Chapter 3

“Mr. Repin, the people from the mining committee are here, waiting for you at the library,” Oblomov interrupted the long explanation Constantin was giving Guntram about how he had acquired the two huge Antonio Berni that were hanging over one of the main corridor's walls.

“I don't make business on Saturdays, you know that, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“I'm terribly sorry to bother you, Constantin Ivanovich but that Alvear woman is very insistent and she brought along two other CEO's from that small processing plant.”

“Impossible woman!” Constantin cursed, making Guntram smile softly, much more relaxed than before.

“I know. Her son and I are best friends. The Senator can be very imposing,” Guntram mildly defended Oblomov who was looking very contrite at his superior's barely concealed fury.

“All right, if she's the mother of one of your friends, I'll see her. The minute the art dealer is here, you will interrupt us and get rid of her, Ivan.”

“Yes boss, I'll take care of the negotiations.”

Constantin went with long strides toward the library, still crossed that a pleasant moment with his angel, who had proved to be a good listener and fairly educated boy, had been ruined by a witch desperately seeking to get some money out of him. 'If they try again to raise the price, they're dead. I have enough of these good for nothing. Lintorff told me that this country was going to be a good opportunity once they start to revolt? This is impossible. I should remain in Spain or Venezuela, not here. His people should start to hurry if he wants that I put money in here. The only good thing so far is Guntram.”

“So boy, do you like it here?” Oblomov asked after carefully inspecting the boy.

“Mr. Repin has a wonderful collection; worthy of a museum. I've never seen anything like that before.”

“Wait till the guy from today comes. Two banks and a big building company are in real financial troubles.

They want to get some cash and offer to sell their collections. Over fifty pieces at a closed price. Thirteen million dollars for the whole lot. It's a reduction of forty percent. They wanted to sell them to the local museums but they had no money at all and going to an auctioneer was out of the question as everybody would have found out that they're in real trouble. So they come here with several experts, but boss decides if he likes it or not. All Argentinean painters, XIX and XX century and from your good ones.”

“Is he planning to take the works out of the country?” Guntram asked sadly as the pieces would be definitively lost for the people.

“I don't know, perhaps. I think first he wants to distribute around the estates he bought here what he like less and take what he truly likes to Europe. It's not a safe place to have an art collection here. You can't tell how stable the country is.”

“Military coups are finished since a long time ago, Mr. Ivan Ivanovich.”

“If you're going to be formal and use my patronymic, it's only Ivan Ivanovich or Mr. Oblomov. If Mr. Repin allows you to call him by his Christian name, then you can call me Ivan.”

“Are you Mr. Oblomov? I thought, Mr. Repin was your secretary…” Guntram asked totally lost and dumbfounded.

“No, I'm his right hand. Secretary sounds too gay for my taste. I represent him and lead many of his businesses but he's the boss, believe me. We know each other for more than twenty years. Since we were in the Moscow University. We both graduated in Civil Engineering and I specialized myself in pipelines while he studied Chemistry. I married one of his cousins, Tatiana Gregorievna Arseniev. You certainly look very young, how old are you?”

“I'll be nineteen next October,” Guntram answered.

“You do understand that boss is after you, do you?”

“He likes my drawings and wants to have them. He's going to let me see this collection as a payment.”

“Not really, you can look at the collection and I wouldn't be surprised if he lets you chose something from there. He likes your art and you for yourself also. Do you understand me now, Guntram?”

“You mean he's… he's after me?”

“Took you some time to realise but it's for the best. You truly are a green one, aren't you?

“I'm not gay!”

“Have you tried it?”

“Of course not! It's wrong to do that! It's forbidden too!”

“Boss is going to have a lot of fun with you,” Oblomov smirked. “You look like a decent kid, not the plaything type. Might be a good change for once.”

“Tell Mr. Repin that I thank him for his invitation, but I'm going home.”

“Hey, kid, no need to run. It's not as if he's going to rape you under the Botero!” Oblomov laughed at Guntram's shocked expression. “It's only lunch and a show. If he makes any advance toward you, just tell him you're not interested. You won't be the first one who sends him to Hell!” He chuckled. “He likes you a lot as I have never seen him chasing a boy so intently, but he also likes a lot your work and perhaps only wants to remain friends with you, if the other is not possible. I only want that you understand the whole situation. You look like a good kid, my own son's age, nothing like the crazy and uptight artists believing they're the hottest, cleverest and most cultivated things on Earth, he normally hangs with. Those have neither talent nor the wit to realise they don't have it.”

“I don't want this. Let me pass.”

“All right, but consider at least a grant from him. You could be something good. If you already, well not you, that Dollenberg woman, got three-thousand dollars out of me for that landscape and two-thousand more for several drawings of ballerinas, you're good.

“How much did you pay? Are you out of your mind?”

“She's a good dealer and the husband didn't want to sell. Had to pay, but it's nothing. My wife adored those girls and put them in her studio and I made some points at home, if you get my meaning. Cheaper than going to Tiffany's or Harry Winston's,” Oblomov retorted with an irked voice at his judgement being so loudly and rudely challenged.

“This is too much. I'm going home.”

“No, you're going nowhere. Calm down, he will not touch a single hair from you, unless you want. Have lunch with him and the marchand, visit his gallery, and then, if he makes any move or insinuates anything, tell him clearly ‘no’.”

“Do you think?”

“Of course. Now, show me what you gave the boss. Perhaps I could convince him to sell me something more for my wife. She ordered me to bring her more, this time for her Aunt Maria Ingratievna.”

“Do you have a picture of your wife with you?” Guntram asked, surprising Oblomov.

“Yes, one with her wedding dress and another with her and my son when he was seven.”

“If you want to give me a copy, I can try to make her portrait from them in pencil and ink. Free of charge, of course. I already feel very bad that someone charged you so much money.”

“We are leaving in three days.”

“More than enough time. Do you have some white paper so I could make a preliminary sketch?”

“Where is the boy now?”

“On the terrace. I left him there with paper and two pencils,” Oblomov answered innocently.

“Why is he there?”

“He was very nervous after I explained him a few truths. Now he knows what you're expecting from him.

Told him that if he doesn't want, you still want to be friends with him. You'll have to play dove boss, if you want to catch this one.”

“Remind me to kill you if something goes wrong.”

“Why? If you play fair with this one, you'll save a lot of troubles and achieve results faster. He's a nice kid, totally innocent and naïve. He offered to paint my wife's portrait for free because he feels bad that I paid so much for his things.”

“You look very happy about it.”

“Of course. I've just saved twenty-five-thousand dollars, boss.”

“Only twenty-five-thousand? Do you still wonder why Tatiana is furious with you? A mistress makes more in a week than she!” Constantin chuckled. “My cousin’s patience has a limit and the minute she goes to a lawyer, you're literally dead. Perhaps that portrait will make you save much more than twenty-five grand.”

“Yes, boss.”

“One thing more. Guntram is off limits for any of you. Is that understood? No one but me touches a single hair from him or says a word out of place.”

“Very clear, boss. I'll tell the men.”

Constantin stood for a long time at the terrace entrance looking at the boy absorbed in his work, only taking brief glances at the two small photos placed on the table in front of him. The midday sun made his hair lighter than it was and his frown and deep concentration made him look younger.

The butler took him out of his reverie by announcing that the Arts dealer had arrived and was waiting in the library. Sighing, and still unnoticed by Guntram, he took the portfolio from the coffee table and went to speak with the man.

Guntram was more than fed up with the art dealer's haughty ways, informing everyone what they should do as if the Russians were ignorant. As it was not his fight, he decided to keep quiet and eat his dish because no one had ever asked him anything.

“I'm still intrigued by these drawings you showed me. Do you say the artist is Argentinean? The landscapes can only be from la Pampa and many of the birds you showed me are from here, but his style is more continental.”

“He was born in France if I'm correct but I could be mistaken. All his production was locally made. It was quite a surprise to discover him. Do you think he's good?”

“Technically, he's excellent. Although he's naïve, I couldn't place him in that category as his drawing is more appropriate for the XIX century. A real pity he was never discovered.” The barely contained laughter from Oblomov, told Guntram that something was amiss. “How much did you pay for the drawings if it's not too much to ask?”

“For the drawings nothing so far. There's another box—which I haven't checked so far—and that costed me one-hundred pesos,” Constantin said, making Guntram blanch.

“I can't believe it! You're joking with me. Those drawings could be valued much more. I could easily sell those landscapes for more than one-thousand pesos apiece. If you're interested in selling them, I know several people who would like to buy. Good painters with such level of attention to detail and economy of resources at the same time, are very rare these days.”

“No, I don't want to sell. In fact I'm trying to buy some more from him but the artist is terribly temperamental.”

“Don't tell me about it! This is why I deal only with consecrated and dead artists.” He laughed.

“Should I send him to school?”

“To school, Mr. Repin?”

“Yes, school or a private teacher. He's not exactly naïve; he's very young and still has to study a career.”

“You must be joking! Those paintings are made by a well trained hand!”

“I don't deny he has training and I was also shocked when I found out that it was made by a sixteen-year-old and those you just saw by an eighteen-year-old. You even saw Guntram working a few moments ago.”

“Did you paint them all by yourself?” The man asked in disbelief to a boy slouching in his high chair.

“If you mean the black portfolio with the Darth Vader's sticker on the left angle, yes, they're mine, but they're a present for Mr. Repin. He liked my other ones.”

“Do you study at the Prilidiano Pueyrredon School?”

“No. It's a hobby, nothing else.”

“You should study and come back in five years, and I'll see what I can do for you. I want to see what you were doing just now.”

“Just a sketch for later.”

“If it's not too much to ask, Mr. Repin, do you have a compass?” The dealer asked after he inspected for a long time the drawings Guntram had to fetch from the terrace.

“We should ask the butler if he can get us one. Why?”

“I want to try something with this young man, if you will allow me.”

“As long as you don't torture him with the compass. He's just out from high school,” Repin laughed.

After lunch, the art dealer insisted on checking Guntram's abilities, and gave him a piece of paper and a pencil. “Make a point in the centre and draw a circle around it.”

“What do I win?” Guntram asked jokingly.

“An ice cream,” Repin answered dryly, making Guntram flinch.

Thinking that it was a waste of good paper, as this one was certainly 100g weight, not the usual rubbish he was using.

He took the pencil and when he was going to make the point, the man repeated. “In the centre, please,” Guntram had a lot of trouble to suppress the grin almost escaping from his face. He made the point and a 12 cm radius circle around it. That was very easy as he was always doing it for his geometry class because he had lost his compass and didn't want to buy another.

The man took a ruler and traced the diagonal to check if it was well centred but “he missed by 2 mm,” he said very relieved and proceed to check the circle. “It's perfect. I can't believe it,” he said shocked.

“You missed with the diagonal. It's not well achieved. Try again and you'll see its fine. Boy, where were you when I had to draw all my blueprints? You would have saved me many headaches,” Oblomov said as Repin was looking in disbelief.

“So, will you pay for the ice cream, Ivan Ivanovich? But I'll tell you something, it wasn't a fair bet. I used to do this all the time in school for Geometry. I lost my compass in the sixth grade and didn't want to buy another.”

“Guntram, this is serious,” Repin scolded him. “Michelangelo won the Sistine Chapel commission only by showing that he was able to do what you just did. It's almost impossible to do it.”

The boy looked embarrassed and decided to focus his attention on the carpet, biting his lower lip, like a scolded child.

“I must congratulate you for your good eye, Mr. Repin. This young man shows indeed great promise if he decides to study.”

“He only needs to be convinced or encouraged in the right way.”

“Come Guntram, dine with me at home. It's almost time and I would like to speak with you,” Constantin said, after spending the whole afternoon at the gallery and deciding to acquire the lot for 11.5 million to be paid in cash in two days time. Guntram was still dazed because of the quality of the paints he had seen and the casual tone employed by Constantin to deal with such an amount of money.

“I think it's better if I go home now. It's getting later and I have to work tomorrow,” he answered, afraid of where it would all lead him.

“I insist. My driver will take you home after dinner. We should speak about your future.”

Back at Repin's place, Guntram noticed that Oblomov was nowhere to be seen and only a young maid served the dinner and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. Although it was not a “romantic set” in the boy's mind, he couldn't feel more than apprehensive at the table for two, with some champagne and a light dinner.

“I've been thinking a lot about you, Guntram.”

The youth gulped as that was the world famous phrase for starting declarations and he had no idea of how to get out of this mess. “Constantin…”

“Let me tell what I want before you start to protest,” he silenced the boy in a rather dry way. “I was thinking hard in how to pay for your pieces as you let me set the price. First, I thought in a check for the equivalent of what this man valued your job, but now I think that would be a huge mistake. It's not that I think you would spend it, no. You'd probably put the money in the bank and save it till you finish your career or give it to the poor people like you did with your work. I've never seen such a waste of talent. Literally to the trash. I don't want to open that box because, I'll be very upset when I find out that you threw such beauties or worse, gave them to some brute to be sold per kilo.”

“I can't keep all that paper at home… and he has a family to feed,” Guntram defended himself feebly, unused to being in the middle of a fight.

“Be quiet. I simply don't understand why you don't want to do anything with your talent. It's very rare and unique. I saw you working today and your speed and accuracy is remarkable. My cousin never looked so beautiful in her life and in a way, it strangely fits her. She's an unselfish woman, quiet and loving her children and home. A real treasure as a wife. I don't understand how you have captured it if you have never seen her.”

“Mr. Oblomov told me several things about her and he showed me more photos he has in his phone. I imagined the rest, this is why I want him to check the preliminary draw before I make it in chalks or pencil and ink.

I'm not decided yet.”

“So I have decided to take you for a month or two to Europe. To London, where I live, Paris and Italy so you really see all what you have been copying over the years. If you don't want to become an artist after this trip, then I'll let you be. If you want to be one, I'm willing to pay for your education in England, at the University of London in Birbeck or at the University College London. Art History if you want security and encourage your career as your approach is so classical. You can't deny the world the opportunity to see your vision of it.”

“I can't accept. It's too much.”

“It's nothing compared to the crime it would be to waste such talent.”

“Sir, I can't accept it. I will be cheating you.”

“It's my decision and I will not complain about it. I pay more than two hundred fifty scholarships per year.

One more, won't kill my finances and for once I will be sure that my money is well invested. You can repay me with your pieces if that makes you happy. You have no idea how much pleasure your paintings give me. I can't stop to look at them. I keep them framed in my office and in my private jet so I can watch and enjoy them, Guntram.”

“It's too much,” Guntram whispered.

“Why? You can attend in the morning the classes at the UCL and take private lessons with a good teacher. I know most of the merchants there and they know me. I'm sure you will not fail, once you're known.”

“I can't deliver what you want from me. I don't want to do what you want of me.”

“Do you have the courage to tell me that you don't like to paint?”

“Not that, the other thing.”

“Well, you'd better enlighten me because it seems that you are more aware of my interests than myself.”

“I don't know how to say this, but I think you misunderstood me.”

“How so?”

“I don't like to do it with men.”

“This is based on your broad experience?”

“I have no experience at all! Well, not with men and I don't want to have it!”

“With women?” Constantin asked as he put another piece of meat into his mouth as Guntram blushed at the blunt question, fired as it would be the most normal thing in the world.

“This is none of your business, sir!”

“Zero or close to zero if I see correctly,” he shrugged making Guntram blush deeper, a gesture that Constantin didn't miss. “Zero,” he concluded as he took a sip of his wine.

“I can't see how all this can be related.”

“It's not related. I was offering a scholarship and you brought up your sexual preferences. Did I insinuate myself in any way?”

Guntram paled and felt like dying of shame. “No, never but I thought that…”

“That you can't paint well so I want to shag you in bed?”

“More or less.”

“Well, no. Not in the way you think.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think you're a talented artist. That you happen to be a very cute boy and it's true that I like boys more than girls, is irrelevant. You're not my type. Even if you would decide to play on my field, you would be looking for a stable, committed and long term relationship and I can't provide that. With me you can have an adventure, and a very good one, but nothing else. I'm not the type that falls in love forever. I admit that I would take great pleasure in taking you to my bed and teaching you a few things, but in the morning you would be crying and willing to stay and I can't give you that. I can't stand it. We can be friends and I would like to be your mentor, but we could never be lovers.”

“I understand, sir,” Guntram whispered, not truly comprehending why he felt so utterly sad. 'Rejection is horrible, even if you were looking for it, Guntram.'

“My offer of this trip is purely business. I'm not going to run after you in Florence or declare my love by the Arno River. I have several companies to run and I will be busy most of the time. I was thinking to give you a guide or ask you if you wanted to bring a friend along,” Constantin finally chose his strategy; take the boy to his field and then isolate him till he would jump to his bed on his own accord. 'Yes, curiosity killed the cat,' he thought as he saw the disappointed look in Guntram's eyes 'He's crystal in his reactions, nothing fake or premeditated, generous and kind.

He's going to be incredible in bed.'

“I'm sorry if I offended you with my assumptions, Mr. Repin.”

“Don't worry, I'm glad the young ones still consider me game,” he said jovially

“You're too kind.”

“Do you want to come in December? Christmas is a very nice season there and I can take a few days off from my obligations,” he pressed the issue.

“I don't know. I have to work and I don't know if I could take holidays. Perhaps fifteen days but never a month,” Guntram answered feeling torn between his desire to go and his good sense telling him to refuse it.

“Take fifteen days, then. Only London and Paris to start. If you want to see more, then you can travel to Italy.”

“I would love to see Florence and Perugia, where most of Perugino is, but my boss will not let me and I can't afford to lose my job,” Guntram said undecided.

“We're buying several companies there. You speak English, Spanish and French. Zakharov—the one in charge of the Argentinean chapter—will find a position for you. It's an opportunity you can't miss,” 'And it's better that you're out of this pathetic country if Konrad does what he wants to do around December.'

“I don't know.”

“Say yes. It leaves me a very bad after taste that you have given me so much and don't let me do a very small thing for you.”

“It's not a small thing, it's one of my biggest dreams to see all that,” Guntram whispered almost convinced of the most ridiculous idea he had heard in his life.

“If you don't do crazy things when you're twenty, then you do them when you're sixty and then, it looks pathetic,” Constantin tempted him.

“I need some time to think about it.”

'Typical Libra, but he's mine, I see it in his eyes.' “Yes, of course, it's a big decision. It will change your life, I'm sure of that.”

“Guntram is 1:30 a.m. Go to bed now. I will not repeat it any longer,” a very amused Constantin shook the boy from his fourth drawing in pencil, finally achieving the concept he wanted.

“So late? I didn't realise. I go away now.”

“I sent my driver to bed at 12 a.m. before he would strike on me. You can stay in the guest room down the corridor.”

“ I don't want to bother you. I'll take the bus.”

“No, you stay here. It's not a bother at all. The room is ready for you and you can show your drawings to Oblomov in the morning.”

“I didn't mean this to happen. People say that I space out when I draw. It used to happen to me in the school.”

“Space out? I would say that you move to another galaxy. You spoke with me for twenty minutes and then, you focused on her eyes and the world ceased to exist,” Constantin laughed. “Go to bed.”

When they reached the guest room, Constantin opened easily the door and entered while Guntram stayed by the door frame, uncertain of his next move, staring with big eyes the modern looking room, with a big bed, a desk and chair and a comfortable chaise longue by the window, in brown and beige shades. The Russian turned around and passed by the door. “Good night, he whispered, sleep well,” and his hand softly caressed Guntram's face and he shyly smiled back unused to this demonstration of affection, but not truly wanting the hand to go away. Without realising what he was doing, both his hands took the larger one and returned the caress, his lips briefly touching it.

“Good night, Guntram,” Constantin smiled back with a soft light in his eyes.

“Good night, Constantin,” the boy blushed not truly believing what he had just done.

'Now, I have you where I want you, my angel. It's just a matter of time before you're truly mine.”

“Good morning boss!” Oblomov shouted at 11 a.m. when he found Constantin having breakfast alone in the terrace. “Dove flew away already?”

“Still sleeping, he was up till 2 AM”

Oblomov chuckled. “Haven't lost your touch, boss. He must be exhausted.”

“Drawing your wife. She looks much better than she ever did.”

“Nada? ” He asked in disbelief. The boy sleeping under the same roof as his boss and his virtue was untouched? Impossible.

“I told you, he's a rare wine. At this point a tumble or two won't be enough for me. He's everything I dreamed of and more. I want him permanently in my bed and drawing next to me. He agreed to come to Europe in December.”

“Well, it's better than nothing. We are not falling for him, are we?”

“Perhaps it's time to settle down. I'm sick of changing lovers and of their permanent whining or childish behaviour. The ones that Mikhail prepares are simply boring with all their training. This one is perfect for me. He has a classical beauty and a symmetrical face, doesn't whore himself around, he's talented, a little too shy perhaps—but we can't have everything, can we?—discreet, quiet, well-educated, from an old family, totally innocent and kind. I couldn't ask for more.”

“He's a decent kid, Constantin,” Oblomov used his Christian name, something very rare and only reserved for the “solemn occasions”. “What will happen to him if you tire of him? This one looks like the type of having one or two relationships in all his life. Do you even know if he wants you?”

“He does but needs time to get used to the idea. He's afraid of sex, but willing to learn. I saw it in his eyes. I don't think I will get tired of this one. I've decided to send him to the new house in London.”

“That you would stop whoring around would be very good. Nothing like a stable lover. It gives you more focus and peace of mind but do you want to put him in that house? Olga Fedorovna will not be pleased and you know what they say… 'Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman,' boss.”

“She'll get over it. She has the house in Paris and another in Manhattan only for her use. The one in London is mine and I do what I please with it.”

“Boss, women look the other way if you have an adventure. They simply don't care, but the moment the adventure becomes something serious, hell gets loose. She considers that mansion as her own. She's already planning to move there for a month or two per year, like all her girlfriends do.”

“She'll get over in the next Paris Fashion Week.”

“Boss, hear me out. The boy will be happy in a nice flat in Chelsea or Kensington. He's not flamboyant or anything like that. You can visit him there all what you want.”

“No, that's my decision. I'm getting tired of her constant demands. Due to our arrangement, I have given her ample space.”

“Too much in my opinion. Do you know that von Kleist told me she has opened an account with one of his fellow members on the Island of Man? He tells there is three hundred fifty million pounds in there, half of what she got from you for the sale of Petroland. That's not good boss. She's after something if she starts to put her money into the enemy's territory.”

“I trust Lintorff to honour our pact if necessary. The minute she tries something against me, I'll go for the divorce express option. Her services are no longer needed as she should have realised seven years ago. Besides, he's not a paid boy toy who can be put in a flat and visit whenever you want some fun. He comes from two noble families, he's not an alley cat.”

“Two noble families that happen to be members of the Order and one of them provided several consorts for the Lintorffs.”

“Yes, it's a well known fact: If you want a blonde, cute, unable to make trouble, prince or princess, go to the Guttenberg Sachsen. Their highest contribution to European history was their wineries in Franken area and nothing else. Married to everybody, never getting into anybody's power schemes. In a way, that's already a considerable feat.

Do you know that Peter the Great had one mistress from that family? My grandfather used to tell me the story. If you want a good looking wife, go to them, they're not as crazy or powerful as the Wittelsbach, but they will not create too many troubles; their brains prevent them to do it. Clever man, I should have listened to him, and perhaps I will now.”

“He looks like a sensible lad. Down to Earth but Olga is not. She's looking for an excuse to declare war on you.”

“Let her do it.”

“She won't go after your throat but after the boy's. Be careful boss.”

“I will. Are you, by any chance starting to like him?”

“Not in the way you think, boss. I like him because he's not prissy or looking for trouble. A real working boy and paints really well. Those sketches are something else,” Oblomov chuckled.

“Lenin would die again if he were to hear you. The working class represented by the grandchild of the Vicomte de Marignac?”

“The irony of life. Should he not be up? Doesn't he have to go to work?”

“Yes, but I let him be. He's not going to last long in that place, but you're right. He should be up and working,” Constantin chuckled visibly amused and relaxed.

The sunlight bathed Guntram's face and the brown bangs of his hair looked almost dark blond with some red strikes shinning. He looked very young and totally oblivious to everything. 'When was the last time that anyone felt safe as too sleep near me? He looks like a small child and completely trusts me. He has to be mine by reason or force.'

Constantin thought as he was mesmerized looking at the chest slowly rising and falling. He approached the bed and sat on one side, softly shaking Guntram awake.

“Wake up, it's time for breakfast,” he said kindly, devouring the boy with his eyes just for a second before he opened his eyes and returned to his normal blank face.

Guntram seemed to be a little disoriented about the place but he shyly smiled when he saw Constantin. “Good morning. Sorry, I overslept. What time is it?”

“Good morning. Around 11 a.m., I would say.”

“So late? I'm dead. The manager will kill me and later resurrect me to make me finish the shift! I'm sorry but I have to go to work,” he said, jumping out of the bed and nearly tripping with the too long pyjama trousers.

“Some people still dream about not studying for a school test but it seems you dream about your boss,”

Constantin chuckled.

“You would also dream about him if he were your boss,” he said in a hurry before disappearing into the bathroom. The Russian stood up and left the room to meet Oblomov, who was sitting at the dinning table and having a coffee while he checked his computer.

“Is he up?”

“On the brink of a heart attack because he's late for work.”

“Are those people still existing boss?” The giant chortled.

“It seems,” Constantin replied, sitting in front of him and starting to look into his own laptop.

“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.

“Mr. Repin asks you to join him in the dinning room,” the maid informed him, curtly bowing her head and vanishing direction to the kitchen.

“Wait! Could you get me some aspirin please? My wrist is giving me some troubles.”

“Right away, sir.”

Feeling unhappy at this new turn of events, Guntram suppressed a frustrated sigh and went to the dinning room as ordered, still wondering why the man was up working so early, and how on earth could you get a secretary at such an ungodly hour. He stood in front of the closed door and softly knocked to hear Constantin's voice saying “come in”

“Good morning, Guntram. Sit down. Do you know Zakharov?”

“How do you do, sir?” The boy asked to the old Russian sitting at the table, who only bowed his head in response.

“Sit down now,” Constantin repeated this time more sharply than before, making Guntram feel as if he were again in the Headmaster's presence.

“I only wanted to thank you and say good-bye. I start at 8 a.m. today and I still have to pass by my house…”

“Have breakfast and then we will see,” Constantin only said, turning and resuming his previous conversation with the man in Russian. Undecided about the best course of action, Guntram sat where Constantin had told him to and immediately, a different maid served him a coffee and asked him if he wanted eggs for breakfast.

“No, just bread, thank you.”

“Here is your aspirin, sir,” the first maid returned with the pill and a glass of water.

“Do you have a headache again, Guntram?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you.”

“Then, why the aspirin? Do you have a heart condition?” Constantin joked.

“No, just some pain in the left wrist,” Guntram answered puzzled at the question but remembering that the man had studied Chemistry.

“The same that the doctor told you to keep immobilized for two weeks and you use for carrying the tray?”

Guntram blushed when he answered that it was the same but today he would not use it as the staff was larger during the week and he could stay behind the counter.

“Drying glasses and rotating it? Zakharov what would you think if I have a pure blood horse with a sprained ankle and I put it on a mill so he rests from the horse-tracks fatigues?”

“That you're a fool, sir.”

“Indeed. We have the same problem with this young man. He has just been offered a scholarship for painting, but he insists on working for less than $1,000 in a restaurant where he already sprained his left hand.”

“That's very daft in my opinion. He will stress the right hand more just to replace the other and why is he not wearing a rigid plastic splint?”

“I don't know. Perhaps the local doctors have found a new healing method that we're not aware of,”

Constantin pondered in a very sarcastic way. “Guntram, call your work and said that you're not going today. A doctor will see it in the afternoon.”

“I can't do that!”

“Are there not labour laws in this country? Labour injuries are a real problem if you're an employer,” the old man lectured the youth.

“Don't tell me about it, Zakharov,” Constantin sighed.

“I have to work to make a living!” Guntram protested.

“Finish your breakfast. The chauffeur will take you to your house to pick up some clothes if you want. You're staying here, till your hand gets better.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Repin, you're not my father and you can't order me around,” Guntram said, truly pissed off with the man.

“I'm aware that I'm not your father nor intend to be. It's criminal how you're wasting your talent and a good opportunity. Finish that portrait, if you can, between today and tomorrow, here. You have the materials and can use the terrace. It's sunny and warm. I want to see if you're able to do it or is it that you know you can't?”

“I have nothing to prove to you, sir,” Guntram said seriously and Zakharov couldn't help to admire the youth's guts to oppose to Constantin so openly.

“I see. Perhaps I overestimated your abilities.”

“Most probably, sir. I'm no artist at all or intend to be one.”

“My mistake. Go to work, Guntram,” Constantin said in a false light tone, one that Zakharov knew that forbade nothing good for the boy.

“Good-bye, Mr. Repin. I wish you a safe journey home.”

“Thank you. Good-bye,” Repin dismissed him.

Guntram arrived just in time to get a good scolding from Martin for leaving yesterday after eight.

“You said till 8 p.m. and I left at 8:20. I don't see the problem,” Guntram's retort surprised the man as the boy was like a small mouse, doing his work quietly and without complaints. A real loser.

“You go home when I say so.”

“Really? You're forcing me to work when another worker dropped a full beer crate on my hand and the doctor clearly told me to take a leave for five working days.”

“Are you a trade unionist now? I have no place for such people!”

“No, but I'll present the papers to the insurance company by myself and they will force you to give me my leave.”

“Of course I'll give you a leave. A permanent one. If you work here, it's because the owner is good friends with that woman, not because you're good at it. Now, get out of here and do something useful for a change!”

“I leave at 4 p.m. today, when my shift ends.”

“You leave when I tell so. If you leave at 4 p.m. don't bother to come tomorrow.”

“We'll see.”

At 4:30 Guntram finished to charge the last table he had been serving and folded his apron and placed it under the counter.”

“Where are you going?” Martin barked seeing the boy putting his jacket on.

“Home. I'm finished for today.”

“You're forever finished if you cross that door.”

“Is it not somewhat extreme? Are you going to work tomorrow in my place or are you going to ask Verónica to finally move her ass somewhere else besides that sorry cellar you always take her?”

“You're fired!” Martin shouted and several customers turned their heads at them.

“Good, send me the telegram and have the money ready for tomorrow,” Guntram said without loosing his cold demeanour. “Let me remind you, the money for the lay off is double because I'm injured while working and I'll denounce you to the Labour Ministry. I'm sick of people like you, pushing those who are weaker.”

Guntram walked the five blocks to his home totally furious that he had finally discussed with Martin and lost his job. Tomorrow he would start to look for another one and it would be hard as Martin would certainly not write a recommendation letter for him. He passed by George's shop, where he was working with a customer and Guntram only waved his hand.

“Wait Guti!” George shouted, almost running out of his shop.

“Hi, George. I'm going home.”

“You look like shit, dear. Everything fine with the Russian?”

“What? No, yes. It's not with him. I was just fired from my job for fighting with my boss.”

“Come in and tell everything.”

“You are with a customer.”

“Who? Hilda? She's a friend more than a customer. In with you!”

“I want to go home. It's been a long weekend. I need to relax and finish something for the Siberian asshole.”

Guntram excused himself, decided to make the Russian eat his own words. He could make a portrait with his own pastels in less than two days, and he needed to work to ease the tension down or he would shoot the next Czar.

“OK, if you prefer that way, but I'm having dinner with you tonight. You disappeared for two nights with the Doctor Zhivago. I have to hear the whole story.”

“I did nothing! Just slept at his house. He's not interested in me. Look George, come for dinner, if you want, but don't expect too much.”

Guntram had finished the first sketch of what was going to be the portrait of a woman in her mid twenties, with the heavy wedding dress changed into something more ethereal and in a pale colour as he was fascinated by her dark hairs and soulful black eyes. 'She looks like I've always imagined the girl from Eugene Onegin, Tatiana.'

He stood up and went to look for his pastels and a large light blue paper that he was saving for a grand occasion and decided to drop the University for the day. He had a very clear image of what he wanted to paint.

The annoying bell chiming took him back to earth and he softly cursed as he was almost finished with the last details around the two roses he had draw partly hidden on the back. “Coming!” He shouted, leaving his work over the table.

“I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're truly crazy, Guntram,” Federico exploded. “Martin called my mother to tell her that you insulted him and he had to fire you!”

“Yes, we had a disagreement.”

“Disagreement? He fired you and you threatened him with going to the Labour Ministry! How could you do it after he accepted you for this job?”

“Thank you for your support, Federico. If you want, I'll write an apology letter to your mother. You see, I had enough of working my ass for free. He never offered to pay for a bloody box of painkillers.”

“Guntram, you can't lose a job! What are you going to do?”

“Live on what I get for my lay off and look for another job. Simple as that.”

“It doesn't work like this. Do you know how difficult is to get anything here?”

“I know. I'll ask around. Patricio's father was the CEO of a bank. He offered me a job a few months ago as a clerk. I can ask him if there's still something available. Waiting tables is not the dream of my life, you know?”

“Guntram, are you all right? First you hang around a well known rich gay, and don't deny it because I saw it and I know him. Saw him at several parties. He's very discreet, but always goes home with a good looking model or something like that. Now, you fight with your boss and get fired and what are you doing exactly now? Painting!”

“Constantin is not interested in me. He told me so. And I took a day off… for painting. Is that so strange? All of you fuck around, do nothing, study nothing, work nothing and its perfectly fine. The day the nice and stupid Guntram decides to take a break, it's a fucking disaster!”

“You're into something bad, Guntram. I can smell it. My mother tells that this guy is filthy rich! He's the figurehead of a rich Russian owning one of the largest conglomerates of oil, mining and transport in the former Soviet Union. Oblomov has billions and the fucking secretary commands everything!”

“Tell mommy dear that she should be nicer to the secretary because he has a lot of influence and dislikes your mother very much.”

“Whatever! This is not good for you. Forget what he has told you because he only wants a good fuck and that will be all.”

“I'm not fucking with him,” Guntram protested.

“It's a matter of time. How dumb can you be? You'd probably sleep by his house and share his bed because it was too late to come home and he has no other place to put you”, Federico said ironically.

“Fefo, if you're not going to be helpful, let me finish my work, OK?”

“Are you throwing me out?”

“Yes, good night.”

“Asshole!” Federico yelled, yanking the door open just to bump into George, his dog and a huge steaming pot in his hands. “You fucking pervert! Happy now? You have convinced him to whore himself to a Russian!” he roared.

'You would have preferred that it would have been you instead of Dr. Zhivago.' George thought but said nothing, only moving aside so the furious boy could leave the place. “Your friend certainly has a temper. Now, tell me about the last part, the whoring around, Guntram. That sounds promising.”

Guntram sighed as he knew that shaking George off would be more difficult than throwing his former room mate out.

Guntram was doubtful, a state of mind that was becoming more and more usual during the past days, as he stood in the park in front of the Kavanagh building. He had the painting carefully folded and tied with a ribbon and only wanted to leave it, avoiding Constantin and his more than foreseeable fury when he would find out that he had done exactly what the Russian had told him to do, after he had nearly sent him to hell. With any luck, Constantin would be busy as it was a Tuesday morning and he had many businesses to run.

He waited for the lights to change in front of the crosswalk, watching how many pedestrians simply risked their lives just to cross a few seconds before the cars would stop. 'We like to live on the edge, no doubt about it.'

Guntram thought nervously. He crossed the street, and with an outward decided face, he walked toward the door man standing at the entrance.

“Good morning, I wanted to leave something for the penthouse in the fourteenth floor. Can you take it?”

The man just looked at him incredulously. “It's a painting for Mr. Ivan Oblomov. He works with the owner, Mr. Constantin Repin,” Guntram said very sheepishly, locking his gaze on the marble floor.

“Wait a minute, I'll ask,” the doorman said, but a man in a dark suit, a foreigner by his aspect, stopped him with one gesture.

“I work for Mr. Oblomov,” he said in perfect English. “Are you Guntram de Lisle by any chance?”

“I am. Could you give this to Mr. Oblomov? It's a portrait I promised him.”

“He's waiting for you upstairs, sir. Follow me, please.”

“It's not really necessary to inconvenience him.”

“Please,” the man abruptly cut all Guntram's protests, showing him with the nod of his head, the way to one of the private lifts.

Guntram was left in the living room with the Tamayo painting he had admired so much. Not willing to sit, as he had not been invited to do so, he stood by the closed terrace overlooking the city.

“Please, excuse me for my delay,” Oblomov said jovially, offering his hand. “Three local bankers. Is there any local tradition to make people go away?”

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Oblomov,” Guntram shook the hand, choking a laugh.

“No, I'm afraid you don't shake off a banker very easily. You might try to put a broomstick behind the door. It keeps the witches away,” Guntram smiled.

“Call me Ivan and probably the banker would ask me if I want stocks from cleaning company, but I'll keep it in mind; if it helps against witches might do the same for bankers,” he chuckled. “Constantin Ivanovich is busy now with some politicians, but I'm sure he would like to see you later.”

“I only wanted to leave you this, Ivan Ivanovich,” Guntram said extending the tin tube.

Oblomov gasped in admiration at the portrait of his wife, looking exactly as he remembered her from her wedding day, so many years and troubles ago. The paint showed a woman of a serene and composed beauty with eyes that swallowed people's soul. “It's her, no doubt. The first time I saw my wife, when I was a young graduate travelling to Paris for the first time, I thought that if you saw yourself reflected in those eyes, you couldn't help to fall in love with her, and I did.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“Like it? I don't know if I will give it to her or keep it for me. It's her. How could you do it? You have never seen her in your life.”

“It's how you spoke about her, the pictures you had from her and the videos too. Everything was there.”

“We don't see each other much. She lives in Paris with our son and I'm mostly in St. Petersburg or Moscow.

Our relationship is strained at the moment,” he confessed.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, it's not your fault. Thank you very much. I know you want no money for this, but I would like to give you something in exchange.”

“You owe me nothing, sir. Really. I have to go now.”

“Stay for lunch, please. You don't work there any longer.”

“How do you know?”

“That boy, the one who worked with you, told Zakharov when he had his interview yesterday evening. He will start as the office boy. He was very happy with his new salary. Constantin is glad that you saw reason finally. If you would see a doctor now, that would be the final proof that you're sane.”

“No, thank you. I had a disagreement with my manager and it was coming all the way.”

“I won five hundred Euros to Constantin. He said you wouldn't be able to do the portrait because you were so afraid of it. Do we share boy?”

“No thank you, it's your capital.”

“Speaking of which you should take my offer Guntram. I paid good money to that woman. You're jobless now, take $3,000 for this.”

“It's a gift, Ivan.”

“What If I give you a commission? Make one of my wife and my son when he was seven. He's an ugly teenager nowadays so it's not worth painting him.”

“That's a lot of money, I will be robbing you.”

“Nonsense. My tailor robs me. Come on boy, take it and make a good job. I could use it to mend my relations with my mother-in-law. Terrible woman.”

“I don't want to abuse you.”

“If you get my mother-in-law off of my neck for a month or two, then this will be the best money ever spent in my whole life. If she doesn't like it, I'll give her your phone number and my revenge will be legendary,” he chuckled, sensing that he had won the battle. 'Yes, gentle moves and he goes wherever you want. Boss should know it by now.'

“Can I return the money if she doesn't like it?” Guntram joked lightly.

“No, you endure her, all by yourself and take the heat away from me. A good investment too. Stay for lunch boy. You can work at the terrace with the pencils you forgot. We eat at 1:00,” he ordered mildly, but leaving no room for further discussions and left the room.

Guntram stood there, undecided because he had to go get his check from Martin, then to the University and start to print his CV to hand over to different employment agencies. A woman, elegantly dressed like a secretary lightly coughed at his side, holding a well known wooden box and a leather portfolio. “Good morning, Mr. de Lisle.

My name is María Cristina Achaval and I'm the personal assistant for Mr. Oblomov in Argentina. He asked me to give you this and show you the terrace,” She said, obviously obfuscated that she had to address a simple waiter when the butler or one of the maids would have been more than sufficient.

“Thank you, madam,” Guntram answered meekly as his escape route had been blocked by a very tall blonde, reminding him of his best friend's mother.

“Follow me, please.”

“Give me a good reason for not killing you, Ivan.”

“You love me more than you dare to admit and envy my intelligence secretly. Look, only a ten minute talk and he's sitting peacefully, drawing and has accepted a commission and money from me. Ordering will not help with this one. I suspect he can be quite a stubborn mule… and you still owe me five hundred Euros, boss.”

“You're too ugly to be lovable, Ivan Ivanovich,” he chortled, getting the money out of his wallet. “I hope you have paid him more than this.”

“Three thousand dollars, boss. This one from my wife is very nice indeed.”

“Are you starting to appreciate art?”

“No way, I said it looks really good. Tatiana will be pleased and leave me alone for some months.”

“So he stays for lunch?”

“It seems so. I think he got a tea and is working with the pencils you gave him and a pad. According to one of the men, he looked at it in awe for almost twenty minutes. Your finances can be glad if he's like that.”

“Not if he wants a Tamayo for his birthday.”

Contrary to his expectations, the lunch was not only for Constantin—who greeted him briefly—and Oblomov, but two State Secretaries, a very well known banker and two industrials, desperately seeking cash from Constantin…

and a lot of cash in Guntram's opinion. He kept his gaze fixed on his dish, almost not touching the food or drinking the wine, so embarrassed he felt to be there. Oblomov tried to engage him in a conversation but he couldn't utter more than five words in a sentence, so he soon lost interest and dedicated all his attention to the politicians and a mining project in Patagonia.

Guntram thought that he could escape when the lunch finished at 2:00, but it was a short lived hope as Oblomov told him to wait for him in his office.

He was surprised to see Constantin coming instead of Oblomov and he stood up very nervously.

“Hello Guntram, I'm glad you followed my advice.”

“Please Mr. Repin, I don't want to discuss this with you.”

“Why?”

“My reasons are mine.”

“Why are you so formal? Did you not quit your work and finish the portrait? I was not expecting you could finish it and I must admit that it's good. Oblomov is satisfied too. Now, would you drop the rebel teenager act and discuss business with me?”

“We have no business to discuss, sir. I only brought the painting.”

“Why don't you accept a scholarship from my foundation? We have more than one thousand five hundred applications each year and we grant two hundred only and most of them will turn into mediocre artists. I think you show a lot of potential but for some reason you're afraid of painting. Why is that?”

“I have to make a living. I don't have much space to play the artist. I can't afford to lose money or time.”

“Why? Going to Europe now would only cost you a month or two in your life. If we consider a life expectancy of seventy-five, then is less than 0.2% of your life. Not much to decide if you would like to do it or not. I can't understand why you prefer the grey life of an accountant or the parish prude when you could be a good artist. If you're looking for security in your life, study Art History and become an expert and live from that. Do you have any idea how much an art commissar in London or an arts dealer makes? Much more than a poor clerk in a bank. However I don't think that money is the issue here. It's something much deeper.”

“I truly don't want to speak about it.”

“That's not very reasonable, Guntram. Satisfy my curiosity and I'll leave you alone.”

“Painting is the problem,” Guntram mumbled.

“I was under the impression that you liked it.”

“Too much… I fall into it and everything ceases to exist… The last time my father was in Argentina, I was seven years old and he had brought me a pencil case. I was with him at his flat and we were together. He was speaking very upset over the phone with someone, I don't know who, in French and he asked me to sit and draw something to carry with him. I did it and I lost track. I never knew when he left the house to take his plane back to Paris. The nanny told me he had kissed me and took my drawings with him, but I didn't realise. He was dead one week after and I couldn't say good-bye to him.”

“How did he die?”

“Suicide, jumped out of a window.”

“Perhaps he didn't want to say good-bye to you and wanted that his last image of you would have been his son doing what he loved most. It's not your fault what he did. He might have serious reasons to do it.”

“Yes it was. My mother died in childbirth and I think he blamed me for it. He never said a thing, but he missed my mother a lot and was always speaking about her. He was convinced that I was going to be an artist as I was always crying to get pencils or paper and drawing everywhere, if you get my meaning.”

“This is why you're so afraid to paint?”

“Don't you get it? I missed the chance to kiss my father good-bye!”

“Have you never considered that his last memory of you was one of a happy child, doing what he loved best?

That's no reason to deny yourself to do what you love best. Why do you punish yourself for this? You didn't force him to do it.”

“I know,” Guntram said absently and sad at the same time.

“Take my offer and come to Europe just for a month. Come with me tomorrow if you want. We're going back to London. There's enough room in the plane.”

“I can't do that. I can't just go away!”

“Why? You're jobless and to wait for a month to start to look for another job, if you come back, or work with Zakharov is not much.”

“I have to finish this term at school! I have a house!”

“All right, when do you finish your tests?”

“Mid-December.” Guntram said not truly believing that he had more or less given his accord to the trip and perhaps to accept a total stranger's support, based on who knows what. 'Is not that you have much more to choose from, Guntram'

“Then, come from mid-December onwards. Maria Ulanovna will arrange the details. I'll send her over, now.”

“I…”

“Good day to you Guntram,” Constantin finished the conversation, leaving the room back to his office.

'What do I do now?' was all what Guntram could think about.

“Well Sir, you have to complete and sign these forms for you scholarship application. I assume it would be valid from November onwards and the payments will be initially done in the account you provided us,” the middle aged secretary explained a still dazed Guntram once more

“Should I not give you a copy of my school records?”

“It would be nice if you could send them by mail to me. In regard of the capability tests, the Lara Arseniev Trustee Fund uses, Mr. Repin says that is enough with the material at his disposal.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Repin asks if you want to accompany him this afternoon to the new Latin American Arts Museum. He has an appointment with the General Director and the owner, Mme. Achaval will go also.”

“I know the owner. His third son was one class ahead of mine. I’m not sure if he remembers me. I was several times at his birthday parties.”

“Well, in that case it shouldn't be a problem for you to come. If you want to go home and change into cocktail attire you should hurry. Mr. Repin leaves at 6:15 p.m.”

“Thank you, but I should go to the university, really.”

“Not everyday you get to meet the Director of one of the most important museums in Latin America, it's a very good opportunity and if you allow me to say it, Art is not ten percent inspiration and ninety percent work. Art is ten percent inspiration, forty percent public relations and fifty percent work.” The old lady smiled.

“I'll be back at 6:15 just because I don't want to insult Mr. Repin.”

The banker's office was on the top floor of the Museum overlooking the blue flowered trees. After insistently looking at Guntram, Bronstein laughed when he heard his name, finally remembering the shy boy who used to come to his middle son's birthday parties with a lawyer or a teacher from the school; that young noble French, the Vicomte of somewhere.

“I remember you clearly. You're Mariano's friend from the school, Guntram. Do you know, Mr. Repin that I paid unbeknownst—the first stages of his artistic career?”

“How so? Guntram says he never planned to study arts.”

“Mariano, my son, was in the same class and they became friends at school when they were ten or twelve. At some point, my wife tells me that my son wants good quality temperas, oils, watercolours and papers when he was only interested in football and girls. “Buy it,” I told her, not caring at all. Then, my son brought his grades home and he had a nine in Arts when the most he was making was a six and I know that my son can't draw even if you put him in front of a firing squad. It was very strange, but I said nothing. Next semester, he comes home with a ten and I say,

“Mariana, this is impossible,” and I asked for his Art portfolio and all the works were accurately done so I asked my son “who has done it?” “Nobody,” after pressing a lot, I found out that those two had an arrangement. Guntram was making his homework—and for several more in the class—in exchange for drawing materials and the teachers never found it out! I forbid my son to do it again, but I think this young man changed his style and continued with this over the years. The teachers never caught him.”

“I'm sorry for the delusion, Mr. Bronstein. I didn't realise at the time it was wrong to do it.”

“No, it's all right. I was also doing such trades in school, like everybody else,” he chuckled.

“We all start like this,” Repin chuckled. “I hope he starts to sign his own work now and doesn't make the other students homework. We should count his pencils when he comes home to see what he has been doing.”

“That's a good idea, trust me,” Bronstein mirrored the Russian’s laughter to immediately switch back to seriousness and continue with the conversation. “Regarding of your proposal, we have studied the list of artworks you're willing to lend us and it's most impressive, but the cost is too high. We can't cover them with the sales tickets.

Just the insurance is around one percent of their value.”

“Then, I'll take them to Europe and Russia. After all, some of them were on loan in your collection.”

“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.”