There was a nice psychologist woman who spoke with me very lengthy about my new life as a cardiac heart patient, sweetly informing me of the long list of things to avoid, like living for example. We never spoke about what happened that day and I was glad for it. I wanted the memories to go away and took gladly every sleeping pill they gave me. The doctors released me yesterday and they kept me in sort of “pharmaceutical cloud”, stunned and happy. I was sleeping most of the time, almost not talking as it took a lot of energy to do so.
Constantin was with me all the time and I can't be furious with him even if I should. He slept on a couch and didn't leave my side not for a single moment. I think Oblomov was tired of bringing sandwiches and coffee for him. Mikhail came by several times but he wasn't staying, only speaking in Russian with the “boss”.
I understand now the meaning of the nickname. It wasn't familiarity or camaraderie. It was his rank. If you make deals with a man like Lintorff and he also helps you with your finances, some of his own trash should stick to you. He's neither clean nor Constantin.
“Is it true what your wife told me?”
“Yes, my angel. I never wanted you to be involved with my world. I love you too much to hurt you.”
“How could you lie to me? I loved you.”
“I never wanted to lie for so long, but I was terrified that you would leave me the minute you heard about her.”
“I destroyed a family, Constantin. I deprived your children from their father. What kind of trash am I?
I'm going back home and I hope I never see you again.”
“I will not let you go away. You belong to me and you're too sick to be left alone. I will look after you till you're fine again. Everything will be perfect again. I'll make my wife pay for this.”
“Pay for defending her own children? You are the one who should be asking her forgiveness. I never knew you were married! You cheated on her all the time! This is how you take your oaths to God?”
“It was a civil marriage. No God involved at all. She always knew of my inclinations. We married because she liked my money and I liked her father's contacts within the Politburo in Moscow. Nothing else. We had the children just to keep a façade. Russian society does not accept homosexuality as well as in Europe.”
“You're a mobster!”
“Not all my income comes from a legal source, Guntram, but that's very common in Russia. I'm trying to become completely legitimate.”
“You deal with other humans' misery! You sell drugs to children, weapons to murderers and people to perverts! How can you live with that?”
“I don't do many of those things. Those are my business associates. I'm mostly into Transport, Oil, Energy and weapons. Over the years, I've left the other aspects of my business. I want to leave it. I want that you come with me and live with my children, in St. Petersburg. They will adore you.”
“Are you crazy? They should be with their mother!”
“Olga Fedorovna will not come near them any longer. It's my decision. It's final. She dared to touch my most beloved possession.”
“You can't do that!”
“You can't become too nervous. Rest now my angel as I will take care of you. I swear that no one will ever take you away from me ever again.”
He left the room and immediately Mikhail was there to make sure that I would sleep, but it was useless because that brief conversation had just left me exhausted.
I've tried to reason with Constantin about letting me come back to Argentina but he's deaf as a wall. It's St. Petersburg with his children or London. I can't go back to that place. I really can't. I was so happy there but now the mere idea of returning makes me start to breathe like a raging bull and have an oppressive feeling in the chest.
The doctors told me that those are the symptoms of an angina, a condition also included with this myocardial hypertrophy.
I'm in a hotel room in London, very elegant and expensive place but I feel very bad because I know that this is paid with the money he might have gotten from a guerilla group in an African country or some pills sold to stupid teenagers or a poor woman raped to death to make some extra dollars.
Today I was introduced to my personal physician. A Russian: Yuri Andropovich. He will be always with me in St. Petersburg and oversee my recovery. He repeated more or less the same speech that the doctors in the hospital gave me and told me that I was not to return to school for the next term, that I should rest as much as I can, that I would have to take like six different pills and I should relax as much as possible. He's not happy that we fly back to Russia as it could be very taxing for me, no matter if it's a private jet and he will be with me the whole time.
I don't want to go to St. Petersburg. I want to go back to Buenos Aires.
Mikhail felt very tired. Not because of the boy, who could almost not move, still in a lot of pain from the surgery, drained from his time in the hospital and utterly sad that his dream prince was a really ugly snake. 'Time to grow up, Guntram, time to grow up, my child.' No, he was tired of the continuous surveillance Repin had inflicted upon him and his charge. More security around than ever before, more pressures to present reports on the boy's doings, and the ban on leaving the rooms. Guntram had almost not reacted at anything and that concerned him very much. He was like a frightened automata; obeying every single command, only shouting a little when Repin had told him about his plan to take him to Russia; nearly having a third heart attack the minute they had been in the hotel lobby, full with a businessman convention, so much that he had had to take him to the suite as fast as he could. He ate almost nothing, refused to watch TV or read a book and only wrote in his folder for a long time. When he was hopeful that whatever he might have written could give them an idea of what had occurred in that wretched cellar, the boy had destroyed all the pages, throwing them to the toilet and flushing it. Mikhail had brought his folders and pencils, the ones Guntram loved the most, but he didn't look at them at all; he just sat by a window looking at the street, and doing nothing else. Repin arrived for dinner and the boy refused to change. To his utter relief, his employer let the offence go unpunished. The boy fidgeted with the food all the time and forgot to take his night pills. Repin scolded him, but he did not pay attention at all.
At ten, Repin sent Massaiev away as he had decided to spend the night with the child.
“Come my angel, it's very late and you must be tired,” Constantin whispered, not willing to frighten him as he was strongly reacting to any word spoken louder than normal, a noise or a simple gesture. His whore of a wife had done much more than physically hurt him; his angel feared him because of her lies. Guntram didn't eat properly, speak nor show interest about anything when before his eyes were always shinning and looking everything in a mixture of awe and happiness. Not any longer; his sorrow was physically palpable. Guntram stood undecided by the bed. Was Constantin planning to stay? Most probably as he was removing his jacket and tie. His heart started to beat very fast and he had to sit on the bed because he felt very dizzy.
“Do you need help with your clothes, my dear?” Constantin asked solicitously while he removed his own shirt.
“No, I'm fine,” Guntram said so quietly that the man had to make an effort to hear him. “I'll ask Mikhail to help me with the buttons.”
“Don't you prefer that I do it, darling?” Constantin asked sounding somehow upset.
' He will follow you like a puppy all over the world, killing everyone in his path to have you back, like that friend of yours, the one with the drug problem. Constantin checks all your letters and conversations and hated him,' Olga's words pierced his brain and Guntram realised that from now onwards he would be extremely careful because the wrong word could awaken the monster standing in front of him. He gulped before saying out loud. “I'm afraid the doctor said no sex for some months, Constantin. My heart couldn't handle it.”
“My dear, I know it and I would never do anything that could hurt you,” Constantin said advancing and firmly catching
Guntram by the waist, feeling a bit disappointed at the unwillingly breath intake from his angel when he put his arms around his slim frame. “I just want to sleep next to you and cuddle with you, like you love so much to do. Do you have any idea how horrible it was for me to see you lying in that bed, unable to do a thing for you, only one hour per day? Not knowing if you would be back at all? Let me help you, please.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was so bad for you too,” Guntram muttered as he let the man remove, with infinite care his clothes, doing his best to avoid touching the plaster on the left hand and the bandages around his torso. The bruises had disappeared but Constantin was aware that the scars would remain forever. “Are you in pain?”
“No, I feel fine. I want to start to leave the painkillers.” “It's not a good idea, the pain increases your stress; you should take the pills whenever you need, the scar tissue is very sensitive.” “As you wish, Constantin,” Guntram answered meekly as the man finished buttoning his pyjama jacket. He escaped to the bathroom to calm himself down.
“Do you mind if I take the right side, Constantin? The doctor said I should not sleep over the heart's side and the plaster also doesn't help much.”
“Of course,” said the man, changing his place. Once Guntram laid down, he put his arms around him and checked that he was well covered. “My love, I was thinking about your refusal to come to Russia.”
“Will you let me go back home?”
“Home? Your home is with me Guntram,” Constantin clarified sternly, making the boy flinch. “I'm more thinking in a detour. We could stay for a few days in Paris till you feel better. You can start to draw again there. You always liked the city.”
“I don't know if I can do it again,” Guntram confessed. “She said that you loved me because of my art and perhaps this is for the best.”
“Drawing is what keeps you alive! Never forget that!” Constantin shouted, jumping out of the bed while Guntram sat terrified, huddling against the capitonée headboard.
“I'll draw if you want, please don't be upset,” Guntram said, fearing that the man would take revenge on someone else for his own stupidity. Had he not killed that poor French banker because the man was insinuating him during one party or that Dutch march and for trying to kiss him in the storage room?
“No, my dear, please don't be nervous. You understood it all wrong,” Constantin said very sweetly, advancing on his fours over the bed till his body efficiently trapped Guntram's under him. “You can't stop painting now. Your exhibition was a success. Everything is sold and I wasn't buying it. We were in the hospital but Oblomov attended the vernissage. Your manager, Robertson was very glad. Ivan told me that the place was full with the best of London's society and many were very impressed by your paintings. Your teacher was also there and he was transfixed when he saw the series of nude women. “Glorious, just glorious,” he opined. He told Ivan that he does not understand why you behave like an imbecile at class and then you can paint such things when you're alone. I saw many of the pieces at your studio, before they were packed away and they were wonderful. How can you give grace, make ethereal some punks sitting on a bench drinking beer on their social security money, it's beyond me. The pictures with children and poor people were a frenzy; sold on the first night.”
“Really?”
“You should speak with the man tomorrow. I want to see it too. We can take the plane in the afternoon to Paris, my love.”
“Constantin, I don't want to see people!”
“Just your manager. The man sent you two baskets. Don't ask me where they are, my men were hungry and nervous all the time,” he chuckled, relieved that Guntram was showing some interest in something. “Be glad his cards survived them. Besides he has a check for you: Almost £ 56,000 from the sales.”
“Keep the money, Constantin. I don't want it.”
“Why? It's your work!” He shouted enraged again, but this time Guntram didn't react at all. “All right, don't keep it. You don't need it, but you could send it to the priest in Argentina. Are you going to let a rich merchant keep it so he can buy more champagne for his filthy rich customers?”
“No, you're right. They could use it much better than I.”
“Exactly, besides you need nothing else as you have me and I will take care of you as I see fit, my love.
You will be happy with me again.”
“Guntram, come out of the car in this moment. You can't stay there for the whole day,” Constantin nearly barked as he had been waiting for the boy to get down for more than five minutes in the middle of a crowded street. Guntram finally emerged from the big Rolls Royce, taking one step backwards when he saw so many people briskly walking past him. His breathing increased its pace and he needed to support himself in the car's roof, looking truly terrified.
“Now, we go in and see your manager. It's just Robertson. He's almost 80,” Constantin huffed.
“I don't want to.”
“Guntram, move. Do you want to abandon everything and paint only for me?”
“No,” Guntram whispered and advanced toward the door but nearly ran away when the bodyguard overtook him to open the door.
'Have to tell the men. No rush moves and not coming from behind.' Constantin realised and gently took the boy by the elbow.
Once inside the gallery, Guntram looked around the familiar open white space and the complete silence was like a balm for his nerves. The receptionist recognised him and greeted him effusively asking him at full speed about his accident. He was only able to crack a nervous smile for her. “Guntram, why don't you show me around while this young lady goes for Mr. Robertson?” Constantin spoke.
They both walked around the two rooms containing his twenty-five paintings and drawings. Almost two years of work of a person he didn't know any longer. For Guntram, everything seemed so alien; had he ever thought that people were like that? Kind, luminous and good? No, they were money-driven, greed and dark, very dark.
“That charcoal with the hands was very celebrated,” Robertson interrupted his musings. “I had several offers for it but it was sold almost immediately. A German colleague bought it. He wants to have you in Berlin. You had four good critics too and one neutral. You can't complain at all, my dear boy.” He finished and carefully shook his right hand, making Guntram flinch at the touch. “It was a very bad car accident. I hope they catch the bastard.”
“Thank you for your notes, Mr. Robertson.”
“Don't mention it! We were all concerned about you. Ms. Smithers came here twice to check if I had news about you. It was after you left work, wasn't it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Guntram is still very shocked about his experience, Mr. Robertson,” Constantin warned the man.
“Perhaps he could see the guest book.”
“Yes, of course. Almost finished,” the man replied, taking a small leather bound folder from a nearby table. “Not again!” he complained when he saw a young woman making a photo out of a pastel. “With flash on top!
Excuse me; I have to get the bumpkins out. They can't read a sign and much less understand a simple logo. Madam!”
The Russian took the boy by the arm and started to look at the paintings, but Guntram said nothing but a few monosyllables in response to his questioning. The man's mobile phone rang and Constantin left the room, speaking very fast in Russian.
Guntram's attention was caught by a middle age woman, very simply dressed, looking at the series of children from the slum. She seemed to be in awe and he started to become restless under the close scrutiny of his paintings. 'It's just a school teacher, nothing else,' Guntram tried to calm himself down. 'She's just looking at your painting; she has nothing to do with you.'
“Don't you think it's nice?” The woman asked Guntram, nearly sending into panic. “You look so upset about it.”
“It's fine.”
“I like it a lot. A colleague from the office told me about it. She saw it during her lunch time. Pity there's no catalog
ue. I couldn't afford the pieces at all. Do you know something about the artist?”
“No,” Guntram blurted out.
“There's only a leaflet with some of the pictures and says that he's from Argentina.” She continued with her chat, fondling with the small booklet's pages. “Here, this one! Do you see these little children? They really look as
“porteños” and the cookies they're eating are the same I was having when I was a little girl! I'm from Argentina and you?”
“French.”
“Did the cat eat your tongue? It's so rare to see something from my own country here, especially after the mess in 2001. People don't like us. Have you been to Argentina?”
“Yes,” Guntram said starting to feel dizzy as his mind was working at full speed evaluating if that woman could be a threat or not. Olga Fedorovna was an elegant lady and she had turned into a bloody monster.
“Really? When and where?”
“Long time ago. Excuse me,” Guntram said desperately, clutching the book just to ease the tension and turning around to go back to the bodyguard standing by the door. “Hey, don't take the book away. I want to write something too!” He heard her shouting and coming to him, extending her hand toward him. Guntram took a step backwards and threw the book over a table, doing his best to avoid being near her, to return to Constantin.
“Freak,” she mumbled, picking it up from the table.
Guntram de Lisle's Diary August 20th 2003
I have been for a week in Paris. Constantin stayed with me the first four days but then, he had to go away on business. I truly don't want to know what they're up to. I think he's in Zürich visiting the Hochmeister from the Order. They're at each other throats because of Morozov's attack on one of the members and making Lintorff lose a lot of money with some Central European country, according to Mikhail Petrovich, and he wanted Constantin dead.
Into the Lion's Den Page 25