Date with a Sheesha (9 page)

“What?” I exclaimed, my eyes taking another trip around the room. Suddenly I saw things quite differently. The musty odour of ancient treasure I thought I was enjoying earlier was nothing more than the smell of plaster cast and glue, I now realized. “You mean all of this…
everything
in here is a replica?”

“Pretty much.”

I don’t often get to say this, but I think it is fair to say I was agog.

“This museum is unique in Canada…” Cardinale began.

I’ll say.

“…in that it houses replicas of very carefully selected important works of ancient art. Many of the pieces were obtained from the
Atelier de Moulages
—the castings workshop—of the Louvre in Paris.”

I had to admit that did sound remarkable.

Lucy carried on. “These are meticulous reproductions, cast from moulds of the originals. All the colours are the same. The 59

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textures are identical. Our pieces were created by experts, replica and technical artists, who pride themselves on the fact that their work can withstand very close comparison with the originals.

What we have here, Mr. Quant, quite simply put, is astounding.

Not only are University of Saskatchewan students given the rare opportunity to study and research great works of art from the comfort, ease, and affordability of their own home city, but the general public too is afforded the chance to see famous and beautiful works of art, right here in their very own backyard.”

I had to give Lucy Wu credit for her enthusiasm. Whoever hired her knew what they were doing.

“What you see in front of you,” she held out a hand toward the red frieze, “is another of these incredible creations. You have the unique opportunity of seeing its genesis. Some day you will come to the museum, see the completed piece, and never know the difference from the photograph from which it is being copied.

And you should know, even this, this reproduction, is not inex-pensive, in terms of both time and money, Mr. Quant. We are very fortunate to finally have enough money in the budget for this particular piece. It will be a stunning addition when it is completed.”

I stepped closer to the red fresco. Even in its incomplete state, it was already taking on a look of something artistically remarkable. They had me convinced. Apparently I hadn’t stumbled upon some sort of elaborate art forgery scheme after all.

Drat. All my caper-worthy scampering about had been for nothing. They weren’t chasing me because I’d caught them replicating art, they were chasing me because they thought I wanted to steal it.

This was not an episode I’d include in my memoirs,
The Great
Adventures of Russell Quant, Prairie PI
.

I turned to face Cardinale. “And the rugs that Neil Gupta went to Dubai to buy, are they replicas too?”

He shot a quick glance at Lucy. I had no idea how much Lucy Wu did or did not know about Neil Gupta’s death and his parents’ plan to send me to Dubai to investigate it. But my question hadn’t revealed anything someone in the employ of the university shouldn’t reasonably know. Still, Cardinale was giving me a 60

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subtle hint that I’d best not say too much in front of the museum’s curator.

“No,” Cardinale answered. “The carpets that will become part of our permanent display will be the real thing.”

Lucy sniffed, as if a bit put out. “A benefactor of the Department of Antiquities, a former professor, is the only reason this has become even remotely financially possible. For the department to acquire an
original
collection,” she added with a hint of generosity, “is quite a coup, for sure.”

“But the rugs will be displayed somewhere other than here in the museum?” I asked.

Lucy Wu recognized my confusion and explained: “This museum is predominately used and supported by the Departments of Classics, History, and Art. All quite separate from the Department of Antiquities.”

I didn’t quite see the distinction, but whatever.

“The museum’s collection was also born of the generosity of private benefactors, but this space belongs to the University of Saskatchewan in its entirety.”

Cardinale continued. “The Department of Antiquities, however, has not had its own dedicated display area. Until now that is.

It’s rather exciting. Quite a major milestone for the department and the university. To have originals, obtained by U of S scholars, for a collection exclusive to the U of S, is an amazing luxury.”

I made appropriate sounds.

“A separate gallery, specifically for this collection, has been painstakingly designed and under construction for the past two years. I probably don’t have to tell you, Russell, that it was this collection and its planned unveiling during the symposium that was the major winning point in the university’s bid to host this year’s WACS. Without it, I doubt the symposium would have ever come to Saskatoon. With this collection, the University of Saskatchewan, and Saskatoon itself, have finally earned a place on the map, as far as the world of carpet antiquities is concerned.”

Cardinale bestowed a handsome smirk on his colleague. “But we’ve taken up enough of Lucy’s time. I apologize for the confusion. I obviously should have told you about Russell’s arrival.”

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“Yes,” she agreed. “You should have.” After a short hesitation, she added, “But I must say, that was the most excitement we’ve had here at the museum in quite some time.”

Cardinale smiled and placed a firm hand at my back, directing me toward the exit.

I said farewell to the Rosetta Stone, Venus de Milo, the panel from the
Ara Pacis Augustae
, and my favourite, the pudgy
Child
and Goose
, and departed the Museum of Antiquities.

Colin Cardinale wordlessly led me down several dark, silent hallways (enough with the hallways, already). We eventually reached a stone archway, draped with what looked like an unused artist’s canvas. He pulled it aside and motioned for me to enter before him. I did so, finding myself in yet another display space. But here the lighting was at full wattage. Although the room was massive, three times the size of the Museum of Antiquities, it was made smaller by a litter of boxes and crates, large tube-shaped items I took to be carpets rolled in heavy plastic, and an eclectic selection of metal and plastic contraptions that I guessed would some day become units used to display carpets to their best advantage.

Before leaving my office for my meeting with Colin Cardinale, I’d done some research on the guy. A detective can never have enough information. Prior to accepting the dual position of Executive Director of the WACS and curator for the permanent display of antique carpets soon arriving in Saskatoon, Colin Cardinale had had a distinguished career. He’d held numerous curator positions, moving through the ranks from local and provincial art galleries to national and world-class museums and exhibit spaces, and before that a charitable organization or two.

When I first discovered his position as WACS ED was a two-year term, I have to admit, I’d shaken my head. Two years? Just to bring a few rolls of musty old carpet to town for a long weekend so a few musty old carpet enthusiasts could ooh and ahh over them? Seemed a touch excessive to me. But then again, what did I know? Nothing really. This was not my world. I was slowly coming to understand that this was a much bigger deal than I could 62

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have imagined.

“What is all this stuff?” I asked, as Colin and I strolled companionably amongst the large containers and mishmash of museum rubble.

“The beginning of something extraordinary,” he told me, his voice smooth as silk. “As you likely know, before his death, Neil Gupta had spent a good part of the last six months sourcing, negotiating for, and procuring items for our collection. Many of them are already here, most of them actually. But there are still a few pieces, important pieces, that he had yet to arrange for.”

“Seems kind of tight, doesn’t it? Isn’t the symposium in less than two weeks?”

The man smiled his snake charmer smile. “Yes. You’re very right, Russell. It is. But I long ago stopped working myself into a lather, worrying about it. In some cases, I’ve come to learn, this is simply how business is done in Arabia. The idea that the carpets would arrive only at the last minute is somehow a thrilling propo-sition for some of the merchants we are dealing with. It’s too complicated to attempt a reasonable explanation in our short time together. Regardless,” he said with a practiced sigh, “we’d accepted that there would be several carpets that would arrive only upon Neil’s return to Saskatchewan, immediately prior to the conference, or, at best, only days before.”

“I see. Frustrating, I’m sure.”

“To say the least. Of course, the pressure is particularly high because we want these specific carpets in our possession and ready for viewing during the WACS. Fortunately, we’ll be able to enjoy rather less anxiety and stress with our future buying excur-sions.”

“There’s more?” I asked, taking in the already impressive piles of materials for the new gallery. “Are there any carpets left out there?”

He laughed a light laugh. “Oh, more than a few. As you might have guessed, our focus for the inaugural opening of the collection during WACS will be Middle Eastern carpets. And even at that, we’re very light in the area of Arabian camel carpets and Bedouin mats. Beyond that, there are incredible specimens in a 63

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great many parts of the world, Russell. American Indian rugs, Armenian, Baluch rugs, Caucasian rugs, Karakalpak rugs, Kurdish, Tibetan. The list is truly nearly inexhaustible.

“I don’t know how educated you are about ancient and antique carpets, Russell. But if you’re anything like me, you’ve likely felt woefully ignorant and intimidated by all there is to learn.”

I gulped. If this guy was feeling inadequate about how much he knew about rugs, I was in what my Grandma Wistonchuk used to call “big kaka.”

“I don’t really know much about carpets at all, actually,” I admitted with a wan smile, “other than that I can absolutely tell a Berber from a shag.”

Cardinale’s ever-present smile suddenly faded.

Uh oh.

I jumped for the second—or was it third—time that evening, when Colin Cardinale’s fist crashed down atop the nearest wooden crate.

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Chapter 5

“Damn! I told both Unnati and Pranav that if they were going to go ahead with this hare-brained scheme, they needed to find someone who knows what he’s doing.”

I know what I’m doing.

Most of the time.

Even so, I knew this was a good time to stay silent and listen.

I could defend myself later.

“Some of these carpet merchants may seem like they’re simply satisfied to sell their wares to the richest North American buyer at the table. But it’s not a game. Not at the level we’re playing at.

These are serious negotiations. These are serious people. And believe me, we’re not the only ones in the market anxious to buy what they’re offering. If they get even the slightest sniff that you don’t know what you’re talking about, or they just don’t like you, they’ll think nothing of stiffing you and selling to a competitor.”

How could they not like me?

“This is about much more than buying and selling a few 65

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pieces of carpet. It’s about more than who is offering the most money. It’s about sharing their culture, their art, and, through it, themselves with the rest of the world. These merchants must be treated with respect, and their carpets faithfully placed in the hands of someone they trust. Someone who will treat their works of art with as much care and reverence as they do. How on earth do you expect to do that, Mr. Quant?”

It was Mr. Quant again. He was not a happy curator.

“Do you even know what the Pazyryk Carpet is? What about the Fostat Carpet? Do you know about the Mori technique? The Persian knot? How to spot a tea wash?”

I stood there with no particular look on my face. I was waiting for Cardinale to let it all out. Besides, I really only understood every other word he said. To make things interesting while I waited, I found it rather curious to watch the changes in this man. So well put together and calm and collected earlier, he was beginning to unravel just a bit, like a wayward thread from a corner of the Pazyryk Carpet perhaps. There, at least I’d used it in a sentence.

“Well, do you?”

I guessed it was my turn. I shook my head. “Nope. I don’t know a Persian knot from a sailor’s knot. I promise you I’ll be doing some studying over the next couple of days, and during the long flights east. But let me reassure you, Mr. Cardinale, I won’t be alone in this. The Guptas have arranged for me to take along their niece, Hema, who is—”

Cardinale’s face began to change, reverting to its composed, suave Satan status. “Oh. I wasn’t made aware of this. I know Hema, of course. She is very knowledgeable. Not to speak ill of the dead, but perhaps more so than Neil in many ways. She will be accompanying you?”

“More than that,” I told him. “Although I will be Neil’s official replacement as far as the University of Dubai is concerned, Hema will be the one actually making all the decisions relating to the carpet negotiations and purchases. I will be busy enough looking into Neil’s death.”