Into the Lion's Den (26 page)

“Choose better your friends next time. If you ever need a lawyer or want to talk, you can do it with me.

I'll give you my card. Perhaps you need to, if you went to visit his grave yesterday.”

Why that French was looking at me? Mind your own business! “Yes, I miss him and I wanted to see him
and my mother. There were some flowers at her grave but nothing by his. I believe she had still some old aunts and
someone must have left some daisies. This is childish, but I left him a letter too. I visited him a year ago when I was
for the first time in Paris, but it was so shocking for me to be there, that I only left the flowers. I guess that when I
read his name on the stone, I realised that it was true and he was not coming back.”

“I really would like to see your material, Guntram. Perhaps you could show me what you have at home.

We have to return before Malchenko raids the police station.”

“I saved my skin from the police but Constantin will kill me when he hears that Federico got me into a
drug mess.”

“You did nothing wrong and they have nothing against you.”

“I can't leave the country,” I pointed out.

“I'll speak with the judge and there will be no problem.”

“Thank you. I can only pay you with paintings.”

“They will be much appreciated, child. More than you can imagine,” he said thoughtfully. The
Frenchman was still listening to our conversation and I was feeling very uncomfortable but somehow he looked
familiar, as if I would have seen him before.

He brought me back home and spoke for a long time with Boris. He's not happy at all but he's not cross
at me. I don't know what's wrong with him. It wasn't exactly my fault! Lefèbre forbade me to speak with any member
of Federico's family and was very happy to get several of my drawings. I'll send him an oil painting from London.

January 6th

I can return to London. I'm cleared of whatever they were trying to frame me. Constantin is very upset
about the whole mess and he's right. I should have paid more attention to his words. I'll do what he tells me in the
future. He's very intelligent and knew that Fefo would get me into trouble once more.

The only positive thing of this nightmare is that I met one of my father's friends.

May 23rd, 2004

The special project on English Renaissance painters was proving to be a difficult one, but Guntram and his team mate, Anne, were doing their best to gather the information and organise the paper due in two week’s time.

After working for several hours, they could distribute the tasks and texts and decided to go for a coffee to the University's cafeteria.

In the middle of his attack on a nut muffin, Guntram heard a very familiar voice yelling from the other side of the bar “Guti!” at the top of their lungs. “It can't be you!” He lifted his gaze from the textbook he was distractedly looking and saw one of his former classmates from Argentina briskly walking toward him.

“Juan!” Guntram also shouted, not believing his eyes and giving him a big embrace and almost bending under the brutal pats from his friend.

“What are you doing in London? I thought you were in Argentina!”

“I live here since 2002,” Guntram said. “What are you doing here? Were you not in Architecture?”

“I came to use the library; a paper for historical architecture, something about William Morris.”

“We also have troubles of our own. Anne, may I introduce you an old friend of mine? Juan Dollenberg.”

“Hello, Juan,” She greeted him briefly. “Nice to meet you. Guntram, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“All right, thank you for your help,” Guntram answered, wondering why she had disappeared so fast.

“All of them run when they see a nice German Gaucho,” Juan sighed. “Were you not in Economics? I never heard anything more about you since we finished school.”

“I did part of the introductory course and then changed to Art History. Here at UCL. I'm on the second year.”

“That's surprising, but logical. You were always drawing and doing our homework for papers and pencils,” Juan chuckled. “None of the boys has any fresh news about you, since a year or so.”

“We stopped writing. I'm not living in Argentina any longer and when you're abroad the best is to sever all ties with the past. I suffered a lot from homesickness and decided to focus on my studies and painting. Do you know I'm going to have an exhibition this June?”

“No, no idea. That's great. Where?”

“It's a gallery in Mayfair, Robertson's.” Guntram sat down and Juan did the same, leaving his laptop's bag on the floor. “I still speak with Father Patricio and my old neighbour, but no one else. I fought with Federico when I came here, in 2002, because he didn't like my choice of lifestyle. We spoke again last December, but he stood me up in Paris. Since then, I decided to concentrate in what I have here. No one from the school would really understand me and I don't want to fight with them.”

“Why? That you paint is what we all expected you would do. Heck! I remember now that someone wanted to buy one of your paintings. My sister-in-law sold several watercolours to a Russian! He was convinced you had a lot of talent.”

“I live with the Russian,” Guntram articulated the words very softly and slowly, not looking at his friend in the eyes. He took a sip of his cold coffee to shake off the nervousness.

“You share a flat?”

“Not really, he has a house. I live with him. He's my boyfriend.”

“Wow,” Juan said in total shock. “I mean, it's not what I expected to hear. Wow!”

“This is why I fought with Fefo. He never understood it and we had troubles in Paris. I still don't understand what happened there.”

“YOU DONT KNOW?” Juan shouted and looked at Guntram petrified how he was rowing the coffee in the plastic cup.

“I was there, but I had nothing to do with it. One day before Christmas he called me here and asked me to visit him in Paris. I went there and he left me for two French girls. The next day the police came and almost accused me of drug trafficking because Fefo had told them I had supplied him some drugs. My lawyer advised me against speaking with him.”

“Federico died in March, Guntram,” Juan said very solemnly. “In a French prison. He was awaiting trial.”

“No, what he had was only for consumption! Nothing big. That's was the police told me! This is not possible!” Guntram said, feeling an oppression in his chest. He fought to keep his calm but it was useless. He covered his eyes, squeezing them to prevent the tears from falling down.

“I thought you knew. I don't know the details, but it was a fight between many interns and he got stabbed. His family took him back to Argentina. The whole class but us went to his memorial service. We were shocked that you were not there. You were always risking your neck for him.”

Guntram took his handkerchief from his pocked and rubbed his eyes to stop the tears.

“Do you want a coffee? Shit! I'm an idiot!” Juan cursed himself, taking his friend's hand in a futile effort to provide some comfort. “I swear I thought you knew. Nobody wrote you?”

“No one at all,” Guntram whispered. “I don't understand why this happened. He told me he was working for a senator; that he wanted to stop getting into messes and start to be decent. He had no need to sell drugs. He had a lot of money.”

“Guntram, he was providing them back in school. I'm not surprised this happened. This is why my brother Pablo didn't let me speak with him. It's a miracle you didn't get in the middle. His group of friends was always into this shit. Coco told me once that he and Mariano were nightclubbing with them and they were surrounded by older men and into heavy stuff.” Juan said at the same time he sniffed and touched his nose, raising his right eyebrow.

“Fefo was never into this! I know him!”

“Guti, you never realised it because you were living in a world of your own. We all knew about it.”

“I can't believe it. Is it true? Is it not a joke?”

“Yes, it's real. On March twelfth but I'm not sure about the date. I didn't go as I have a job here and couldn't miss it. We sold our properties in Argentina and moved here. My brother works in an insurance company and you should meet my nephew, Juan Ignacio. He's two years old and a very nice little fellow. He's always into some mischief!” Juan decided to switch the topic. “I have pictures of him.”

“I'm glad for you,” Guntram said automatically, unable to believe that Fefo was dead. He remained sitting there while his friend talked about his life in London. He felt worse and worse and had to ask Juan to be excused because he needed to be alone.

Guntram left the building walking like a zombie to be nearly run over by a car, too stunned to know where he was going. Two streets away from the university, a large BMW stopped next to him and Yuri ordered him to get inside the car. The boy looked at him as he didn't know the man and stood motionless, not hearing the other cars blaring their horns at the BMW.

“Get in! Now!” Yuri roared once more and Guntram seemed to return to his senses. He opened the passenger's door and sat, hugging his backpack, deathly pale and panting. “What the fuck did you take, boy?”

“Nothing. Fefo is dead since two months and I didn't know it,” Guntram whispered and started to sob uncontrollably.

'Fuck! He knows about the little job. Massaiev has to fix this one.' “Guntram, that boy tried to frame you in a drugs case!”

“He was my best friend,” the youth whispered with his eyes fixed on the board.

“Best friends don't rat you out.”

But Guntram didn't hear him as he was now openly crying. Yuri decided to ignore him and drive.

“One of his friends from Argentina is dead. In France,” Yuri answered with a smirk. “He does not stop.

Give him something for the nerves. The boss arrives tonight.”

Guntram only saw Massaiev and clutched to his neck, crying louder than before, burying his face in the broad shoulder, mumbling something like “it's my fault! I should have dragged him to that café!”

'Great, he's having a nervous breakdown and Repin arrives tonight. I'm supposed to have him ready for going out at 8 p.m. His eyes are going to be red. Shit!' “Rimsky, get a tea for him. I'll take him to his bedroom.”

“Of course, give him something,” the bodyguard said in Russian.

“Come, child, you have to calm yourself down and tell me what happened. I don't understand a single word,” Mikhail Massaiev used a fatherly voice, hoping that this would relax the boy before resorting to tranquillizers.

'I never had to use them with him, and I don't want to start now.' The man had to drag the boy over the stairs as he was only crying and crying.

Once inside the bedroom, Mikhail realised that there was no way he was going to stop the weeping unless he used a chemical solution. 'He's too crazy to go out tonight. Damn! I'll try to get him to sleep an hour and maybe he's less crazy.' Without saying a word, he pulled from Guntram's clothes and managed to get him inside his pyjamas and under the covers.

Some minutes later, a discreet knock on the door announced Yuri with the tea and an eye drops bottle in hand. “Collyrium. Helps a lot against the red eyes,” he shrugged.

“Stay with him for a while. I'll get something for him.”

“You do it. Repin wants him in elegant sport at 9 p.m. at the VIP's of “The Lancet” Dinner and meeting with Oblomov, his wife, the official and Malchenko's wife too.”

“Fuck!” Massaiev cursed his bad luck. Of all days, his boss had chosen this one to take Guntram out for dinner with his relatives. 'They all like him and certainly the boss has decided to show Olga's replacement to the women. He has to be in his best behaviour!' He entered in his room and examined many different boxes. 'No, all this is too strong for him. Only a mild sedative. He needs to sleep a little and then, I have to work on it. It's only 5 o'clock.'

Mikhail returned to the room where Guntram was sobbing in the bed, already totally exhausted from the crying, with Yuri sitting next to him and speaking softly in Spanish, doing his best to calm him down. One look from him, and the Russian vacated the place for the French. Massaiev sat next to Guntram and petted his back several times before turning him around and sitting him against the headboard. “Take this and you'll feel better.”

“What's this?”

“Just an aspirin for the headache.” Massaiev said and Guntram drowned the pill with the glass of water Yuri handed him. “Now, you must try to rest a little. I'll stay with you.”

“He's dead, Mikhail!”

“I know, but you can do nothing about it, my child. Fate always reaches us no matter where we are. You should rest now. It was a great shock for you.”

“How could this happen?”

“I don't know, my child. Was he not in prison?”

“I guess so, Juan told me he was stabbed. Where were the guards? Why was he still there?”

“I have no answers for you. Now, try to sleep till 7:30. I'll wake you up. Mr. Repin will be here tonight and he wants to see you. He missed you so much and you want to look nice for him. He was for two weeks away, working to the point of exhaustion and he deserves your support. Calm yourself down.”

“Sure, it's time Tatiana knows him and Laura also wants to. You have been living with him for over a year now. It's a miracle the boy has such patience with you. If he were a girl, I will tell you to divorce and marry him.”

“Fortunately, he's not. You know my tastes and Guntram is one of the best things that ever happened to me. Had it not been for you…”

“You would be still jumping around and driving us all crazy. Specially Massaiev. Does he still get the same money? He works almost nothing nowadays.” Oblomov chuckled.