“Reading Proust; what do you think he was doing with two floozies?”
“The day after, on the 29th?”
“Drawing at the Louvre.” The cretin laughed at me and I exploded. “Yes, I study Art History and paint.
I have an upcoming exhibition and I was stealing some ideas!”
“Can you prove it? Do you have the tickets?”
“I don't collect tickets but there must be a hundred security cameras there! Look for the idiot copying at the Denon wing! I refuse to answer any more questions until you inform me of the charges against me.”
“Charges against you? No, no, you're mistaken, this is only a polite talk between us.”
“Mr. de Lisle will leave this interview room this moment, unless you speak frankly.”
“Do you use drugs Mr. de Lisle?”
“You don't have to answer that,” Nicholas told me automatically.
“Of course not!”
“Do you mind if we run a test on you?”
“Certainly I do. You have no right. Get a Judge to back your words, officer!” I said losing my patience and rising to leave the place.
“All right, you're accused of nothing. We only wanted to speak with you about one of your friends, a petty drug dealer.”
“I know no dealer!”
“You called him several times on the 28th and that sounds like someone looking for his fix.”
“I only called Federico Martiarena Alvear and he's a friend from my school days. We were supposed to meet in that café but he never showed up. He didn't call me after that night.”
“The funny thing is that he says that you're the lover of a Russian mobster.”
“I fail to understand how my client's private life is related to your investigation, Inspector,” Lefèbre dryly said and added the blow. “You're bordering on harassment with your questioning. Guntram we go, now.”
“I can hold the boy in a cell for twenty-four hours and you know it.”
“And I can return you to the parking tickets era if you try it.”
“Did you say that Federico is a drugs dealer? Impossible! He has a lot of money, he has no need to do it. It's all a mistake.”
“He accuses you of bringing a half a kilo from London.”
“What? I did nothing of the sort!”
“You came in a private flight.”
“Our luggage was checked and a French dog sniffed us and everywhere. The stewardess was furious because she's allergic to them and that stupid policeman didn't listen and put the bloody animal almost on top of her.
A doctor had to inject her with cortisone! Check the airport's records!” I cried.
“We will, don't worry. Look, son, you look like a sensible young man, substance abuse is not as bad as trafficking. Tell me what I want to know and I will do my best to help you.”
“What do you want to know? I haven't seen him in a year. He works in the Argentinean Senate and I live in London.”
“This man you live with, what do you know about his activities?”
“Guntram you don't have to answer more questions.”
“He's an important businessman. Ask him.” I answered truly pissed off.
“Don't leave the town during the investigation,” the idiot said as if he were Horatio Caine or Grissom from CSI.
We left the police station and the lawyer was chuckling in his car. “Must be in the genes, no doubt.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you the son of Jerôme de Lisle? We went together to Law School, Sorbonne in 1968. It was quite a surprise to be your attorney. I'm mostly into tax law. Your father was an incredible lawyer. Never lost a case or a negotiation in his whole life.”
“My father was working in a bank, not a lawyer.”
“He was the head of the legal affairs of a Geneva based bank. I still copy from him. You look almost exactly like him, not the hair or the eyes, those are Cécile's. Do you want to go for a coffee?”
“Yes, of course.” I couldn't believe my luck. This was the very first time that I knew someone who had been a friend of my parents. We sat at a small place he took me, near the police station. It was almost empty, with the exception of a man, also in his early sixties, drinking a coffee and having a piece of apple cake. For a second he reminded me of my father. Lefèbre took a table next to him and the window.
“Do you want one too? Apple cake.” The lawyer laughed at me. “Exactly like him. He would have sold his soul for a piece of apple cake.”
“I know, he was always taking me to the same place in Buenos Aires to get a warm piece with vanilla ice cream on top and cinnamon sprinkled all over.” I smiled at the memory.
“How's your lawyer, Martínez Estrada? Crazy, but a good man. Was he nice to you?”
“How do you know about him?”
“I recommended him to your father when he was looking for an executor of his will for you. Was he good to you?”
“He always did his best to take care of me. He was taking me with his family on the holidays whenever he could. His wife was not so happy to have a third wheel and his children didn't like to have extra competition. He defended my money and made it last all over my schooling. How is that you work for Mr. Malchenko?”
“He's one of my clients. I'm Senior Partner in a Brussels based law firm. I specialize in making your taxes bearable and your contracts atomic bomb proof.” He made me laugh. “I survived a divorce, no children and come to Paris three days per week. My cat ran away on a love adventure; don't know when he will be back. Tell me about you. Do you live in London?”
“Yes, I live in London and study Art History. I paint also.”
“And you live with a man.” I blushed at his words.
“Yes, Constantin Repin. I don't know why the police are interested in him. He's the owner of a big oil company and some transport too. He has a Foundation for sponsoring artists and gave me a scholarship to study here. We met in Buenos Aires because he was interested in some of my pieces and we fell in love later.” There I said it blushing more violently than before as the stranger with the apple cake was piercing me with his grey, no green eyes.
What's wrong with you? Never seen a gay before?
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, I am. Constantin is very kind and nice to me. Had it not been for him I should be still serving tables and drawing over napkins. I think I love him very much and he returns my affections,” I whispered.
“If you're happy with this solution, no one can complain about it. Are you doing something with your gift for drawing? Your father told me that he had to protect his papers from the little Guntram and his pencils. He was convinced that you were going to be an artist.”
“I have improved. I don't attack important papers any longer,” I chuckled. Yes, that's true, my poor papa was always placing his portfolio has high as he could. “I'm studying with a fancy teacher, but it's not working at all.
If Constantin wouldn't be nagging me that he's so important; the St. Peter of the galleries, I would dump him. Anyway, I have an exhibition at Robertson's next August. It's a well-known place and the owner is my manager. He sells my pieces ‘quite successfully, young man, keep on with the good work’.” I impersonated his crisp accent and he laughed.
“Do you remember your father?”
“Yes, I do and I still miss him. I don't know why he did it. He was always looking so full of life when he was visiting me. I guess he never forgave me for my mother's.”
“Do you really think that? Your father loved you with all his soul. Your mother had a serious heart condition but they wanted to have the baby despite the risks. He was always speaking to me about you. It was really a pity that he was so sick in the end. He had the same cancer as your grandmother; pancreas cancer, very painful. He coped with a lot of shit just to save all the money he could for your education.”
“I didn't know he was sick. No one ever told me.”
“Perhaps Chano wanted to save you the pain.”
“The important thing is that you're happy now. I would love to see your work.”
“I have not much to show you. Most things are in London. I was here only for a week to visit this
“friend”. I really don't understand him. He calls me in Christmas, makes me come here and then he stood me up. And now I'm accused of bringing him half a kilo of something.”
“Choose better your friends next time. If you ever need a lawyer or want to talk, you can do it with me.
I'll give you my card. Perhaps you need to, if you went to visit his grave yesterday.”
Why that French was looking at me? Mind your own business! “Yes, I miss him and I wanted to see him and my mother. There were some flowers at her grave but nothing by his. I believe she had still some old aunts and someone must have left some daisies. This is childish, but I left him a letter too. I visited him a year ago when I was for the first time in Paris, but it was so shocking for me to be there, that I only left the flowers. I guess that when I read his name on the stone, I realised that it was true and he was not coming back.”
“I really would like to see your material, Guntram. Perhaps you could show me what you have at home.
We have to return before Malchenko raids the police station.”
“I saved my skin from the police but Constantin will kill me when he hears that Federico got me into a drug mess.”
“You did nothing wrong and they have nothing against you.”
“I can't leave the country,” I pointed out.
“I'll speak with the judge and there will be no problem.”
“Thank you. I can only pay you with paintings.”
“They will be much appreciated, child. More than you can imagine,” he said thoughtfully. The Frenchman was still listening to our conversation and I was feeling very uncomfortable but somehow he looked familiar, as if I would have seen him before.
He brought me back home and spoke for a long time with Boris. He's not happy at all but he's not cross at me. I don't know what's wrong with him. It wasn't exactly my fault! Lefèbre forbade me to speak with any member of Federico's family and was very happy to get several of my drawings. I'll send him an oil painting from London.
January 6th
I can return to London. I'm cleared of whatever they were trying to frame me. Constantin is very upset about the whole mess and he's right. I should have paid more attention to his words. I'll do what he tells me in the future. He's very intelligent and knew that Fefo would get me into trouble once more.
The only positive thing of this nightmare is that I met one of my father's friends.
Chapter 11
May 23rd, 2004
The special project on English Renaissance painters was proving to be a difficult one, but Guntram and his team mate, Anne, were doing their best to gather the information and organise the paper due in two week’s time.
After working for several hours, they could distribute the tasks and texts and decided to go for a coffee to the University's cafeteria.
In the middle of his attack on a nut muffin, Guntram heard a very familiar voice yelling from the other side of the bar “Guti!” at the top of their lungs. “It can't be you!” He lifted his gaze from the textbook he was distractedly looking and saw one of his former classmates from Argentina briskly walking toward him.
“Juan!” Guntram also shouted, not believing his eyes and giving him a big embrace and almost bending under the brutal pats from his friend.
“What are you doing in London? I thought you were in Argentina!”
“I live here since 2002,” Guntram said. “What are you doing here? Were you not in Architecture?”
“I came to use the library; a paper for historical architecture, something about William Morris.”
“We also have troubles of our own. Anne, may I introduce you an old friend of mine? Juan Dollenberg.”
“Hello, Juan,” She greeted him briefly. “Nice to meet you. Guntram, I'll see you tomorrow.”
“All right, thank you for your help,” Guntram answered, wondering why she had disappeared so fast.
“All of them run when they see a nice German Gaucho,” Juan sighed. “Were you not in Economics? I never heard anything more about you since we finished school.”
“I did part of the introductory course and then changed to Art History. Here at UCL. I'm on the second year.”
“That's surprising, but logical. You were always drawing and doing our homework for papers and pencils,” Juan chuckled. “None of the boys has any fresh news about you, since a year or so.”
“We stopped writing. I'm not living in Argentina any longer and when you're abroad the best is to sever all ties with the past. I suffered a lot from homesickness and decided to focus on my studies and painting. Do you know I'm going to have an exhibition this June?”
“No, no idea. That's great. Where?”
“It's a gallery in Mayfair, Robertson's.” Guntram sat down and Juan did the same, leaving his laptop's bag on the floor. “I still speak with Father Patricio and my old neighbour, but no one else. I fought with Federico when I came here, in 2002, because he didn't like my choice of lifestyle. We spoke again last December, but he stood me up in Paris. Since then, I decided to concentrate in what I have here. No one from the school would really understand me and I don't want to fight with them.”
“Why? That you paint is what we all expected you would do. Heck! I remember now that someone wanted to buy one of your paintings. My sister-in-law sold several watercolours to a Russian! He was convinced you had a lot of talent.”
“I live with the Russian,” Guntram articulated the words very softly and slowly, not looking at his friend in the eyes. He took a sip of his cold coffee to shake off the nervousness.
“You share a flat?”
“Not really, he has a house. I live with him. He's my boyfriend.”
“Wow,” Juan said in total shock. “I mean, it's not what I expected to hear. Wow!”
“This is why I fought with Fefo. He never understood it and we had troubles in Paris. I still don't understand what happened there.”
“YOU DONT KNOW?” Juan shouted and looked at Guntram petrified how he was rowing the coffee in the plastic cup.
“I was there, but I had nothing to do with it. One day before Christmas he called me here and asked me to visit him in Paris. I went there and he left me for two French girls. The next day the police came and almost accused me of drug trafficking because Fefo had told them I had supplied him some drugs. My lawyer advised me against speaking with him.”
“Federico died in March, Guntram,” Juan said very solemnly. “In a French prison. He was awaiting trial.”
“No, what he had was only for consumption! Nothing big. That's was the police told me! This is not possible!” Guntram said, feeling an oppression in his chest. He fought to keep his calm but it was useless. He covered his eyes, squeezing them to prevent the tears from falling down.
“I thought you knew. I don't know the details, but it was a fight between many interns and he got stabbed. His family took him back to Argentina. The whole class but us went to his memorial service. We were shocked that you were not there. You were always risking your neck for him.”
Guntram took his handkerchief from his pocked and rubbed his eyes to stop the tears.
“Do you want a coffee? Shit! I'm an idiot!” Juan cursed himself, taking his friend's hand in a futile effort to provide some comfort. “I swear I thought you knew. Nobody wrote you?”
“No one at all,” Guntram whispered. “I don't understand why this happened. He told me he was working for a senator; that he wanted to stop getting into messes and start to be decent. He had no need to sell drugs. He had a lot of money.”
“Guntram, he was providing them back in school. I'm not surprised this happened. This is why my brother Pablo didn't let me speak with him. It's a miracle you didn't ge
t in the middle. His group of friends was always into this shit. Coco told me once that he and Mariano were nightclubbing with them and they were surrounded by older men and into heavy stuff.” Juan said at the same time he sniffed and touched his nose, raising his right eyebrow.
“Fefo was never into this! I know him!”
“Guti, you never realised it because you were living in a world of your own. We all knew about it.”
“I can't believe it. Is it true? Is it not a joke?”
“Yes, it's real. On March twelfth but I'm not sure about the date. I didn't go as I have a job here and couldn't miss it. We sold our properties in Argentina and moved here. My brother works in an insurance company and you should meet my nephew, Juan Ignacio. He's two years old and a very nice little fellow. He's always into some mischief!” Juan decided to switch the topic. “I have pictures of him.”
“I'm glad for you,” Guntram said automatically, unable to believe that Fefo was dead. He remained sitting there while his friend talked about his life in London. He felt worse and worse and had to ask Juan to be excused because he needed to be alone.
Guntram left the building walking like a zombie to be nearly run over by a car, too stunned to know where he was going. Two streets away from the university, a large BMW stopped next to him and Yuri ordered him to get inside the car. The boy looked at him as he didn't know the man and stood motionless, not hearing the other cars blaring their horns at the BMW.
“Get in! Now!” Yuri roared once more and Guntram seemed to return to his senses. He opened the passenger's door and sat, hugging his backpack, deathly pale and panting. “What the fuck did you take, boy?”
“Nothing. Fefo is dead since two months and I didn't know it,” Guntram whispered and started to sob uncontrollably.
'Fuck! He knows about the little job. Massaiev has to fix this one.' “Guntram, that boy tried to frame you in a drugs case!”
“He was my best friend,” the youth whispered with his eyes fixed on the board.
“Best friends don't rat you out.”
But Guntram didn't hear him as he was now openly crying. Yuri decided to ignore him and drive.
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