The Art of Secrets (14 page)

ACT III

On
TH
URSDAY, DECEMBER 20, while on break at the shampoo factory,

Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,

receives a visit from an insurance investigator. Mr. Khan removes his wire-framed eyeglasses before speaking.

It is good that a claim has been submitted. I understand why you must investigate. An investigation will reveal the truth, as it did when it excused my family completely in the matter of our fire. We place our trust in the system to do what is right. I will tell you everything I remember about Saturday.

The reappearance of the artwork, in that form, was very stressful for my family. The police photographed the scene many times, examined the area for evidence. They used all the minutes we had before the auction.

There is no question, I think, that these destroyed paintings are the same paintings that were stolen three weeks ago. I never saw these pictures, but several teachers and students confirmed they are the same.

Just before they let the people in for the auction, the police carefully removed the artwork, scooping up the remains with gloved hands and taking them to a police van.

Then many hundreds of people entered the room. They must have been waiting in line, outside in the cold. They brought the cold air in with them. The chairs filled, row by row. In the end, many people had to stand in their coats. A gymnasium filled with coats.

The auctioneer was a short man in his seventies, wearing a pale-blue cowboy hat. He did not look like a man who has ever been to a cattle ranch. My wife wears less gold jewelry than this cowboy. But his voice was strong, clear, and he worked fast.

During the bidding, my family and I sat in front. I expected the auctioneer or the principal—someone—to invite me up to the microphone to say a few words, to acknowledge my thanks. I had prepared a few lines to this end. However, no one asked me to speak.

Ordinarily, I might have felt foolish. All this public scrutiny could make anyone feel odd. Given the newest circumstances, however, we felt only numb. The sad reality overtook me like nausea.
Th
e paintings—destroyed.
So the auction would not change our lives forever with the sale of an art treasure. The money collected only would help us to get back onto our feet again.

At best, we would return to where we were before the fire: in a safe, small apartment, with rent paid by this job. I reminded myself to be grateful, to give thanks to God. This modest success, after all, was the intention of the efforts from the beginning.

Across the gym, I saw our new landlord, Mr. Musgrove, standing with his wife. I had met them only once before, when they came by the factory to give me the keys. They are a tall, fair-haired, well-dressed couple. He makes his living downtown at the Stock Exchange. Seeing them at the auction, I said a prayer for continued blessings on them. These generous people had allowed us to stay at their luxurious condo until the auction. I knew they must be eager for us to move on, so they could rent the condo for a good income.

My wife sat next to me the entire time, but I could not meet her gaze. I did not want to convey my own shock or disappointment. I whispered to her, “Sit tall, my beloved, and proud. Try to smile.”

On my other side, Saba sat on her hands, staring into space. She was in shock, too. I whispered, “Remember, God is watching you now. Try to smile in His light.”

“I am trying,” she said, not smiling even the slightest. She kept twisting her body around to search the room, as if seeking a friend who never arrived.

Only my innocent son seemed unaffected by the crowd's attention. He sat in his chair, happily reading comic books. Surely he did not understand what this new crime meant for us. This is an example of the purity of children, yes? They live each moment, caring only about the present. Perhaps our hearts become corrupt when we focus too much on the future, on plans and desired outcomes, rather than being grateful for what we have now.

The auction lasted two hours, but the time seemed shorter. A blur of items and bidding and constant knocking of the auctioneer's gavel. Everything sold, even the cast-off junk. By the end, the auction raised approximately fifty thousand dollars. God had provided. Not a fortune, but nearly my annual salary.

I signed the auctioneer's contract again, verifying the sum. Per the contract, we would receive eighty percent, or forty thousand dollars. I wondered how quickly that sum would dwindle and disappear, like a flickering candle on our supper table. Much of it would be
zakat
, a donation for the poor. At the thought of that, my heart began to feel light again.

Afterwards, when the gymnasium emptied, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove approached us. They had not bid on any items at the auction. This surprised me. They have so much money, and they had gone to the trouble of attending. Mrs. Musgrove wore an elegant pin on the lapel of her coat, a bird made of red and white gems that sparkled under the high gymnasium lights.

I introduced my wife to them, thanked them for coming.

“As our donation,” Mr. Musgrove said, “we invite you to stay in the condo for the next full calendar year. You are welcome to stay.”

“Rent free, of course,” added his lovely, smiling wife. “Just to help you get back on your feet.”

We hardly had the words to thank them—what remarkable generosity. And may God increase their kindness.

God has provided. We live modestly, and our needs are small.

[He puts on his eyeglasses and rises from his chair.]

Sir, that is all I can tell you, all I remember. I hope it's helpful. I will ask you to be in touch.

Before you go, I have a question for you: How many weeks are needed before this insurance claim will be paid?

Th
at evening, at a below-street-level jukebox joint near Michigan Avenue,

Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,

slides into a wooden booth across from the
Tribune
reporter.

I apologize for being late. Thanks for meeting me at this out-of-the-way place. Well, out of the way for me. I didn't want to inconvenience
you.
That was the whole point!

What are you drinking?

Oh—wonderful, that's my father's drink. During my childhood, my father was principal of Highsmith. Surely you knew that? For twenty years, he ran the place. He worked his way up from a teaching position. When he got hired, he gave up his parents' name. Strikmann. First casually, then formally. He felt pressured to change it. Well, it was a whole different world, wasn't it?

When I became principal, I was very young. Still in my twenties and feeling like my own school days were yesterday. In my father's time, they called the principal “headmaster,” like at an English school. Right from the start, I insisted on being called “principal” rather than “headmistress.” To my ears, “headmistress” sounds like some elevated rank of concubine.

Truth be told, I was naïve. I assumed that a leader could be friendly with her staff—could be “part of the gang.” But when you're the one who has to make all the hard decisions, that isn't possible. In the end, management personifies all the things workers dislike about their jobs. We become scapegoats for every complaint. Any principal will tell you that. Maybe it's the same at newspapers?

Anyway, I asked you to meet me tonight because I need your help. I find myself in the very unlikely position of having to defend my judgment. My board members have been getting all sorts of
questions
about the auction.

Yes, well, as you can imagine, that day was pure shock—indescribable shock to arrive at school that morning and discover the Darger artwork smoldering in a pile of ash. Because then I was forced to confront what I hoped
could not
be true: This was an inside job. I know for a fact that every door was locked. I turned on the security system myself Friday night when I left the building. Believe me, no student holds a master key, or knows the code for the alarm system. The police must now investigate my faculty like never before.

The worst part was when I noticed Louise Denison, the art appraiser who'd been so generous with her time, standing with the Spoon kids, waiting for the event to begin. She waved hello and said she was in town briefly for the holidays. I smiled, but I felt terribly embarrassed to see her again; so much has happened since we saw her in November that I didn't know what to
begin
to say. Plus, I realized that conveying this most recent development to the Khans personally would demand all the strength I had. As far as I was concerned, everyone else could find out secondhand.

But the ruined artwork isn't even why I need your help. That's not the board's concern. As you know, even without those paintings, the auction raised just over fifty thousand dollars. According to the terms of the contract, the school received ten percent. The day of the event, I was issued a check in the amount of five thousand dollars, give or take, for me to use as I see fit.

My board wants to know why I accepted the check. In their view, it looks bad. One board member called me and she said, “Oh Regina, that's not very much money. Why don't you just let the Khans have that money?” Another one said, “Let's give it back, Regina. Five thousand dollars won't mean much to the school, and it will mean so much more to the Khans.”

Here's a lesson you can take with you through life: People become most generous when given the opportunity to spend other people's money.

The Khans walked away with forty thousand dollars. Not a small amount, in my humble opinion.

True, five thousand dollars does seem tiny compared to the annual budget of a big school like ours. However, terms are terms. That money belongs to the school. What kind of precedent would it set if I began giving away money to our students and their families? Where would it end?

Excuse me, which Oriental rug? Back at my office? As it happens, we acquired that carpet last year when a generous donation came from an alum, with the clear requirement that the donation be spent on “campus improvements.” So be it. I spent some of it on the carpet, yes, but we also planted the box garden and restored the gorgeous terrazzo border around the cafeteria floor.

People criticize me for spending money on improvements like these. “Superficial things,” they say dismissively. It shows how little they know about the importance of beauty in society.

Crime drops when flowers get planted in parks. Did you know that? Statistical fact. Here in Chicago, remember, when Mayor Daley made beautification a priority, the crime rate finally began to drop. And by adding more trees and repairing the park fountains and spending a fortune on those foot-high, decorative iron fences everwhere, the city kept getting safer. That's a fact.

The same is true in schools. Trust me, when we simply improve the looks of things, it reduces discipline issues and leads to a sense of pride. You don't have to be an educator to know that personal pride leads to personal success.

So you see, we can change lives—and improve the world—one beautiful carpet at a time.

Besides, I have plans for the five thousand dollars. I'll tell you my secret. There's a neglected grotto in the garden, adjacent to the Shack—crap, I owe myself a quarter—adjacent to
Tarlan's Track
, which would be perfect for a wedding ceremony. I have been dreaming about having an outdoor wedding venue on the property for years. Our campus is ideally located, an oasis of green near the congested downtown. Think of the revenue! Weddings every weekend in the summer, one blushing bride after the next. Receptions on the lawn under elegant tents. Tables and chairs, also available for rent.

After one summer, the venue will pay for itself. The rest will be money in the bank for the school.

No, not for an art collection. Let's start with a new roof!

My point is, I have the
vision.
That's what makes me a leader. I'm looking ahead and I plan to stick around for a long while. Board members, incidentally, are the ones who come and go. They only last about four years, same as the students.

Anyway, what I'd really like is for you to write something about my new project. After the holidays, of course. Obviously we don't want to leave this story as it is, sitting like a horrible pile of ashes on the floor of my gymnasium. The senseless destruction of artwork is not the story. How could it be? The story is the
beauty
that may appear as a result. Beauty and ongoing value to the school. That's the far more important takeaway here, wouldn't you say?

Ready for another drink?

To art!

Meanwhile, in a musty-smelling basement rec room across town,

Steve Davinski, senior,

plays pool with his brother Don, age 11, and tells it like it is.

For me, Dawg, the hardest thing in the world is letting a girl down when things aren't working out.

It goes against my nature to make girls sad. I'm the guy who makes things better, right? It's like I've got this list of job duties at school: “game winner,” “problem solver,” “leader,” “hero.” And sometimes, unfortunately, that list includes “heartbreaker.”

This girl and I only went out for a couple of months. Kept things real friendly, to say the least. We had some fun together, and it was super cool to be around someone like Saba. Different from the girls I normally date. Exotic. She has this weird combination of innocence and spice. Sort of like sweet-and-sour chicken, you know? Totally awesome, but . . . whatever.

When the auction came, I needed to pull the plug. The timing was wrong. Really, all along that was the problem: timing. Saba had her whole “family drama” thing going on, and I had basketball and student government and my college applications to finish. We both got busy. It happens, right?

College applications, I mean, that's what put me over the edge. Since October, I've been getting major heat from Mom and Dad, the college counselors, my coaches—just about everyone, really—to get those suckers turned in early. But every time I sit down to write the application essays, my brain freezes. I can't think what to write. It's like I don't have any relevant stories to tell. All I know about is playing sports and being popular, and those things don't count for squat when it comes to getting into college.

So today I stopped Saba in the hall between periods. I told her that things were looking really busy over the holidays, and I was
super
bummed, but I wouldn't be able to hang out again, just the two of us, for a while. I promised her we'd stay friends—which is basically all we ever were, okay?

She didn't say a word. She just looked at me as if I'd puked on her shoes or something.

Don't get me wrong. Like I said, I know the timing is bad. No question, she's had a rough year. First the theft, and the auction, and now this? But from my experience with girls, I've learned it's best to end things as fast as possible. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. The way I see it, I'm doing her a favor. If she can't see that now, she will later, when she thinks back on the killer times we had together. I was a stand-up guy, and she'll remember that.

I do feel guilty. Dawg, I feel like crap. But the thing is, I'm at a place where I need to focus on my future, the way everybody tells me. Now's the time to put
me first
for once. Time to seize the opportunities I've made for myself. Give me some credit—I've worked like hell for four years. When the game begins, you have to stop talking to the cheerleaders and get your ass onto the court. That's how the game gets played, am I right?