“A private boarding school outside Buenos Aires, St. Peter's. All boys.”
“You were studying Art History at UCL?”
“Yes, I finished the first year and started the second. I also took painting lessons with a private teacher in London, but I was not achieving much. I have not much talent, contrary to what people say.”
“Why did you study Art History when the logical choice would have been to register you in St, Martins or something similar?”
“Constantin thought that it was the best because I had such an old approach to things. I was fighting non stop with the other students at the studio. They didn't like what I paint and I thought that they were wasting canvases and oil tubes with their “experimentation”. I can't do it. Why deform nature when it's so perfect?”
“You don't deform nature, you give an interpretation of it. I saw Oblomov's wife portraits and even if they show her features very accurately, you can see much more than the physical aspect. The other one, a naked woman combing her hair was truly beautiful, almost hypnotic in its simplicity and delicacy. I still don't understand what it was doing there.”
“I threw it to the trashcan and Constantin rescued it.”
“Why?”
“I didn't like it. I dislike most of what I paint and I still don't know why I keep doing it.”
“That happens since your encounter with Olga Fedorovna?”
“Could be, I don't know. Mikhail counts the pages so I don't destroy them and takes them away.
Constantin ordered him to do so, but it's no good.”
“We should look for a teacher for you so you don't loose your practice, besides idle youths are bent to get into trouble.”
“It's a waste of money and time.”
“All right, I'll take the pencils away from you.” He said very seriously and I felt as if I've lost another part of me. “Exactly what I thought.” He chuckled. “I'll ask Monika to look for one. She's my private secretary… and we will also count the paper so you stop destroying everything. Should I be concerned about my own art collection in the house? You were looking very carefully at the Madonna in the altar.”
“No, I only destroy my things,” I whispered.
“She's from Riemenschneider. It's funny that you like it, perhaps there's more in the genes than we think.”
“I don't understand.”
“Riemenschneider was very active in Würzburg, Franken. The Guttenberg Sachsen comes from there and they were mostly into wine production and farming. They still have their residence there. Your grandmother was one of them and you take many of their features. That family married twice a Griffin since the Order was established and several times more in the past. From my line even. Perhaps it's in the genes.” He smirked a bit but not in a derogatory way. I didn't know what to say because the conversation was taking a very strange twist once again.
“I don't know much about my family. I only met my father and very briefly as he was always travelling, coming once per month to visit me.”
“I think I have a photo of him with me. I'm not sure. He was our head of legal affairs in Paris and Geneva. Excellent lawyer. I think the ones who replaced him still copy from his work. He told me you were going to be an artist, like your mother and I didn't believe him because at that time you should have been six or seven years old.
Jerôme was more intelligent than I estimated.”
“Could I have that photo, if you find it? My family album is still in Russia.”
“Of course. Must be in the safe box with my personal papers. I can look for it after coffee.”
“Thank you.”
Thank God he decided to leave me alone for the rest of the walk. I enjoyed the forest very much, lost in the trees and the light over them. They were truly beautiful; glistening with the water left from this morning's and you could hear the birds singing. I was so distracted that I failed to notice when he had started to study me again, gauging me and realising the kind of idiot I am. Nothing comparable with the boys he usually plays with, like Constantin, Oblomov or Malchenko just to name a few. I blushed and started to walk faster when I felt his piercing gaze fixed on me. If he's gay, no bisexual, he must have no problems in getting anyone in his bed. He certainly looks very well for his age. He must be around Constantin's age or perhaps a bit older. His eyes are something and that dangerous-commanding aura around him makes him also sexy. Shit! Guntram what are you thinking now? He's the man who killed your whole family and you find him sexy? You're crazier than you thought.
“Normally Sundays are a stress free day. I don't work and stay in the house reading or watching a film. I wanted to be a historian but the family business got in the way and I studied Business Administration here in Zurich and made my PhD. at the London School of Economics when I was already managing the bank at twenty-eight. I had to move for two years to the London house so I could work and study at the same time. It was hard to keep my identity secret because most of the teachers dreamed to get a job with us.”
“Must have been hard,” I smiled softly.
“The only good think about it was to go to Eric Hobswann's lectures even if he's a Marxist. He has a very broad approach on times. Almost like Toynbee.
“I only read the book about the Bourgeois Revolutions in the University.”
“He has many more. You can take them from the library and read them. I also like Art History a lot, but I must confess that if I buy something Modern is only as an investment and because my adviser has driven me mad for several weeks about buying it. I reached the Impressionists and the rest was too much for my taste. I refuse to pay several millions for a Coca Cola can or a comic illustration.”
“Those are icons of our culture. Perhaps is the culture what you don't like.”
“True. I'm forced to live these times, but I would have preferred to be in Early Middle Ages.” He confessed, looking at me more carefully than before. “Perhaps you have your father's intelligence too. Not many understand me so well after one talk.”
We returned to the castle and he camped in his library with a book, totally engulfed in it as I found my graphite pencils box and a sketch pad left there. At some point he left the room and came back much later.
“Here, I found it,” he showed me an old picture with my father, Ferdinand von Kleist, Lintorff and a man who would look very much like me if I ever turn thirty-five. My father was looking very serious and formal with his tuxedo and the place looked like an elegant hotel restaurant.
“It was taken in Paris, at the Ritz. We used to have the bank's annual party there. The other man is your uncle, Roger Armand de Lisle. Do you know him?”
“No, I never saw him in my life. Only a photo of him with my father when they were children. He never cared about me.”
“You don't know where he is?” he asked, fixing his gaze upon me.
“No. My lawyer tried to contact him through the French Embassy in Buenos Aires, but they never answered any of his calls. He tried with the police, but no luck at all. I know nothing about him. Was he married?”
“I think so.”
“I have an Aunt too.”
“Don't count on it. Why would she be interested in you if her husband didn't care?”
“Yes, you must be right,” I admitted, feeling very bad. I thought for a second that I could get a family too. Idiot!
“The resemblance is remarkable indeed.”
“Pardon me?”
“Between you and your uncle. You almost look like twins, but you're shorter; your hair is a lighter shade of brown and your temper is very different from his.”
“I don't know. My father used to say that I looked like my mother.”
“No, the bone structure is his. The hair and eyes colour not,” he said, taking my chin with some force to inspect me once more. “You truly remind me of someone I met years ago.”
On Monday morning, Antonov the big Russian who “takes care” of me took me to a fancy clinic with Friederich in tow. He spoke with
the doctor in German, Lucius van Horn and the physician examined and then ordered several tests done on me. Lintorff will not be happy when he sees the bill for all the things he ordered. I sincerely hope he doesn't charge this to Constantin. He wanted a CAT even! After I was prodded all what they wanted during the morning and the afternoon (it was a full 9-5 routine) at 5:30 p.m. I got a full preaching from the doctor telling me that my condition was worse than estimated and reported to him from “the Russian doctors” and that it was criminal refusing to give me anti-panic medications when it was so obvious that I needed them. I should be a nice boy and remain stress free. I would like some suggestions on the matter; live at your enemy's house as a collateral for some pocket money he lent to a mobster-; follow the diet (no salt, no fat, no spices, no alcohol, no coffee) I wonder if I'm going to get some food besides boiled chicken wings… But those have a lot of fat in the skin; Don't get cold because it's extra stress for heart failure patients; Do something you like, like painting or reading but something light like a novel; Don't carry weights—by that he means something more than 2 kg—; Take all your medications; you will see a psychiatrist for your problem; You are one step from having the next heart attack or getting a brand new pacemaker; “your body retains a lot of fluids increasing your blood pressure; we have to be careful on how much water you take till this is stabilized. With your condition a diuretic will worsen it.” I got four fucking different pills in three colours; white, yellow and deep red. In the evening I had to dine with Lintorff and he informed me that he had already spoken with the sadist doctor and I should remain in the house for the week till I was feeling better. I tried to convince him to allow me to speak with Constantin but he refused.
“Next Saturday if you behave.”
Chapter 16
Guntram de Lisle's diary
February 23rd, 2004
This morning Friederich took me to Zurich and Antonov drove us there. I was expecting him to put me in the tailor's shop or to another doctor. Since I visited Van Horn, I've stayed in the Castle only walking in the afternoon over the forest or the garden. I'm “officially resting” from the flight and the stress. Luckily, Lintorff disappears early in the morning for work and returns in the evening when he has important people over.
On Monday I was able to escape the dinner because I had a horrible headache due to high blood pressure (Antonov's dixit) and needed to rest, but on Wednesday the Duke had enough and ordered me to be at eight, dressed with a dark suit, tie and the whole regalia in the living room as he had guests (six; two bankers and wives and two industrials from USA visiting his bank) for dinner. “Staying in your room will not solve your sociability problems.” Friederich chose the outfit and checked that I was doing nothing crazy like not combing the hair or putting on a Metallica T-shirt… after all I'm a mobster's former lover crazy artist. I was introduced as “my ward for this year, Guntram plans to continue to study Art History at the UZC next spring,” (???) and sent to the end of the table with one of his “preventive warning looks” to be quiet. “Ostermann has accepted to be his teacher.”
“That's incredible. He never takes anybody. Markus and I have been trying for years to convince him to accept our nephew who was among the first places in the Ècole de Beaux Arts,” one of the ladies spoke.
“Perhaps that's because he has no talent at all, my dear.” Markus, the banker, retorted sweetly.
“Ostermann knows what he does. I pity you young man, your lazy days are over with him. His temper is legendary.
Do you know that he had a public fight with Sotheby's Modern Art Director over a Damien Hirst two months ago? He said that it wasn't even an original! The piece was unsold when it was one of the hottest items.”
“Markus, I wouldn't have paid for it regardless of what he tells. It was hideous. One of these days, this man will spread some chicken livers over a canvas, call it “Brueghel Symphony,” and we will be expected to pay millions for it.”
“Konrad you can be so naughty some times!” The other lady laughed. “He's one of the most successful artists nowadays. It's absolute madness every time he has an exhibition!”
“It's also collective madness when the sales season starts but I don't participate, my dear.”
“You're incorrigible!” she scolded him, partly laughing.
“That's why I leave my shopping list to Ostermann. I don't understand Modern Art nor like it.”
“Clever man, you're not dragged to these places like the rest of us,” the American tycoon said. “Claire wants me to accompany her to some vernissage in New York…or was it a museum party?”
“You have my sympathy, Alan.”
Lintorff knows how to move and by hearing speaking with these people, you would never guess who he is or what he does.
I was very surprised to find Pater Bruno at the entrance of an old building outside Zurich. He warmly greeted me and told me that as I had experience with such things, I could help with the packing. “It's an easy job Guntram. You only have to help to classify the products in the boxes. We had the food drive on the Supermarkets a few days ago and the worst part is to organize everything. We will distribute them over the immigrants and send the rest to Caritas. Marie Claire is in charge of everything and she will tell you what to do.”
Inside a big room were several dozens of big wired boxes full of different packages and about twenty-four women and two young boys sorting them out by product and brand. My heart started to beat very fast and I took several breaths, but the Pater Bruno took me by the elbow and told me to be at ease. “Don't worry, we are not forcing you to count them,” he joked. “It could be much worse; sorting out the old clothes container, that's hard. I did a supreme effort to calm myself down and the bloody pills against panic attacks must be working because I could control myself. Marie Claire was a tall woman in her sixties, with white hairs and striking blue eyes. She greeted me in German but immediately switched to English per the priest's orders. “Guntram will be helping you till the afternoon. Mr. Elssäser will pick him up later. Can you explain him what to do, Claire?”
“Yes, of course Pater. He can help Peter and Jürgen.”
“No carrying heavy weights. He has a heart condition. Classifying will do.”
“As you wish Pater. Come Guntram, I'll show you what to do.”
She explained to me that the idea was that I should take over one of the big baskets; get the products out, separate them in noodles, cans, rice, milk powder, cookies and etc. and take them to the tables where they had the big piles. Later we will pack them, organizing them by brand and expiration date. I worked in the sorting out station with four or five girls more, very nice and polite all of them, but more busy with their fast talking in German than really doing something. I think they were glad that I was there working fast and understanding nothing about their dealings.
Against my impression, three hours later and four big baskets emptied, Marie Claire returned and shouted them something in German. “Come Guntram, this is impossible! They do nothing and let you do their work.
Pater Bruno will speak with them later. I'll put you in the boxing section. Are you from Argentina?”
“Not really, madam. I'm French but I lived most of my life there, in Buenos Aires.”
“That's nice. My husband and I were planning to visit the country at some point. He just retired and we have a lot of free time on our hands. Well young man, keep up with what you were doing and don't imitate those lazy girls. Separate them first by brand, type, hypoallergenic, non hypoallergenic, age and then, put them in the box and write brand, consumption age, type and earliest expiration date. Milk is the most urgent thing to have ready to send.”
I was left in front of a huge pile of milk powder cans from every kind. Around 1 p.m. a woman came to me and told me that they were having lunch and I could join them. Very nervous I sat in a corner and kept myself eating the sausage (I guess Friederich will shout with me when he finds out what I was eating) and bread. I left the mustard alone. F
or once, I was having a good day and I didn't want to ruin it with a heart attack. I was very busy the whole morning and afternoon feeling that for once I'm not being a useless bump only drawing and keeping a man satisfied. Around 4 p.m., I got a cup of tea and some cookies and praise from Marie Claire because most of my pile was done.
“If you continue with that pace, you're going to empty the place all by yourself,” she said and I blushed not truly knowing what to answer her. I drank my tea and returned to work, engulfing myself in it.
“Pater Bruno will have to explain to me why you're still working,” the deep voice of Lintorff made me jump to the ceiling and I looked at him, shocked that he was there, standing like a king. “You started at nine according to Friederich and it is seven and you're still there. Are you planning to implement Stajanovism in this country?”
“I didn't realise the time, sir. I mean, Konrad,” I said, asking myself what the hell he was doing there.
“Friederich told me you were here and I decided to pick you up before going home. Claire tells me you have been working non stop and she is very pleased with you. Get your coat and we go home.”
“Thank you.”
Outside was the monster he has for a limo, a Mercedes with one bodyguard standing by its side. He opened the door for him and Lintorff motioned me to go in first.
“Did you like the work, Guntram?”
“Yes indeed, Konrad.”
“You can come here on Tuesdays and Thursdays when you have no painting lessons then. Ostermann will have you from Monday onwards from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. You can drive with me or with Antonov. The other days you can come here and help. There's always something to do and it's good that you don't loaf around the house.”
“Thank you, sir.” I was very happy because I don't want to be trapped in there too.
“You can have lunch in the bank or with Antonov. At five you come to the bank and stay there till it's time to return home. There's a library too. Ostermann thinks that you can study your subjects pending since 2003 and take the tests in June.” He informed me how he had rearranged the rest of my life just like that. When did I agree with it? I don't remember it at all.
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