The Art of Secrets (9 page)

Early on SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, in a plush living room that overlooks the park,

Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,

removes his eyeglasses before speaking to a Chicago police detective.

Yes, of course, I understand why you must interrogate me about this theft. Sit down, please. I will tell you all I know.

For me, yesterday was a very long day at the factory. Boss shouting nonsense from his stool. Plus, the snowstorm—thick snow that trapped all the cars in their parking spots—this made the driving difficult. When I finally got home, my wife, Khawla, told me that I should let neither work nor snow affect my mood. Easy for her. She does not deal with snow when she does not want to. I do not like when my wife tells me how to feel.

Even before I removed my coat, the phone rang. I answered, and when I heard the voice of the principal from the school, I was not pleased.

Detective, I will tell you something: I do not enjoy this woman. After the fire, when the school contacted us about offering this temporary residence, Principal Stickman had stressed what a “fortunate opportunity” it would be for us to stay here. How “lucky” we were—“people like you,” she said—to be able to live in these luxurious accommodations. “But only temporarily,” she stressed, again and again.

I feel “lucky” when I do not have to deal with people like this woman, the way Khawla does not have to deal with snow.

Still, I am a respectful man, you understand? I said, “Good evening, Dr. Stickman. How may I help you?”

She said, “This is
not
a good evening, I am afraid.” This woman's tone was so stern, so scolding, that I first wondered if perhaps Saba had misbehaved in a class.

“What has happened?” I asked, and she told me plainly that the school had lost the Darger artwork. Or, not
lost
it, she made that clear—but it was missing. She told me, “It seems to have been removed from the gymnasium sometime this afternoon.”

“Removed,” I repeated.

“Taken.
Gone
,” she said, without purpose. “Naturally, we asked Wendy Pinch, our PE teacher, but she assures us that she did not see anyone remove the Darger album from the gymnasium.”

Detective, I felt such a shock. I let my eyes roam all around the kitchen, resting there at the gas stove, then climbing up to the ceiling molding, over to that elegant pendant light fixture, and then across the room to my wife's concerned face, which surely mirrored mine.

“This is a mystery,” I told the principal.

She said, “Coach Pinch claims she did not see
anyone
looking at the artwork today. This is unusual, because, as you know, the art has generated a good amount of interest.”

I listened, letting the gravity of this news settle in my mind.

The principal said, very slowly, as if I were mentally impaired, “Mr. Khan, if we do not have the artwork, we cannot sell it at a big auction.”

“This seems logical,” I said. “Without this artwork, there would be no need for a
big
auction at all.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Of course, as soon as we have recovered the artwork, we may proceed with the event.”

I wondered, was this woman suggesting that I, or someone in my family, had taken the artwork? As if we were
imbeciles
who were too impatient to wait for it to be sold? Did she expect me now to return the artwork so the “big auction” could proceed?

To be polite, I simply agreed that yes, we looked forward to the return of the artwork, too, and the auction. I believed it was time to end the conversation.

Instead, this woman told me, “Mr. Khan, as you know, many people in our community have worked together to help you and your family in your time of need. We've all sacrificed.”

“And we are grateful to you,” I said, allowing this lie to escape my lips. I reminded her that the efforts had led to some very positive publicity for the school, and she admitted that it had. I said, “So it seems that everybody wins. . . .”

“Precisely,” she said. “And isn't that nice?”

“Until now,” I added.

“Mr. Khan, this community has gone beyond the call of duty to help. Moving forward, I hope you will judge us based on the remarkable generosity of our intentions, rather than on today's unfortunate turn of events . . . which, you must admit, hardly could have been expected.”

“Hardly,” I said. “I trust you will contact us with better news soon.”

We ended the call.

My wife stood at the countertop, preparing chicken curry and biryani rice. She stirred the food and said, without emotion, “The artwork is gone.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Stolen?” she said, looking at me.

“So it seems.”

Slowly, my wife's lips spread into a confident smile. She stood straight on two feet and turned back to preparing our supper. “The police will find the person who stole it. The art will be returned. God will help us.”

“God always provides,” I said.

“Maybe not soon,” she said, “but it will be returned. Someday. God's angels put that artwork into our lives, and it belongs to us. To our future.”

I nodded, but secretly I was fearful.

Detective, to be clear, I found the very notion of the Darger pictures to be ridiculous. This is the work of a troubled mind. But God and His angels have placed this opportunity in our path, so it was clear He approves of our using this art to recover from the fire. My wife is correct. That artwork now belongs to us—to our lives, and our future.

What do you mean, God also put the fire into our lives? That is not true! The fire was
not
the work of God, but the work of the enemy of God. There are dark forces in this world, surely you know that.

We are counting on you to solve this crime. You and your men must identify the thief, or thieves, and return the art in time for the auction. If we do not sell it, we cannot remain in this apartment. On the wages I earn at the factory, I could never afford this rent. Moreover, if we go and try to rent an apartment in the old community, a landlord might learn about the fire and deny us a lease. Landlords may say my family is too much of a risk. Neighbors may complain about the potential danger.

Arson.
Someone intentionally set that fire, while my family was at Saba's tennis match. We still do not understand how the fire started, or why someone would destroy our home. And if we do not understand why it happened once, how can we truthfully say it will not happen again?

America, this fabled land of opportunities. Tell me, what opportunities do we have now?

On MONDAY, DECEMBER 3, even before the first bell of the day,

Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,

eagerly welcomes the
Tribune
reporter back to her office
.

Good morning! Thanks for coming right over. I realize you must be busy covering much more important stories.

Oh, don't worry about the silly rug. Just make yourself comfortable.

Now listen, as you cover this new development
,
I wanted us to touch base. While one unfortunate event has taken place on this property, we must agree that the matter is not “school related,” so to speak. This is one family's private matter concerning a piece of
art
. And really I should use quotes around the word “art.” Mr. Delacroix, our art teacher, may beg to differ. The whole art world may disagree, but—good, you're smiling. So we do see eye-to-eye on that matter. Not exactly something
you'd
like to see hanging above the family room sofa either, ha!

We also agree, I hope, that the school is not responsible for what has happened. That can't be your story angle. This problem does not concern academics or curriculum, nor is it in any way reflective of my administration. In this case—which is not really a
case
, of course—the school is merely the setting. The school is not a criminal. I mean, for goodness sake, when a bank gets robbed, the police don't run off and arrest the mayor, do they?

Now don't take this personally
,
but there is a tiny part of me that blames the media. Oh my gosh, you people sometimes blow things
way the heck
out of proportion. It happens all the time. You make lurid stereotypes out of ordinary students. Ordinary
average
students, if you want to know the truth.

The heroic Kevin and Kendra, the S'wonderful Spoons! And the poor Khans, the calamitous Khans, “born under a bad star.” How ridiculous to conclude that some people are heroes and others victims—that it's ever that simple.

Besides, this is no longer a story about one or two students, or one family. This theft affects us all, the whole community.
We're all victims now.

Hey, maybe that's your headline.

But is it even possible for you, or for anyone from the outside, to fully understand why things have happened as they have, when we struggle with the basic questions ourselves?

Let me tell you something. I am sometimes required to make difficult phone calls to parents. It is one of the least pleasant duties of my position. Cheating, plagiarism, fighting, these cases cross my desk all too often. In fact, take a look at this.

[She removes a leather-bound tome, the size of a telephone book, from a shelf.]

This manual provides guidelines for administrators to use when making such calls. Look, I mean, it's unintentionally hilarious; one chapter includes actual
telephone scripts
to follow when sharing unpleasant news with parents.

There is, of course, no script in this whole book to use when telling an immigrant father, whose home has been lost in a fire, that valuable artwork, which is to be sold at auction to benefit him and his family, has gone missing.

Exactly. None of these scripts are even close!

I shouldn't laugh. The call to the Khans was awful to make. I was delivering news that held dire consequences for every member of that family. As gently as I could, using my own words, I explained the situation. I needed him to understand, to alter his own expectations about what the future now promised. I told him, “Mr. Khan, if we do not have the artwork, we cannot sell it at a big auction.”

To be honest, this Khan man was very rude and quite short. As if he blamed me! Who can say what causes people to behave they way they do?

But listen, I don't wish those Khans any ill will whatsoever. And let me stress something else. No one is more determined than I am to recover that stolen artwork. After all, I have a personal interest in seeing those Darger paintings sold at the school auction.

You see, when we hired the auctioneers, we wrote a special contract. As their fee, the auctioneers will take ten percent of the gross sales. Standard practice. It requires a lot of time to prepare an auction and to pay the auctioneer. These people are professionals, especially the ones you want for an event of this caliber, and they deserve to be compensated for their hard work and expertise.

Also standard: As compensation to the school for hosting the event, we will take ten percent, too. Yes,
standard—
just as we take a percentage of proceeds from school plays and basketball games. After all, if we need to open the school on a Saturday in December, that means paying for utilities and security, et cetera. Come look at my utility bills sometime. You'll see why we can't give anything away for free.

In this case, if the paintings fetched what the expert predicted, that might get me—more accurately, might get the school—well, about fifty or sixty thousand dollars, at least.

Mind you, the Khans still stand to gain eighty percent of the money raised at the auction. Not bad, considering . . . I mean, to be frank, Mr. Khan did not find the art, he was not storing the art, he didn't insure the art. As far as I know, he hasn't even
seen
the art! That's a cozy deal, if you ask me.

But without the art? Well, there is no benefit to losing it, if that's what you're hinting at. What could any of us gain from that?

For all of us, it is essential to recover those paintings before the big day. That's not even two weeks away. We have placed this matter into the capable hands of our city's law enforcement.

That same morning, having announced she is “too upset” to go to school,

Saba Khan, sophomore,

reaches for her notebook in an attempt to manage her anxiety.

Guess what? Your old buddy, the SW, just called. She actually asked me what was “top of mind.” Seriously, what does she think is top of mind? Top, bottom + middle, too. Oh man +
that
, my 70-page, college-ruled friend, is just one of the many reasons there was no way I was going to school today.

For starters (+ maybe you don't know this, you being a notebook), on mornings like today, the wind off Lake Michigan will burn your skin off if you're not careful. Is it possible that, over generations, locals don't even feel it anymore? My boy Steve can walk around Chicago on the coldest days without a hat or coat. Just a big hooded sweatshirt, that's all he needs.

Meanwhile, me? I wear a donated coat. Huge, puffy—metallic blue. It makes me look like a V W Beetle. But when I'm standing at the bus stop on cold mornings, I don't mind at all, because I'm a warm V W Beetle.

Even in that toasty coat, I could not face going to school today. I'm not ready for another round (quite so soon) of stares from everyone there. Stares of pity + curiosity + suspicion. Thanks, but no. I can only handle pitying stares from people who actually know me.

Yesterday I lied—the biggest lie that ever came out of my mouth. I told Ammi + Papa that I was meeting up with a study group. For once, they didn't ask questions. They have worries of their own. Maybe they were relieved that I was able to focus on schoolwork at all.

A block away from our high-rise, Steve was waiting next to his car, wearing nothing heavier than that goofy sweatshirt. It was way too cold to talk outside, so we jumped in the car to escape the wind.

I should pause to clarify (in case disaster strikes + Ammi ever finds this) (*shudders*), nothing physical is going on between Steve + me. Nothing
could
go on. I have zero interest in fooling around with Steve + less than zero interest in marrying him. Obviously I want to marry a Muslim. But that's a long way off, after college. In the meantime, what? No attention from boys, no companionship? While I'm not proud of lying, I see nothing wrong with chastely spending time with a flirty male classmate if/when the opportunity presents itself.

Still, as we buckled our seatbelts, I was suddenly + intensely aware of being alone in the car with Steve, unsupervised. I never would have attempted this in the old neighborhood, where people would leap, in a giddy wolf pack, to the wrong conclusion. It didn't matter that there was so often a difference between what something looked like + what something truly was. What mattered was how the thing looked. On this street, no one would ever recognize or judge me, but that didn't make the situation feel any more normal.

Maybe this anxiety was written on my face, because the 1st thing Steve suggested was that we get my mind off the robbery by doing “something far, far away from your real life.”

I said that sounded perfect + he said, “OK . . . Art Institute?”

I thought he was joking, so I was like, “Sure, why not?” Before I knew it, we were speeding down Lake Shore Drive toward the museum. How perfectly
insane
to visit a place filled with valuable art, when the 1 piece of valuable art that might have changed my own life has been jacked. It wasn't until we arrived at Millennium Park, at the entrance to the museum parking garage, that I lifted my hands in protest: “Stop!” No way was I going in. Among other things, it was too risky, too public.

He said there was this “awesome little spot” he knew inside.

I was like, “Steve,
seriously
. No, no, no.”

There is something irresistible about a boy who is flexible + open to suggestions. Steve made a U-turn + then we were driving north on Michigan Avenue toward anywhere. We passed all the glassy expensive stores near Water Tower. Despite the demonic wind, the sidewalks were jammed with tourists carrying holiday shopping bags. We reached the park at North Avenue + Steve turned west, away from the lake, + continued all the way through Old Town. When we drove by the gates of Highsmith's campus, I closed my eyes for a few seconds, hoping maybe I could block that negative drama from my thoughts if I didn't actually look at it.

Sitting like that, with my eyes shut, the distinct aroma of Steve's car made itself apparent. Cheap maple syrup, eggs, sausage. I asked him: “So what's with the fragrance in here? Did you eat breakfast in the car before you picked me up?”

He got this adorable, embarrassed smile. “No . . .”

“Weird,” I said. “I swear someone's been chowing down in here.”

“Well, I mean, I do stop at Mickey D's most mornings during the week, before school. Or sometimes after practice . . . Whenever I see a drive-thru, really, that's an excellent clue for me to grab something.”

So then I was teasing him + he got all defensive, laughing. “What can I say? Look at me. A guy my size needs to eat!”

I told him something hot to drink sounded pretty good to
me
right then + he nodded. “Whatever you want,” he said. Which was exactly what I wanted to hear.

He drove farther west + we finally stopped in a neighborhood I didn't know at all. A mix of old brick warehouses, grungy thrift shops with metal security doors + some trendy newer places too. Steve parked + fed the meter. We found a diner that was decorated in a neon-retro style, blue plastic upholstery in the booths, the Beach Boys harmonizing on the jukebox. Hideous, but warm.

The place was empty. Steve ordered at the counter. I slid into a booth in the back + slipped out of my puffy coat. 1 minute later, Steve joined me with the drinks: hot tea served old-style, vintage cups + saucers. He sat next to me. I have to admit, sitting so close to him felt good, safe. The boy is all leg, his thighs like planks of wood covered in denim. Steve is the only person at school who makes me feel protected without also making me feel like a victim.

He put his arm around me, a bit shyly. I told him it was fine.

Then he stroked my hair a little, told me it felt like silk. He said, “Sorry, I just wanted to see what it felt like.”

“It's OK,” I said. It did feel nice to have his fingers touching my hair. Surprisingly, it didn't feel awkward. It felt tender, respectful.

Steve whispered, “You were right. This is way better than looking at some old paintings in the museum.”

The tea, along with his body so close, helped me warm up, but my thoughts wandered a bit. As much as I like being with Steve, a part of me wanted to be out knocking on doors, picking up clues, searching for a thief.

Pushing his hand away from my hair, I told him that there was one important thing I needed to know + I didn't want him making jokes.

Listening, he took a deep breath. He jumped out of the booth, slid into the opposite seat, facing me. He looked distressed. Then he said, all serious: “Saba, I'm not a virgin. I'm sorry if that bothers you.”

OMFG. I nearly died. My face must have turned 30 shades of red. I managed to suppress a whoop of laughter + was like, “
Whoa boy
, that's . . . that's very interesting, thanks. But that's not it.”

He exhaled, as if the subject had been weighing on his mind.

I told him to answer me honestly. “Do you think I stole the paintings? Or my parents did?”

His face expressed nothing but shock. “Of course not! Saba, you're my friend. I mean, you're becoming more than just a friend, in case I haven't been crystal clear.”

“A lot of people must think we took them.”

He said it wasn't true, but I insisted it was. As my words spilled out, I nearly began to cry. “People still think we set the stupid fire ourselves!” I said.

He was so sweet, grabbing my hands. “Where is this coming from? I'm sorry, but you're talking crazy. That doesn't make sense.”

“It totally does! Look at us, we benefitted from the fire. New condo, new clothes. New lives . . .”

Steve said we couldn't have known what would happen. He said, “The auction, the donations, that was all other people, not you. People want to help you. It feels good to help other people.”

I tried to describe my fear that everybody would be judging us—for benefitting from the fire. I worry about backlash. I said to him, “Don't tell me you haven't heard people talking.”

He was quiet for a moment, a trace of sadness creeping into his eyes + I knew I was right.

“Saba, I believe you. Isn't that what matters?”

He was right. It mattered to me, almost more than anything.

To a lot of people, Steve may seem like an arrogant, doofus jock, the kind of guy who only cares about himself. Maybe even I thought so, at first. + yeah, not much earlier, that doofus jock
had
wanted to take me to the art museum. But I know he cares about me. At that moment in the diner, sitting on opposite sides of that booth, all I could think was: This guy's on
my
side. People can surprise you.

We finished the tea, but neither of us was ready to go home. I dropped some tip money on the table + we left. We started down the block, but it was too cold to wander outside, so we ducked into the 1st open storefront we passed. It was a massive Goodwill store, packed with merchandise. It was so cold in there that the guy working the register was wearing a coat. The air smelled foul, a combination of leather + sweat, like the inside of an old lady's shoe. It must be rank in summer. The floors were dirty + the aisles were tight to navigate. Holding hands, Steve + I passed a mountain of stiff, twisted purses, racks + racks of awful clothes + enough furniture to fill a dozen apartments. It took me a few seconds to recognize the irony: This was only a bigger, sadder version of all the donated stuff in the school gym. The store made me feel crabby. I might have insisted we leave, but it was freezing outside + at least Steve and I were together.

“Actually, not all of this is terrible,” he said. “Maybe your family could use some of this.”

“Steve, that's not the way to solve my problem, OK? We don't want some stranger's dead grandmother's useless junk.” Why was I barking at him? Not attractive.

We kept wandering. There were boxes of ancient paper from one of the local mills, white butcher paper turned yellow + a long wall of used books, most of them 50¢. In one corner, we found a pile of old film magazines. I flipped through an issue. Movie stars from the 1940s, posing in swimsuits like some hot stuff. One of the ads featured a little girl with cute blonde curls. The girl sat with her elbows on the kitchen table, + watched her mother decorate a cake. Staring at the ad, I realized I'd seen that innocent face before.

For once, Steve seemed to read my mind. “Hey,” he said, all playful, “in case the artwork isn't found, do you want me to draw some pictures for you? If I traced this, it would look just like a Henry Darger.”

“No, it wouldn't,” I said. “But someone else could, maybe.”

“I'll show you, if I tried really hard to imitate it—”

“I don't
want
any fake artwork. I don't even want the
real
Darger stuff. I only want to
sell
them so my family can finally get a break.” I closed the magazine + tossed it back into the pile. I felt generally angry, but it wasn't fair to take it out on Steve.

I was like, “Dude, I should warn you. I might be going crazy. We need to figure out who jacked that artwork.”

His smile was so confident. “We will! We have 2 whole weeks.”

That wasn't exactly true, I realized, and the thought cheered me. The school event may be in just under 2 weeks, but even if the art is found after that, we can still sell it. Even if it turns up 6 months from now.

Steve said, “The art will be found. I promise. I will help you.”

I leaned into his chest, letting his heavy plank-arms surround me. “Thank you for saying that. I know you mean it + it makes me feel better.”

2 seconds later, I wriggled out of the embrace. I didn't want to tease Steve, or mislead him. Plus, I don't care who you are or how bad you feel: No one wants to hug a boy in a depressing thrift store that stinks like an old lady's shoe.