Into the Lion's Den

by Tionne Rogers

  “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.”

  Chapter 4

  October 19th, 2001

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

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

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

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

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

  Perhaps the previous night fight had been too much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where you not living in the Soviet Union?”

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

  “Is Constantin here?” Guntram suddenly realised.

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

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