and the cello painting could have easily been one of them.