Restitution (37 page)

Theo watched and waited patiently through this ritual. This man had been supplying him with containers to transport art since Theo had begun doing business in Prague years earlier. They had met through a relative of Theo's, one who had Communist party connections. The man was a skilled blacksmith who worked for a company that manufactured eaves troughs for houses and also made electrical tubing. Theo had been looking for someone with access to these supplies and considered himself lucky to have found this capable craftsman. He knew nothing of this man's life – he didn't know his full name or age, though he looked ancient. They met here at his apartment each time Theo needed containers, so that they could discuss the details of the made-to-measure orders. It was safer to meet here rather than at the factory, where other workers or a nosy company boss might become suspicious of their discussion. Here in this man's home there was anonymity. No personal information needed to be exchanged, just business.

The man finished reviewing Theo's specifications, nodded, asked a few more questions about the size of the containers, and jotted some additional notes alongside Theo's scribbles on the piece of paper. No questions about their purpose; that was something he had never asked. What was important to him was that he knew he would be paid well for providing the materials and keeping his mouth shut.

“The four regular-size tubes will be delivered to the National Gallery,” continued Theo. “The other one…” He paused. “I will pick up the other one myself.”

The man shrugged and again said nothing.

“When can you have these ready for me?” asked Theo, thinking ahead to the meeting he had arranged with VandenBosch for the twentieth.

“It could take a while,” the man replied. “It's the material. I can get it, but I have to be careful.”

“Come on, my friend. I'm sure you can make this happen quickly,” Theo said. “You've never let me down before.”

The man shook his head. “You know that I have my own sources, but even they are stretched to the limit. I have to get the aluminum you're requesting, cut it to these sizes, and have it welded into the tubes. It all takes time if you want it done correctly. Is it urgent?” he asked, noting the look on Theo's face.

“The sooner the better,” replied Theo, evenly, “but before the twentieth for sure. Don't forget how much I appreciate it when things are delivered on time.” He raised a knowing eye and extended his hand. “You won't let me down, will you?”

The man sighed and grasped Theo's outstretched hand. “I'll make sure the work is completed to your specifications. And I'll call you at your hotel when it's ready to be picked up.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Toronto, February 1990

BACK IN TORONTO , Karl had finally confessed to Phyllis that he had withdrawn money from the bank to pay Theo Král to retrieve the paintings. Upon hearing that he had put his faith and resources into the hands of this art smuggler, Phyllis had thrown her hands up into the air. “I knew you would do whatever you wanted,” she cried.

“Don't be angry with me,” Karl replied, trying to placate his wife. “We can afford it.”

“Do you think I care about the money?” she said. “It's not that.”

“Then what?” asked Karl.

Phyllis shook her head in frustration. “It's this endless mission to get the paintings. You're consumed by it. When will it stop? When will you realize that you've done all you can do, that maybe they are simply unattainable.”

Never!
he thought, though he couldn't say that to Phyllis. He couldn't bear the notion – wouldn't acknowledge the possibility – that he might never retrieve his family's property. There was a long pause, and then Phyllis spoke, more gently this time.

“All of your determination,” she began. “You know I think it's admirable. I just don't want you to be disappointed if this plan doesn't work.”

Of course he would be disappointed, devastated in fact. But again, this was a possibility that he simply could not entertain. It was his certainty about this journey that kept him energized. It was the hope. Take that away from him, and there was nothing. He could not stop believing that he would get the paintings back. Still, Karl needed his wife's assurance and support – now more than ever.

“Please tell me you think it was the right decision to give Král our money,” begged Karl.

This time, Phyllis laughed out loud. “I've always said that if it had been up to me, you would have never made the trip to Prague in the first place, you would have never gone to meet with Richard VandenBosch, and you would have never arranged a meeting with Theofil Král. You have more guts than anyone I know. Was this the right thing to do? Time will tell.”

Explaining his decision to Hana and Paul was more difficult. Karl called his sister and arranged for her and her husband to come over. They gathered in the family room, where Karl once again confessed that he had paid Theo Král his advance asking price of three thousand, five hundred dollars.

Hana was astounded. “You actually paid him in cash?”

Karl nodded. “Král has gone. He says he will return on March twenty-first with the paintings. I'll pay the balance when he comes back.”

“
If
he comes back!” interjected Paul.

“And
if
he brings the art,” continued Hana. “You realize of course that he could return to Toronto and simply lie about all of this. He could say that he tried and failed to get the paintings. And he would still have half the amount of money and we would still be without our property!”

This was certainly true, thought Karl. And yet, he still felt strongly that he had done the right thing by entrusting Theofil Král with this mission. Hana opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came out. She clamped her jaw shut, sucking back any further reproach and sat, silently shaking her head. Paul was equally stunned and quiet.

“Hana,” said Karl, moving closer to his sister, trying to articulate his thinking. “Please try to understand. I have a feeling. It's hard to explain what it is. Something tells me – my gut or my instinct – that this man is the one to make this happen. I like him.” Hana looked away. “I know that seems ridiculous,” continued Karl, “because I don't even know him. But it's true. He is straightforward – honest, if you will. I appreciate that.”

“He's a thief!” exclaimed Hana. “Probably a con artist as well. That wasn't honesty, Karl. That was pulling the wool over our eyes. How could you be fooled by that?”

“I'm not asking you for any money, Hana,” Karl continued. “This was my decision, my risk.”

Hana was silent for another moment, and then she asked, “Did you at least get a receipt for the thirty-five hundred dollars?”

Karl paused and then burst into laughter. “Hana,” he finally said, when he could catch his breath, “the man's a thief! You said it yourself. What good would a receipt do?”

The question hung in the air and then Hana started to chuckle. Paul joined in and then Phyllis, and soon the four of them were doubled over in laughter. The release felt good. It was something they all needed. In the end, Hana and Paul agreed to split the cost of the venture with Karl. “I may not agree with what you've done,” said Hana. “But you know I support you one hundred percent. This can't be just your risk. It's for our family – for Mother and Father as well. We're in with you on this.”

Karl nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, grateful to have his sister as an ally, even though she did not agree with his tactics. That was a tribute to their devotion to one another. It also added to the burden of responsibility. And Karl felt that resting even more heavily on his shoulders. He had put the wheels in motion and now he had nothing to do but stand aside and wait for events to unfold. March 21 – that was the day that Theo had said he would return. It was not that far away, and yet it seemed out of reach, as distant as the paintings themselves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Prague, March 16, 1990

THE MOST IMPORTANT thing for Theo to do while in Prague was to go about his business as usual, and not to dwell too much on the four paintings. It was only when one broke with routine that the secret police and their goons became suspicious. Theo was here in Prague to buy art, and that's what he intended and needed to do. On the day of his visit to meet with the old man who would build his transport tubes, Theo had also made arrangements to meet with several families in the city. Over the last two years, he had cultivated a list of contacts here in the arts community. It hadn't been difficult. He had simply put out the message that he was interested in purchasing art, and those in that circle had responded. This trip was no different. Prior to leaving Toronto, Theo had circulated letters to his arts colleagues, informing them that he would be in Prague for a week and wanted to meet with private citizens with art to sell. A number of contacts had responded and Theo's list of potential clients had grown.

His first stop was at the home of a wealthy family who lived in the Nové
or New Town, district of Prague. The name was somewhat misleading. The area, close to Wenceslas Square, had actually been established in the fourteenth century, and was home to a diverse collection of luxurious homes, cafés, and shops. Theo parked his car in front of an old, impressive brick building and walked up the stone steps to the front door. He grasped the brass knocker and tapped lightly on the door. Hearing no sounds on the other side, he knocked again, louder this time. There were muffled footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it opened to reveal a middle-aged woman, elegantly dressed and nervously smoking a cigarette that dangled from her jewel-encrusted hand. Theo introduced himself, and she moved aside to allow him to enter. He stepped into a large, tiled entrance hall. Classical music played in the background. A crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling high above Theo's head. A large circular staircase faced him, secured by an ornately sculpted banister. The home reeked of wealth, an atmosphere that Theo was accustomed to. The woman had been joined by her husband and they led Theo to an adjoining sitting room where high windows were topped by smooth stone lintels. The walls here were covered in paintings of every size and style, an impressive array of watercolors, oils, and pencil drawings.

“We're trying to liquidate some assets,” the man explained.

Theo didn't ask why. It wasn't his concern, and, in truth, he didn't really care about this family's motivation to sell their artwork. Their wealth identified them as loyal Communists in the inner circle, probably close to government officials. But he knew that families like this one were always desperate for more money, always looking for ways to improve their lot in life and climb even higher on the social ladder. Greed ran rampant among the wealthy in Prague. They wanted newer cars, bigger homes, and more possessions. In this sitting room alone, Theo noted the presence of Baroque furniture, crystal vases, and fine art that would impress a museum. But for families like this one, Theo knew, it would never be enough. And he could offer some cash to supplement their bank account and enhance their already excessive lifestyles.

“We're told that you have
connections
– a way to help us sell some of our art,” the man continued. His wife remained silent, smoking furiously and watching the exchange from one side of the room.

At that, Theo smiled broadly. “I'm delighted to help you,” he said warmly. “You must have so much on your mind these days. Why bother with government bureaucracy when I can take care of that for you?”

The man nodded enthusiastically, taken with Theo's assurances. “They do make it difficult at times, don't they?” he asked. “All that red tape, just to sell our own paintings abroad. We're desperate to buy a new car and we're having some difficulty raising the cash. Foreign cars are so bloody expensive and impossible to come by,” he offered by way of meager explanation. At the time, there was only one company in Prague that could arrange for the import and sale of foreign, usually German, automobiles. A Mercedes-Benz was a highly coveted possession and a mark of wealth and position.

“And that's why I'm here,” continued Theo. “I'm your middle man, if you will. I'll take the paintings off your hands and pay you a fair price to do so. It's as simple as that.” He glanced over at the woman, who nodded gratefully and then went back to her cigarette, which was by now almost entirely consumed in ash. “Besides, I'm actually doing you a favor by buying your artwork,” he continued as he gestured around the room. “Once these artists are listed in the catalogues of art houses around the world, the value of these paintings and the others that you have will only increase. So, over time, the worth of your estate will continue to rise.”

With that, Theo went to work. He approached the walls, scrutinizing each painting, straining to see the artist and year that the work had been done. Sketches and watercolors were quickly rejected in favor of the oils. And only specific ones were on Theo's radar screen. He paused in front a painting, dated 1750, of a nymph-like woman lounging in a garden. The painter was German. This one would do, he thought, and so would several paintings by Czech artists of ladies and gentlemen socializing in various pastoral settings. There was a painted view of Venice from the same time period, as well as one by another Czech painter from the early nineteenth century. This one was more architectural; straight lines had supplanted the sensual shapes of the previous time period. There were several paintings of Christ and his disciples that Theo walked right by. He dismissed anything that was religious, having learned that these were less likely to sell to his Canadian clientele. He worked quickly, indicating with a nod of his head whether or not he wanted to consider a piece. By the time he had finished examining the walls of the room, he had selected half a dozen works. Each was of moderate size, dated back to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and was painted by an artist that Theo knew would pass the inspection at the National Gallery. Finally, he turned to face the couple who stood anxiously awaiting his decision.