“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.”
Into the Lion's Den Page 6