Into the Lion's Den (6 page)

“I'm sorry to disturb you Constantin, but I wanted to say good-bye before I leave,” Guntram said timidly from the door without entering the dinning room.

“Come, have something for breakfast with us. You're already late.”

“No, thank you. I go to work now or he will make me double the shift for a whole week.”

“Is that legal?” Constantin asked while Oblomov smirked.

“In a twenty percent unemployment country, yes it is.”

“Come to have dinner with me when you're finished. Oblomov still has to choose what he likes best.”

“Impressive job, boy. What are you going to use? Watercolours?”

“No, pastels. I have paper for that, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“Your working day is lost, boy. Stay here and finish your work. No one will bother you.”

“I can't, I'll finish it in the night. I think I could have it ready for Tuesday if you leave on Wednesday.”

“Thank you, Guntram. Do you need a lift? My chauffeur is doing nothing at the moment.”

“No, thank you. I'll take the bus. Good-bye, Constantin.”

“At seven here, Guntram,” he only said, boring holes with his gaze into the lad's face.

Martin, the manager, went ballistic when he saw Guntram coming in so late. “You start at 9:00 and do you dare to show your sorry face at 11:30? You're recovering those extra hours. Today you go at 8:00 and be glad I don't fire you!” he shouted before leaving the bar counter and returning to his office.

Guntram sighed and picked up a rag and started to dry glasses and fill the small complimentary dishes. “Till eight? That's sound like four hours more to me,” Luis mumbled. “Motherfucker. See what you get for being the Employee of the Month? Nothing. Only shit.”

“Could have been worse.”

“Sure!”

At eight, Guntram was almost dead on his feet after working nonstop the whole day, with only one brief break to eat a sandwich standing in the kitchen. His left wrist was throbbing as he had had to fill in for Verónica because she had left at 2:00 with Martin to an unknown destination. He felt like dying when he saw a well known dark and tall Russian man, sitting at a table in his side. Constantin looked very upset.

“Good evening sir. What can I bring you?” he asked very mortified.

“I believe I've said at seven, Guntram. I don't like to be kept waiting.”

“I'm very sorry I couldn't cancel the appointment because I don't have your phone number or e-mail. I didn't know how to warn you.”

“In that case, you can still make it up to me. Leave your apron and we go,” Constantin replied partly appeased.

“I can't leave right now. I still have to work. I'm sorry.”

“What a lousy service we have in here!” A well known voice yelled from a nearby table, making Guntram flinch, sigh and close his eyes. To have Federico Martiarena Alvear and his group of friends was 'the cherry on top of the ice cream' he thought. “I'm sorry Mr. Repin, I have to work,” he said hurriedly and dashed to the table filled with three boys and two girls.

“Good evening ladies. Fefo don't do that when I'm with a customer. He could complain to Martin,” he scolded his friend mildly.

“Guntram, I didn't know you were interested in trying some new experiences,” Fefo quipped sarcastically.

“Did you break your hand with your clumsy ministrations and need someone to replace it?”

Guntram was speechless and gaping at him. They had thrown rude words at each other on several occasions, but never something of this calibre: a personal insult. “When you're ready to order, I'll be back,” he fired back, throwing at him a glance of pure hatred, making Federico freeze for a minute.

“The ladies want a cappuccino and we, coffee.”

“Great, I'll bring it in a minute,” Guntram mumbled before going back to the counter to ask for the beverages.

The brief exchange didn't go unnoticed for Constantin even if he couldn't understand a word in Spanish. The punk who had refused so many times to introduce him to his angel was there and meddling in his affairs once more. It was time to get the boy out of this environment. He stood up from his chair and directed decidedly his steps toward the counter where Luis was offering himself to carry the tray. “You can't do anything more with your left hand. Leave the posh assholes to me. I hate their kind.”

“Guntram, it's enough for today. Your shift finished four hours ago and you have work to do at home,”

Constantin interrupted the hushed conversation.

“Constantin, I need this job. I can't leave right now. If I do, I'll be fired instantly.”

“How much do you make in this joint?” the Russian asked with his most derogative voice.

“I beg you pardon? That's private information,” Guntram replied astonished at the other's lack of etiquette for asking such a question.

“Around $975 plus tips?” Guntram gaped at the man like an idiot. “My information is correct, then. A scholarship in my foundation is around
£
2,000 per month plus lodging. So far, Oblomov has paid more than $5,000

for your drawings, but you haven't seen a single cent of that money. I would say that you're losing money with this job. You're carrying weights with your left hand when the doctor forbade you to do so, risking your only capital; your hands.

“Excuse me sir,
£
2,000 is like $3,000?” Luis intervened and Constantin nodded briefly, partly irritated at the older boy's intrusion. “You should get your head examined, Guntram. I know this is your first job and that's why you put up with all the shit from that fascist dwarf called Martin, the friendly slut called Verónica and what many others put you through. Kick their asses too and send them to Hell now and then. I have more than seven years in this shit of a profession because I'm too stupid and illiterate to get something better, but you don't have to cope with it. Get a job in a bank or sit under a tree and make portraits of the tourists! You will be making much more than here. One of my cousins plays the hippy in
Plaza Francia
every weekend since 1986 and gets over $2,000 per month for two days work in a week! Does he have talent? No way, it's rubbish what he draws but the gringos pay because he knows how to rub their egos. He charges them $50 for each picture and they pay gladly because, at home, they would have to pay $100 for the same crap.”

“Sir, that has been the best lecture on modern arts and economy I've heard in many years,” Constantin chuckled.

“Thank you. Go away, Guntram. Finish your thing and tomorrow come to work or don't. Who cares? See if Martin has the balls to fire you and face the hassle of looking for a replacement who can speak two languages, the old ladies love for $975. The world is full of shitty jobs, if you want another one, Guti.”

“Perhaps I could offer you a ‘shitty job’ myself, Mr… call my assistant tomorrow. He will find something according to your abilities. We are planning on overtaking several companies in the energy sector,” Constantin said, handing him a card with his name and Zakharov's number.

“Luis Canclini. Thank you,” he replied, very surprised at the Russian's self confidence.

“We go now, Guntram,” Constantin said, steering the boy by the arm out of the place, his patience over.

The dumbfounded boy stood in the middle of the busy street looking at Constantin in disbelief. “Do you want to dine somewhere or do you prefer my home?”

“I'm going to my own flat, thank you. I have a monster headache,” Guntram said slowly, doing his best to be polite before he would shout and tell the man to piss off for the way he had put him out of his own workplace.

“That's for not eating since yesterday. We dine at my place. You don't look fit enough as to go out tonight.”

“Mr. Repin, I'm sorry if I didn't go back to your house today, but I have a life of my own. Tomorrow, I'll offer my excuses to Martin.”

“For what? The car is here. Get in,” Constantin growled, starting to loose his cool once more, when he saw the big Mercedes stopping in front of them and one of his bodyguards opening the door for him, Guntram looked at him as if he were crazy, but the Russian only pushed him in and said something in his language to the guard.

The boy sat inside the car, furiously, his eyes throwing daggers at Constantin, unimpressed at the display.

“Mr. Repin, tell your driver to let me out on the next corner.”

“We dine and discuss about your future tonight. You can stay at home or my driver will take you to your flat later.”

“Your behaviour is outrageous, sir. There's nothing to discuss for us.”

“I beg to differ, Guntram. This man, Canclini, was right in every word he said. Clever boy, if I might say.

Could work fine for us.”

“Did you really mean it? About a job offer?”

“Of course. The sooner you learn that all my words are true, the better for you. I never bluff or make a threat or promise that I'm not ready to fulfill.”

“He has only a High School degree.”

“Like yourself. Did I ask you for any kind of credentials when I saw your work? No. I looked at your talent and I want that you're properly trained to fulfill your potential to its maximum.”

“I'm no artist. I almost flunk the arts class in school,” Guntram confessed, embarrassed and feeling miserable.

“Why?”

“I didn't want to paint for that teacher. We didn't get along since the first day. She was too chaotic and criticizing me for being too restrained and scholastic. So I sent her to hell till the Headmaster found about my little rebellion and forced me to paint in front of her so she would grade my work. I got four out of ten possible points and I refused to present anything for the International Baccalaureate in Arts because I didn't like the examiner. I went for Chemistry and Physics before going for Arts, just to avoid the stress of an exhibition, doing what they considered to be Art. Do you really think I'm an artist? Are they not supposed to die to show their things? This is only a hobby for me.”

“You still have a long way before you turn into a temperamental artist. Take Xavier Teixeira, one of the many I've sponsored over the years. He studied in Paris with several others. When their scholarship was finished, the foundation organised a collective exhibition for the students. The vernissage night, an American representative from a large oil company, who by the way had many businesses with me, wanted to buy a painting from him. He was not a bad artist but average. Nothing out of the ordinary. The minute he heard that this Texan was there, he shouted that his art would never be sold to a filthy capitalist killing children in Iraq.”

“That must have been bad for you,” Guntram said sympathetically.

“It even gets better. With a cutter he destroyed all his paints before the security guards could have done something!”

“That's a lot of temper.”

“Yes, it was a big scandal. It was in every French newspaper and not
Le Figaro
or
Le
Monde
kind. It was a horrible blow for our foundation's credibility and for all the other artists in that exhibition. None of them got good critics or anything because the press was focused on “Xavier, le Rouge”. Three months later, he organized a new exhibition in a big gallery and had no problems to sell everything to filthy capitalists doing worse things. He used us to get publicity, without caring about his companions. I think none of them has done anything worth mentioning in the past years.”

“That was bad. Where's he now?”

'Floating in the Seine.' “He retired, I think. We are almost there.”

“I really can't stay. I have to work tomorrow and start tonight the painting.”

“Come upstairs with me. I have something for you.”

“What is it?” Guntram asked with true curiosity, his previous anger forgotten with the story.

“Surprise,” Constantin retorted making the boy smile like a very young child.

Guntram was speechless when he saw the huge pencil box. At the beginning he thought it was a pencil box but after a closer examination he realised that those were pastels in the form of pencils. “I've never seen something like this before,” he said in awe, reverently caressing the polished wooden surface.

“They're made in England. I'm told that the quality is very similar to those looking like chalk, but less dirty,”

Constantin explained to him gently.

“They're very beautiful. Where did you get them?”

“London. I ordered one of my secretaries to look for them when I saw you working last night. She sent them along with some papers for me this afternoon.”

“Are they really for me?”

“Try them and finish Oblomov's wife's portrait. He was very impressed with what he saw this morning and it's not easy to impress him.”

“She has very nice features. Her bone structure is very harmonious. She will be still beautiful when she grows older.”

“Perhaps. Let's have dinner, shall we? You must be starving.”

“I don't want to impose myself any further. I should go home.”

“Nonsense, this is your home now and I want that you explain to me later what were you thinking when you threw away that box.”

For the second night, Guntram slept by Constantin's flat, only wondering why the maid had not removed the pyjamas from the previous night. Too tired to think and with his wrist still throbbing, he did his best to ignore the pain and sleep.
Very early in the morning—as he didn't want to miss his work again—Guntram woke up and redressed with yesterday’s clothes, thinking that he should pass briefly by his flat to shower and change before going to work. Today, he was supposed to be there at 8 a.m. and it was only 6:30 a.m. Unsure of what to do, he went to the kitchen to see if there was someone from the service up to leave a message for Constantin.

“Good morning, sir,” a maid greeted him in good English, surprising him a bit.

“Good morning. Do you know if I could leave a note for Mr. Repin? I have to go to work, but I don't want to disturb him.”

“Mr. Repin is up since half an hour ago. His secretary, Mr. Zakharov is working with him in the library. He told me to inform him the minute you were up to have breakfast with you. I'll be right back, sir,” she said so fast that Guntram couldn't stop her before she rushed toward the library, through the large corridor. Sighing, he resigned to another delay in his schedule, but this time he would be firm as the man couldn't manipulate his life in the way he was doing it.