Guntram didn't know how to understand the last sentence as the previous joking tone had disappeared and his friend was looking at him seriously and straight into his blue eyes. He held his breath for a minute as he was truly lost but the idea was ridiculous, so he laughed. “Sure… first tell me where you plan to get the great shaft you spoke about?”
The other feigned an offended look and answered, “In the sex shop. Only the best for you my love, and some leather straps too.”
“And we go to the barn, among the haystacks,” Guntram chuckled.
“You're a pervert!” Fefo said falsely shocked, “besides you get the hay everywhere and in. Not good. I know what I'm speaking about.”
“OK, Fefo, too much information. Go home, now.”
“You don't know what you're missing. One of the best in all Buenos Aires.”
“I can live in blessed ignorance. Now, let's change the subject because my stomach already churns badly.”
“Sure, I'm going on Saturday to Pacha with the guys from the school. Do you want to come with us?”
“Nah, I have to work till 5 p.m. and later study for the mid-term tests. Math is hard.”
“Don't complain. You chose Economics and Social Work at the same time.”
“Yeah, but my money is on Economics; Social Work is more like a hobby. I doubt I could finish that one.”
“I don't know why you waste your time there. It's poor people around! If you finish it, you'll get—with lots of luck—a penniless job for hearing some loser's problems the whole day.”
“They're not losers. Their luck sucks which is a different story. Many want out but they need help, or a push to get out of there.”
“Sure, Mahatma Gandhi.”
“Don't be mean to me. Father Patricio does his best for them and I like to help him.”
“Wait till you run to confess to him and tell him that you have a Russian boyfriend. He's gonna make you eat the censer.” Federico smirked.
“What? I have no boyfriend! Idiot! I was only asking you.”
“Would be good for you. This Oblomov has plenty of money and lots of girls around.”
“Did you just not say he was gay? Or better, you, in your infinite wisdom thought that he was gay?”
“The secretary, that already sounds gay. A tall one, dark eyes, very serious bird, silent like Lurch. That's the one he wants to buy from you. Don't know his name.”
“Repin and he's not that tall. Perhaps 6 feet.”
“That's already much taller than you,” Fefo snorted.
“I'm 5 feet 9!”
“Wow inflationary theory applies to size, midget. You're 5 feet 6. By the way, do you have something to sell?”
“No, nothing,” Guntram confessed very embarrassed as drawing over kraft paper couldn't be considered as
“selling material”.
“Then, don't worry about him any longer, unless you want something else,” Federico winked under Guntram's disapproving gaze.
Three days after the first encounter with the “Russian Secretary Collector”, Guntram had totally forgotten the man because he was very busy with his own work. Tomorrow was his free day and he expected to visit the slum he used to go since he was fifteen-years-old. Too focused on drying several beer glasses with a towel, he missed Verónica coming to him and hitting the counter fretfully with her small hand. “Earth to Guntram! The Asshole is back!”
“Which one?”
“The foreigner. That French guy! He wants you! Can you believe he sent me away? ME?”
“OK, I'll serve him. Can you finish the glasses here?”
“Do I look like the cleaning lady? Martin told you to do it.”
“Exactly. Troublesome customers are your problem today. Not mine. My left wrist is sprained thanks to someone we both know, dropped a full beer crate over it,” Guntram replied rather hotly.
“All right. I'll do it!”
“Thank you.”
“Either you lash them or they are very nasty, Guntram. Keep her under control or next you'll be paying her rent too,” Luis laughed at their exchange, while Guntram was looking for his own tray and apron from under the counter. Verónica gave him the finger before taking the towel and started to dry. “Don't worry, princess, you'll always get one from the Second Division League. Vacheron is too much for you. You're more the ‘made in China’ type of watch.”
“Fuck you!” She roared as Guntram sighed, still not understanding why Luis and Verónica were always fighting for the most stupid things like a customer. He was only two hours from finishing his shift.
“Bonsoir monsieur.”
“Hello Guntram. What happened to your left hand?” Repin asked while his head slightly indicated the elastic bandage around Guntram's wrist.
“Nothing, stupid labour accident. It happens. It's only sprained. Should not move it or carry heavy weights for a week or two. What can I bring you?” He whispered, feeling again very uncomfortable at the close examination he was being subjected to.
“Your hands are your biggest capital. You should take care of them. Have you given some thought to what I told you?”
“I have nothing that could interest you.”
“Don't you paint any longer?”
“Yes, I do but I'm no artist. I draw over old newspapers and kraft paper.”
“What I saw were some watercolours.”
“Yes, from my school time, made on the school's paper, long time ago. Good paper of that weight is very expensive.”
“It's a waste and a shame that you do nothing with your talent. Two merchants think that you show great promise.”
“What can I bring you, sir?” Guntram blurted out.
“Straight coffee and water,” the man barked, infuriated that he had been dismissed so rudely.
Several minutes later, Guntram came back with the coffee and served the water, the Russian completely ignored him, busy with a mobile phone. Guntram stood by him.
“It's all right. You can go,” he said absently.
“I'm sorry if I was rude to you. It wasn't my intention, sir. I don't understand why anyone had the courage to sell something from me but if you like it, I can give you some of my drawings, for free of course. They're worthless, really,” Guntram mumbled ashamed and afraid at his own audacity of speaking with a customer.
The Russian left his phone over the table and looked for a long time at the boy, almost fidgeting in his place.
“They're very good, no matter what you think. To be honest, the first time I saw them, I thought they were made by a seasoned artist and never by a boy. I take your offer but I insist on paying you.”
“I will be robbing you, sir,” Guntram admitted.
“Then, I'll set the price, if that eases your conscience,” Repin decided and folded his hands over the table, his jacquard jacket slightly rising and showing the white cuffs of his shirt and his watch.
“All right,” the boy mumbled, realising that Luis was not joking when he had said Vacheron. That one was a real one and not a made in Paraguay copy. “If you want we could meet tomorrow as it's my free day so I can give you what I have and you can choose what you like.”
“All right, as it's Saturday I can take you out for dinner.”
“No, that's not good. I can't.”
“All right. Tell me what you would prefer, Guntram,” the Russian chuckled finding the boy's reaction totally adorable as he was blushing and thinking hard for a solution.
“There's another big bar, fifty metres from here. It's called Au Printemps, but the light is not so good. If you want you can pass my flat and check what you like. It would be more comfortable. Are you free tomorrow, so I can select what is not too bad?”
“Of course, tomorrow at 10 a.m.?”
“All right, but I have to leave at 11 p.m, as I have another engagement. I'll write you down my address and phone number.”
“Fine,” Constantin growled as he was very displeased that he was shown to the door before even entering.
>
“Good afternoon,” a big man rumbled, with the same Russian accent, standing next to Repin but not sitting until the other made a small gesture with his head.
“Guntram, this is Ivan Ivanovich, my right hand. Get him the same,” he only said while the boy ran away to fulfill his order.
“Quite a long chat, boss. Almost there,” Oblomov chuckled.
“I'm there, he invited me to his own home,” he replied under the astonished look of the other man.
“Never would have guessed. He doesn't look the type.”
“To see his work, what a dirty mind you have!”
“Indeed.”
“This one is like a Château Lafite 1771. You have to palate it, smell the cork. If you rush it in your throat, you'd ruin the taste and the incredible feeling. He's exactly what I always wanted to have. The house in London will be perfect for him.”
Chapter 2
“Guntram, if you're only showing him your work, tell me again why do you need me?”
“For moral support. For Christ's sake George, you're my neighbour… and, you know, the other.”
“OK, and why exactly do you think that one gay man will kick another out? The minute he sees me, boom!
He has to steal you from me. It doesn’t work like that, my boy. Besides, no man with such a good taste and clothes would throw you to your bed to rape you.”
“All right, go away, but leave Lola here,” Guntram exclaimed with a victim's face.
“Sure, my poodle will defend your virginity,” George snorted, shaking his head.
“Please?”
“All right. I'll chaperone your virtue and I hope this guy gets it soon because you're starting to worry me, Guti. You're almost nineteen and nothing so far!”
“I want it to be with a special girl, not humping one in an alley.”
“Sure,” George shrugged sarcastically.
“I'll sweep your place.”
“Don't worry, Guti. I won't let a foreigner to take you away. My friends, is another matter.”
“Be quiet, will you?” Guntram pleaded as he settled in order the twenty something drawings he had found that were made on good quality paper. The rest of his works had been put together and packed in a large cardboard box, standing by the door. “At least, I made a long overdue cleaning.” The bell rang and Guntram felt more nervous than before, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
The Russian certainly knew how to leave his people's name in style, George thought, feeling an incredible desire to watch “Dr. Zhivago” for the fifteenth time. Repin was tall, proudly standing, casually dressed with corduroy light brown trousers, light blue shirt, a brown tailored jacket—according to George's expert eye—silk scarf and a simple but luxurious raincoat. He stood by the door frame waiting for Guntram to allow him in, but the boy was so nervous that he forgot his manners, something that Constantin found endearing.
“Standing won't do dear,” George interfered, quickly catching the fleeting look of adoration the Russian had given his young friend when he had seen him. 'Someone has really the kicks for somebody ' , he thought.
“I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Mr. Repin, may I introduce you to Jorge Martínez de los Ríos. He's my neighbour.”
“How do you do?”
“Hello,” George said shaking his hand. “Guntram I have to walk Lola now, the poor animal is about to explode,” he informed in a firm way to the very pale boy. “I'll be back home in twenty minutes, call me if you want to have breakfast with me. Good-bye, sir.”
Guntram looked lost when his friend went away, with the white dog merrily jumping and barking around him.
He gulped and closed the door and softly asked the man to sit at his small table. “Would you like a coffee or something to drink?” he asked, looking really miserable and embarrassed.
“No, thank you. May I see the pictures?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry,” Guntram blurted, and extended the portfolio before sitting in front of his visitor.
Repin was completely silent and absorbed for more than forty-five minutes as he slowly looked at the drawings from people, animals and houses made with pencils, charcoal and watercolours and ink. He separated them into three piles, considering carefully each one of his decisions.
“Did you never study with a real teacher?”
“No, only at the school. I was an intern student and couldn't leave on my own. Painting always relaxed me.”
“Your drawing is completely classical in structure and technique. These children seem to come from Bronzino's hand or even Raphael, but the subjects are modern in their composition. There's certainly an evolution from what I liked first and what you have now. Before, I only saw a fantastic use of the technique, a very good illustrator, but now I'm starting to see something from the artist himself. I don't understand why you don't study Art or even Art History if you're so talented.”
“I like Economics and helping people. Drawing is useless.”
“Drawing is useless? Art is useless?” Repin roared making Guntram flinch.
“Not Art, my things. I would love to see the real ones, not the copies or the books,” he whispered, feeling completely afraid at the fury the man was radiating and the tension in his back, like a panther waiting for the right moment to jump. “I mean, I have no money. All what I make goes to the flat and to pay my schooling. I don't want to touch what is left from the trustee fund my father settled for my education. I can't afford to play the rebel artist. Heck!
I can't pay for the materials as they're imported and very expensive. An oil tube costs exactly as three days food. No way. Besides, I don't understand Modern Art or even like it too much. Can you imagine me when someone comes along with a chair painted in orange with the back glued to the feet and the feet over the seat? I would tell the artist to get a good carpenter to fix it,” Guntram explained, looking very ashamed to confess his own tight economical situation.
“What artists do now is not unalterable. Art reflects a moment and a defined society. It permanently evolves.
What you don't like now, doesn't necessarily mean that your own creation can't be appreciated. I have sponsored many artists from Russia and Europe. I have established several scholarships for students in many prestigious universities, but I have never seen so far anyone who has your expertise and security while drawing. If you can get that a man like Oblomov, who has zero interest in painting, falling into a trance while looking at your work, then it's not a question of a particular man liking it, but that there's something behind it. Those children over there—I'm sure they're little spoiled brats—are almost hypnotic in their beauty, but then you see those studies of hands and you can feel a worker's strength, the roughness and the blood running through those veins.”
“They're from Carlos. He picks up papers and iron to sell. He has 4 children to feed,” Guntram whispered completely inhibited at the praises he had heard. “Damn! Is it 11:00 already?” He remembered his appointment.
“11:15”
“I'm sorry, I have to run. You can stay if you want. I'll be back in a few minutes. Make yourself at home,” he blurted while he picked up the heavy box, grimacing at the effort of using his left hand.
“Wait, let me help you, you can't use your hand,” Repin said.
“Mr. Repin, I don't want to inconvenience you.”
“Constantin. And it's no problem. That's not too heavy. What do you have in there?”
“Trash. I have to give it to Carlos. He must be waiting for me and the police kick him out if he stays for too long in one place,” Guntram said pushing the elevator button.
A horrible idea was forming in Repin's brain. 'It can't be. He wouldn't do that. If he does it, it's to kill him…
No, I couldn't kill my angel, he needs to be taught and led. He's so beautiful, almost ethereal.”
A man in his mid-fifties, dressed like a beggar and carrying a small cart was waiting for Guntram. “Hi Carlos, sorry I'm late.”
“No problem. Is tha
t all the paper you have?”
“Yes, seven kilos, I guess.”
“Great! Thank you. Will you come by later?”
“Sure,” Guntram shrugged to Constantin's horror. Unable to stand it any longer he asked none too gently
“What does this man carry?”
“My drawings, the last ones, but they're done in kraft paper or newspapers. Nothing good really. He can sell it.”
“How much does he get?”
“Around three pesos per kilo.”
“Tell him that I will give him 100 pesos for the box,” Constantin sighed.
“That's a lot of money!”
“Just tell him!” The Russian barked, forcing Guntram to obey him immediately.
Carlos was more than happy to get 100 pesos for the paper and accepted gladly. Out of nowhere, a big and very tall man appeared and took the box from the poor man's hands before he would approach Constantin, who ordered him something in Russian. The man paid the amount and quickly disappeared with the box under his arm.
Guntram was shocked as Constantin pushed him toward the foyer.
“I have lunch with an arts dealer who wants to sell me a collection in the afternoon. Get your coat and come with me,” he simply ordered, his patience finished after the sacrilege he had been forced to witness.
“I can't, I promised to go and help at the parish.”
“If you need to change your clothes, do it now. It's informal,” Constantin said, disregarding what the boy had said, too upset that the boy had just sent all his work to the recycling bin.
“I'm afraid I can't accompany you, sir.”
“It's not open for discussion. Come, it's in my house and you can look at the small collection I have there.
Nothing big, but good for Latin American painters. I wanted to buy some Argentinean painters. Now move, and get your portfolio with all the things you showed me, but keep the piles as I have organized them. Come, now,” he finished the sentence with an imperious gesture.
For a minute, Guntram thought that he should slam the door in the rude bastard's face but the temptation to see real artworks and someone's private collection was too strong. 'I hope Father Patricio understands', he thought while he closed the door and undressed to get his “working interviews outfit”; the grey wool trousers, the light blue jersey, white shirt and striped blue tie. He quickly combed his hair again and put the drawings together. 'At least, it's a free lunch and show.'
Into the Lion's Den Page 2