Into the Lion's Den (9 page)

“Times are hard for us. Recession is slowly killing us. The best I could do it a three percent yearly on the appraisal.”

“Such amount does not even cover the risk of leaving the paints here.”

“We would be paying the insurance on the side.”

“Depends on which company you want to use.”

“The one you name, Mr. Repin.”

“Will my paintings be a part of the permanent collection for the next five years?”

“Extendible for another five years if they do well.”

“I'm sure they will. Frida Kahlo and Botero are very sought after artists. Our lawyers will arrange the papers.

I don't like the paintings to be in a bank's vault. Art is to be enjoyed not to be locked away.”

“I'm grateful that the pieces remain here. When Nacho told me that a Russian collector was buying everything I feared the worst. I would have tried to acquire them myself, but they wanted cash rather urgently.”

“I spent all my money for cigarettes for this year. Should be nice till 2002,” Constantin chuckled. “It's been a pleasure meeting you Mr. Bronstein,” Constantin said, rising from his chair,with Guntram mirroring his actions, and extending his right hand.

“Likewise, Mr. Repin. Perhaps we will meet again at an auction in New York.”

“Perhaps.”

“I wondered if our main expert could give you a tour?”

“That's most thoughtful of you, thank you.”

“So you were already selling at such an early age?” Constantin unable to contain the laughter any longer. “Do you say you have no future in the Arts market?”

“Only as a forger,” Guntram mumbled, still embarrassed.

“Normally students trade cigarettes and alcohol, but you wanted pencils?”

“My box was almost empty and my lawyer was giving me a small allowance per month.”

“But the whole set, oil, watercolours, tempera, paper… you forgot the canvases.”

“No, those were included in the painting set for the Art classes, ten per year. I traded with several other boys.”

Guntram confessed.

“It's seems you had a factory there. How many customers?”

“In the last year, it was the whole class; seventeen in total, plus five Art Diplomas at the International Baccalaureate.”

“You said you hated the examiner's views.”

“If you want Pollock, I can make Pollock. If you like Van Arp or Deschamps, I can do it too… but honestly decorating a bloody toilet with Renaissance figures painted in acrylics is too much for my taste. That idiotic woman never realised that I've done everything even if there were several paints from me (good ones) from the children at the slums. There she said that it was too traditional and boring.”

“Did she say exactly boring?”

“No, the full critics was “very academic and traditional, it's like a return to basics. Most shocking,” elegant way to say “boring” The only good teacher I had was Ms. Sunders in the last year. She had been working at Christie's London and immediately realised that we were a bunch of yokels, armed with brushes and gave us an Arts History course.”

“Return to basics doesn't mean boring and academic is not a bad word, Guntram. Enjoy what you do and the rest will come by itself.”

“Why don't you paint?” Guntram asked, shocking Constantin

“No one ever asked me that before. Because I realise I have no talent at all for that. I'm an engineer and a businessman, but I enjoy enormously every time I look at something beautiful. I had the fortune to have enough money as to indulge myself in buying what I love. It's selfish, I know. If I support artists is just to return to Art just a fraction of what I've received in exchange. Have you ever seen a Monet at short distance? I have one in London, it's just a forest, who knows from where and perhaps it was destroyed in a bombing in World War I, but every time I look at it shows me the meaning of beauty and harmony. If any of the hundreds I have supported, achieves such beauty, then my life would have not been in vain, Guntram. Tell me something, when you said Medici what's the first word that comes to your mind?”

“Art patrons, Florence.”

“You see? Can you tell me the difference between Lorenzo and Cosme Medici?”

“Not really. “

“Cosme paid for many of Donatello works and for Fra Angelico. The family extinguished in the XVII century and all the artwork collected over the centuries was donated to the Tuscan State and we can enjoy it at the Ufizzi or the Accademia.”

“I didn't know it.”

“Perhaps the best for you would be to send you to study Arts History. I'm afraid that an Art Academy would counterproductive for you. You know very well what you want to paint and from there you will find your own way.

You need to broaden your sights and improve your education.”

“Boss, it's show time tonight,” Oblomov broke the news and ruined Constantin's idea of dinning again with Guntram, now that the boy was slowly accepting his designs and had proved to be a delicious companion.

“Why?” He growled, making the other man flinch. One word sentences were a bad sign indeed.

“The Super Senator's team. They organized a dinner to see you good-bye in Puerto Madero, and it's with everything,” he put the emphasis on “everything,” slightly rising his right eyebrow.

“I'm not in the mood for it. A dinner will not convince me to do what they want,” Constantin retorted starting to sound upset at the prospect of a full night of talk, cheap looking whores dressed in designer clothes and alcohol and playing the “employee of the month” charade he had started with Oblomov.

“Boss, you have to be a little more charming.”

“I have already dinning plans as tonight is my last night here.”

“Constantin, I should go home, really. I have to wake up early tomorrow and I'm already very tired,” Guntram interfered shyly. Oblomov, realising that he was getting support for his cause, opted to disappear and leave all entirely up to the boy.

“I just invited you, Guntram.”

“It's really not necessary, Constantin. I go now. Politicians are very touchy and they could be nasty to you if you don't attend. Federico's mother will be the first to make your life a living hell.”

“I've seen much worse than her, don't worry.”

“We'll maybe see each other in a few months. Thank you for all what you've done for me.”

“It's my pleasure, Guntram. You deserve it.”

“I didn't mean the scholarship, for listening to me this afternoon. Thank you,” Guntram spoke, keeping his gaze to the floor, only raising it at the last moment, his eyes locked with Constantin's black ones.

The man placed his right hand over Guntram's cheek in a fatherly caress, softly stroking it before he spoke:

“You have a great talent and your father realised it. Achieve it to its best and make him proud,” Constantin said, glad to have found the right button to push the boy in his direction.

“You're right, Constantin. I should give it a try, only for a month.”

“Irina will contact you with the details. Write to me and show me what you're doing. Take care of your hand and don't carry weights.”

“I will,” Guntram smiled and to his shock, Constantin put his arms around him and embraced him 'in a manly way, in a manly way' Guntram repeated several times as his spine became very stiff, but Constantin caressed his back several times, easing the tension he could feel from the boy, who relaxed after four or five strokes, 'like a kitten'

Constantin thought. He firmly clasped the delicate face that was driving him crazy and softly kissed him on the forehead, enjoying the soft whimper from his angel when he removed his lips from his smooth skin.

“We'll see each other. Good-bye, Guntram.”

“Good-bye, Constantin.”

“Yuri will drive you home.”

“Boss, I truly like him. He knows his place and respects your business. That already grants him some points on my list.”

“Mind your own business, Ivan.”

“However, I would not get Olga Fedorovna jealous or concerned about her economical stability, boss. Keep the boy away from her.”

Chapter 4

October 19th, 2001

Guntram was very tired from working in the mornings in the slums, spending the afternoons at the University's library studying for his tests and finally attending his classes. Not having a stable job or looking for one had made him realise how exhausted he was. His left hand was much better with the rest and the splint the doctor had forced him to wear. Federico had long shouted with him for accepting the Russian's offer even if his foundation was well known and had many students living from it in Paris, London, St. Petersburg and Rome. Zakharov had sent Luis with an envelope with $3,000 from Oblomov for the new portrait from his wife and Guntram had taken the money because he was not sure if the lay off compensation (less than $2,000) would last till December and be enough to support him for a whole month in Europe. He didn't want to touch his reserves in the bank.

He was confused about his embrace with Constantin. It wasn't something sexual, far from it, but it couldn't be called “fatherly”. Friends were not hugging him like that and finally he had confessed to George that “embracing a man wasn't as disgusting as he had imagined. In fact, it was nice to be held,” making the other man snort.

What disturbed him was how quickly he had started to trust Constantin and how he would find himself thinking about him at the most unexpected moments; when he was sketching in a park, drawing reading cards for the children, in the middle of a Sociology lesson, on the bus or shopping for groceries. The man's e-mails were a source of joy when he told him about an exhibition he had visited or an auction he was planning to attend, a description of a painting or a sculpture or what he thought about something he had sketched. For some unknown reason, he was supposed to give part of his work every Monday to Zakharov and he would send it to wherever Constantin was.

Oblomov had also written to him, telling that the portrait was very beautiful and that “the old witch I have for mother-in-law adores it. She has it on her living room and shows it to anyone who dares to enter in her cave.”

Today was his nineteenth birthday and he had been a little disappointed when Federico had not called him.

Perhaps the previous night fight had been too much.

At 10:00 he finished his last class and he was going down the crowded stairs, taking good care of not slipping with the incredible amount of political leaflets scattered over the steps forming a slippery carpet, and keeping his head down to avoid the many banners hanging from the ceilings and walls. The exit at that hour always reminded him of a cows corridor as all the students fought to be the first out through the smallest door ever made, partly blocked by the activist handing out more leaflets.

“Hello, Guntram,” a deep voice with a thick English accent shouted, making several students to look at the big -monster size-Russian, standing at the entrance, dressed with a good tailored suit and an overcoat that shouted

“cashmere' “Or should I say
Strasvidye tovarich
?” He shouted making several of the political aware students look at him with clear hatred. “God, there are some people from Bakunin even! I thought those were killed in the 53rd Congress of the PCUS.”

“Hello, Ivan Ivanovich, please keep your voice down, Trotskyists are very sensitive about jokes about the Soviet Union.”

“What's their problem? They never lived there. I did. The only good thing for me was those holidays in Cuba and going to the Black Sea every year, and the State paid my University too. Nothing like being part of the Vanguard of the Proletariat.”

“Now, are you going to upset the Stalinist too?” Guntram chuckled as he moved the big Russian before the PRT boys would have his blood, 'not very likely, but I don't want to prove that theory.'

“Happy birthday boy; nineteen, huh? When you reach the twenties, the years come faster and faster,” he rumbled. “Come with me, boss is waiting for you in the car. Just seeing the Communist around here, made him sick.”

“Where you not living in the Soviet Union?”

“Yes, and his father was the General Secretary of the Party for the Black Sea Provinces. Very important man, but we buried real socialism in 1991 and it was very good idea.”

“Is Constantin here?” Guntram suddenly realised.

“In the car before he shoots someone dead on idiocy charges,” he chuckled.

A big black Mercedes was parked seventy metres away from the University building, with a chauffeur standing next to it. The man hurried to open the back door for Guntram and Oblomov only pushed him lightly in with a “see you tomorrow, boy,” as he went to the second black car that appeared out of nowhere.

Inside, Constantin was sitting with his legs crossed and reading some papers in Russian, as Guntram noticed while he sat next to him.

“Hello Constantin, I'm truly surprised to see you.”

“Happy birthday, Guntram,” the man told him very warmly. “I was in the continent doing some business and decided to visit you.”

“I'm glad to see you. Thank you for remembering it.”

“Do you want to have dinner with me?”

“I'd like to, but I'm not ready for it.”

“Then, come home. I think we could find something there. You don't have other plans, do you?”

“No, nothing. I'm not very sociable.”

“Then, it's decided. My home. I hope Zakharov hasn't depleted the wine cellar.”

After a small dinner, Guntram was more relaxed and openly laughing at Constantin's stories of his time as a student. “I need a cigarette. Do you want to come to the terrace?”

“You don't smoke inside?”

“Never, it could ruin an artwork.”

Guntram shuddered in the cold night and Constantin went immediately inside, without telling a thing to return a few minutes later with a thick cover ornamented with fox tails. “You're going to catch your death with this cold and only that thin pullover,” he said simply, putting it around Guntram shoulders. “Come, sit next to me,” he stated simply pulling Guntram down with him.

“Are you not cold?”

“Not really, I live most of the time in St. Petersburg. I dislike hot weather. I escape from there in the summers as they can be suffocating. You, on the other hand, look like you're going to catch the flu with this fresh air.