Restitution (40 page)

“It's a beauty, isn't it?” Theo had almost forgotten about Richard VandenBosch, who was still there behind him. At a loss for words, all Theo could do was nod. “That's the one that was in my office,” continued VandenBosch. “The one behind it was in the chargé d'affaires's office. He's going to be sorry to see it go.”

Theo pulled the first painting toward him to gaze at the second canvas, in which a young woman was standing, hand on her hip, staring at pages of sheet music. It was
Die Hausfrau
. Theo recognized the work of the gifted German portrait painter, though this one was softer and more appealing than some of Vogel's military representations.

“Well, I'll leave you to your work, then.” Richard VandenBosch interrupted Theo's thoughts once more. “I'll have a security officer on the other side of the door – again, just to make sure you're not disturbed. Don't worry,” he added. “This fellow is a Canadian with full embassy clearance.” With that, he turned around and left the small building, pulling the stiff wooden door closed behind him.

Theo wasted no time. He carefully maneuvered the Geoffroy onto the floor and began the task of removing it from its wooden stretcher. It would be impossible to keep the paintings on their stretchers if they were going to be transported safely and discreetly across the border. This was the same procedure he had used at the National Gallery when he had packed the paintings there for shipment to Toronto. He placed the aluminum tube on the floor, but not before examining it carefully and running his hand along the smooth finish. The blacksmith had done a superb job custom-making the cylinders so that the seam was welded on the inside. A seam on the outside would have created a rough ridge that could easily damage the paintings in transport. Using tools he carried in a briefcase, Theo began to work around the exterior of the painting, meticulously removing the nails and staples that held it in place on the stretcher, being careful not to damage the canvas. He then disassembled the wooden stretcher and laid it to one side. Next, he reached for the aluminum tube and carefully began to roll the canvas around its exterior. The painting was rolled facing out. A sheet of release paper, which Theo had also brought, was layered along the face of the canvas, protecting it, and ensuring that nothing would stick to its surface.

When he had finished rolling the first painting, he turned his attention to the Vogel and began the same procedure of removing it from its stretcher and rolling it around the cylinder over the first painting.
Forest Fire
was next, followed by
Ready for the Ball
. Theo glanced at them briefly before laying them on the floor and beginning the process of packaging them. Both were impressive.

When all four paintings had been rolled around the tube, with protective release paper around and in between each of them, Theo placed the wooden slats of all the stretchers inside the hollow opening of the container. He knew that even though these pieces were cracked and disintegrating in places, they too were valuable, often helping date a work of art. Finally, the entire tube, paintings, stretchers, and all, was rolled in thick bubble wrap and taped securely. By the time he had finished, an enormous wrapped cylindrical bundle lay on the floor in front of him. Theo stood up, breathing heavily, satisfied that the paintings had been safely and securely packed.

He had just completed his work when Richard VandenBosch returned to the shed. “Well, that's done, then,” Theo said. “If you and the guard outside will give me a hand, we can carry this package to my car.”

The three men lifted the tube of paintings off the floor and carted it out the door and into Theo's waiting car, where they deposited the container into the back seat. What had been a tight squeeze earlier was now a bulging mass, sitting almost upright in the vehicle, pressing against the ceiling of the car and over onto the front passenger seat. Theo cursed under his breath. If only he could have found a way to make it less conspicuous. Here it sat, like a neon sign on a dark night. But there was nothing he could do about that. He closed the door tightly and turned to shake hands with Richard VandenBosch.

“I'm sure you know what you're doing here, but I have to caution you about something,” VandenBosch began, grasping Theo's hand and pulling him close. “When you leave the building, go to the left. There's a surveillance car that always sits to the right of the embassy. They're less likely to spot you if you turn in the other direction.”

Theo nodded, knowing that the trickiest part of the mission lay ahead of him.

“If they come after you, you're pretty much on your own. Good luck to you,” VandenBosch added.

“Thank you for your help,” Theo replied. He was turning to get into the car when VandenBosch touched his arm.

“You know,” he began, stepping toward Theo, “I must tell you that if you had not arrived to take Mr. Reeser's paintings out of the country, I would have done it myself. My job is winding down here. I'll be leaving at some point in the next year. With the coming restructuring of the country, all of us are going to be going on to new posts elsewhere.” He paused and then continued even more earnestly. “If someone hadn't come for the paintings, I was planning to pack them in my own crate and take them out of here when I leave. There was no way I was going to let anyone get their hands on this artwork.”

Theo stared at the vice consul. He was an interesting man, not at all like the diplomats Theo often met at government functions and gatherings – those who only thought of themselves and their own interests. Richard VandenBosch's deep and genuine compassion for Karl, his family saga, and the paintings he was so desperate to retrieve was striking. For Theo, so long accustomed to monetary gain in business matters, this altruistic confession took him aback, and he stammered a response. “I know that Mr. Reeser is grateful for all you've done to keep the paintings safe.”

VandenBosch dismissed the comment with a wave, suddenly self-conscious. “I'll write to him today and let him know that we had this little meeting,” he said. “Please give my best to Mr. Reeser when you see him in Toronto. Tell him that I'm happy for him.”

Theo got in behind the wheel of his car, glanced over his shoulder at the package in the back seat, and then moved the car forward.

Heeding Richard VandenBosch's words of warning, Theo drove his car through the embassy gates and abruptly pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, swerving his car away from the building and merging quickly into the throng of heavy traffic. Car horns blared and drivers swore out their windows as they swerved around Theo, but he took no notice. He glanced again at the oversized container in the back seat, and then in his rear view mirror, suddenly seized with a moment of uncharacteristic anxiety, realizing that he was now facing a critical moment in this operation. If they had spotted him, it would only be a matter of seconds before the secret police were barreling after him, ready to seize his cargo and grab Theo himself. Was it possible that he was being followed, he wondered. That black car there to his left, and that gray limousine two cars back – surely they must have seen him. They had to have spotted his cargo bulging like a camel's hump from his back seat. Perhaps he had been too careless on the telephone with Adolfo. Or maybe someone had followed him to meet with the blacksmith. The inside of Theo's mouth felt like chalk. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

The black car on the left passed by without slowing. The gray limousine turned off the main road. Theo took a deep breath. There was no one on his tail, he assured himself. But, just to be on the safe side, he swerved his vehicle without warning into a narrow alleyway and deftly maneuvered through an intricate maze of streets and laneways, finally emerging onto another large thoroughfare. He glanced in the rearview mirror one last time. If anyone
had
been following him, they were long gone by now. Moments later, he arrived at the gates of the Peruvian embassy. After being questioned by the guard on duty, he was admitted and drove into the parking lot. Adolfo was there to greet him.

“No trouble getting here?” Adolfo asked as he eyed the large roll in the back of Theo's car.

Theo shook his head. “You know how careful I am,” he replied. No need to confess his own anxiety to this man.

Without another word, the two men removed the cargo from Theo's car and deposited it in the back seat of Adolfo's, which bore the all-important diplomatic license plates. Once the package was secured, Adolfo stood back, lit a cigarette, and glanced at his watch. It was just past noon.

“I'll leave shortly – just a couple of things to wrap up here. And I should be across the border by early afternoon, if all goes as planned.”

Everything now depended on Adolfo's ability to drive his car across the border into Germany. While Theo knew that the car would not be searched, there was still the chance that the border guards, if they were the least bit suspicious about the car or Adolfo's activities, might simply send him back. They would not need to offer any explanation for refusing to allow Adolfo to cross the border. If they turned him away, Adolfo would have to return to Prague and Theo would have to find another way to get the paintings out of the country.

“I'll be checking out of my hotel and driving out of Prague in a couple of hours myself,” he said, shaking hands with Adolfo. “When are you going to stop that nasty habit, my friend,” he added, indicating the cigarette in Adolfo's hand. “Don't you know it could kill you?”

Adolfo smiled and pumped Theo's hand. “We all live a bit dangerously, don't we?”

Theo returned the smile. “I'll meet you on the other side. Good luck and safe travels.”

Theo drove back to his hotel, already feeling lighter and more at ease having offloaded his cargo. He packed his suitcase and checked out at the front desk, slipping the clerk a generous tip for his services.

“Always a pleasure to have you with us, Mr. Král,” the desk clerk beamed.

Theo tried not to think too much about the paintings as he settled once more into his car. He focused instead on a last look at Prague, wondering again when he would next see this city and under what circumstances. Democracy would be a giant step forward for this country, but it could virtually bring an end to Theo's business here. Free enterprise would mean a more open financial market with respect to art. It might only be a matter of time before the works that Theo was accustomed to buying for next to nothing would begin to command high prices in a competitive marketplace. Still, judging from the state of things, perhaps the dream of autonomy for the country was still far away. A city where uniformity and order had been imposed was also a city in decay. Theo glanced at the boxy concrete apartment buildings that dotted the highway to the airport. These were a remnant of a Communist regime that, in its policy of creating equality for all, had stripped this country of its beauty and individuality. The people, like these buildings, had also become nameless and faceless. It would take years to reverse that, or create something new. Czechoslovakia had its work cut out for it.

The drive out of Prague took Theo on the autobahn west toward the city of
. He would cross into Germany at Waidhaus and then drive another dozen or so kilometers to the small town of Pleystein to wait for Adolfo. In all, it would take a couple of hours to reach their rendezvous spot and then four or five hours more to drive to Frankfurt. With luck, good timing, and no complications, Theo and Karl's paintings would be on a plane back to Toronto that same evening.

The drive to the border was uneventful and, once there, Theo joined a moderate line of cars waiting to pass through inspection. As he inched forward toward the Czech border guards, he prepared his visa and other documents and rolled down the window.

“How long have you been in the country?” A severe-looking official stepped toward the car and snapped at Theo.

“A week.” Had it really been only seven days since he had left Toronto?

“And what was the purpose of your trip?” the guard continued.

“Business,” Theo replied, handing over copies he had made of the stamped documents from the National Gallery, which listed the paintings he had purchased. “The Gallery has approved these works of art to be sent to Canada. They were shipped from Prague before I left.”

The guard took the papers, inspected them closely, and then lifted his eyes. Theo forced himself to stare back at the guard, his face impassive, and his thoughts unreadable. Inside, however, Theo could feel his blood begin to boil, irritated with this ever-present scrutiny. He clenched his hands around the steering wheel until his knuckles showed white, striving to keep his breathing even. The guard was taking a long time, too much time. He checked and double-checked the passport, matching Theo's photograph to his face. He read through the list of paintings on the National Gallery document as if he actually knew the artists and cared about the paintings that were listed.
He's trying to unnerve me
, thought Theo,
and I won't fall for it
. Cool and calm, that was the image he needed to project.