Encounters

October 28^th, 2000

Buenos Aires

Closing a thick folder with a dry thud was in general a very bad omen for all Constantin Repin's men. “Boss, maybe there's something on the next property,” his henchman, Ivan Oblomov spoke with a conciliatory tone.

“Number seventy-two or seventy-three?” Constantin asked with that acrid tone that forewarned of nothing good for his people. “This is a pathetic waste of my time!”

“Boss, it isn't that bad. You only saw a few photos,” Ivan said lamely. “I helped with the other folders too.”

“It's the least you can do “Mr. Romanov”,” Constantin barked in a low tone.

“Ouch! Boss, you can't still be cross about that! It's for the best! Imagine if you would have to deal with all these vulgar people.”

“Am I your secretary? Your secretary?” Constantin hissed incensed.

“I said Personal Assistant, boss. Better than secretary.”

“Ivan Ivanovich, you do like to play with fire.”

“But it saves you a boring night with these three monkey Senators. I heard they will bring girls along.” Oblomov gnarled. “Very typical, don't you think? A little slut to spy on us.”

“Oldest trick in mankind history.” Constantin smirked slightly appeased. “But you are right, the less I want in this life is to spend a night with a brainless bimbo with airs of grandeur. Reminds me to Olga.”

“She's not a bimbo, Constantin. Remember that well or she will slit your throat one night,” Oblomov said with a stern voice, a sharp contrast with the playful tone had used before.

“I know my friend, but this whole thing is simply frustrating,” Constantin backed off and eased his stance. “In the morning, useless meetings and stupid marchands. Now, more watching and watching photos of properties and nothing interesting comes up.”

“I think you need a coffee boss, and I some fresh air.” Oblomov said and rose from the ample leather chair.

“Call the girl. She abandoned us here; the least she can do is to fetch me a coffee,” Constantin growled.

“You barked at real estate agent, boss. She ran for her life,” Oblomov chuckled.

“Christies' should hire more qualified people. I'm certainly complaining to Peters when I'm back in London,” Constantin said very irked and jerked the folder open once more Oblomov's soft chuckles boomed in the room.

The Vladimirka Road by Isaak Levitan,
Oil on canvas, 1892, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

* * *

The young secretary simply dashed away when Oblomov asked her for a coffee. 'Nothing like having money to get them to dance,' he thought and looked around the newly built offices of Christies' Buenos Aires, standing in a small street in one of the most elegant areas of the city, only a few blocks from Constantin's new flat at the Kavanagh building. The painting was still smelling fresh and he could scent the fainting odour of the dark blue carpet's glue. 'Boss should not bitch so much. They're here since less than a week. It's a miracle they can show something at all. We should have gone to the Real Estate Agency Zakharov recommended. Bloody Constantin and his fixation on buying “artistic things”!'

Still not willing to return to the meeting room, classically decorated with wooden panels, Regency leather armchairs and a crystal-steel table that would be much better in a more modern room, Oblomov stood in the middle of the corridor of the private offices. 'Probably the table was set for us as they were not expecting a Russian billionaire to ring their bell. Constantin should have warned Peters in advance. It only takes the wrong kind of table to get Boss cranky. He shouldn't be so touchy. Art is not so important.'

Bored out of himself, he walked across the corridor to ease the cramps in his back and through one of the open doors he saw a young blonde woman busily writing at her desk. 'Nice looking, but not the adventurous type,' he thought after a quick expert-examination and shrugged but the move died the minute he saw a medium size watercolour hanging on the wall over the woman's head.

Oblomov was mesmerized looking at the simple picture of a landscape of an immense plain and a looming sky over it. “It's like this one from Levitan,” he whispered.

“I beg you pardon?” the blonde girl asked in English as the stranger had spoken out loud in Russian.

“Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you, Madam. I couldn't help to look at that painting. My name is Ivan Romanov.”

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Luciana de Dollenberg. Are you looking for Mr. Unzué, sir?” she asked politely as she shook his large hand.

“Who? No, I'm here buying some properties with Mrs. Allende,” he said and pointed again at the picture. “That one. What's its name?”

“Excuse me?” Luciana said dumbfounded.

“It's a painting at the Tretyakov Gallery. It was on my textbooks. What's its the name?” He frowned as he couldn't remember it. “One second, I'll get my secretary. He knows about that stuff.”

* * *

“I need your help,” Oblomov said as he pulled Constantin to his feet in a rude manner. “Now!”

“What is the problem now?” he huffed.

“I want to buy a painting and I need you to tell me if they're cheating on me.”

“You want to buy a painting?” Constantin asked in utter shock. “Are you running a fever, Ivan?”

“Ha ha. Très rigoló, boss,” he growled and Constantin rose and eyebrow. “Come, I want to buy it. It's like the one I like!”

“Do you have a favourite painting? More than twenty years together and you tell me now?”

“How much do you think it will cost?”

“Depends on what you want to buy,” Constantin answered with a smirk.

“The Vladimirka. Yes, that's the name.”

“A copy no doubt. Worthless. Wait till you are at home and commission the work to a good artist.”

“No, it's not that one. Even I know it's in a Museum. How much does this man charges you?”

“Isaak Levitan? Well, I don't know how much he charges you nowadays. He died well before the Revolution,” Constantin mocked Oblomov cruelly.

“How much do you pay for something from him at Christies'?”

“Ivan, this is not a Levitan and I doubt very much this country could produce something of a level remotely approaching his soles. What I saw this morning was enough to convince me of that.”

“How much?”

“Prices ranges from £10.000 to £1.5 million,” Constantin barked.

“So much?” Oblomov asked in shock.

“It was a very large picture,” Constantin answered sarcastically.

“Good,” Oblomov mumbled and mercilessly dragged Constantin out of the meeting room. “You hate to be here,” he grunted as his excuse when Constantin glared at him, angry at his rude manners.

“I'm going to hate it more,” Constantin answered back, thinking that now he would be subjected to the torture of watching a bad painter's efforts at copying a masterpiece.

* * *

Luciana was abashed that her shared office had been invaded by two tall Russians, heatedly discussing in their language and only minding about her husband's painting. 'It's not as if it is valuable.'

“So? Is it good or not?” Oblomov asked Constantin as he was gaping at the watercolour. Speechless.

“It's fantastic,” he answered in Russian. “But it's not a Levitan. It has his same ability of giving the landscape a psychological interpretation. This artist has a mature, classical technique yet it's fresh and almost speaks to you.”

“I like it. I think it would look good at my office,” Ivan said proudly and secretly glad that his friend had not made fun of his tastes. 'It's not my fault I didn't know those girls were a Degas. I just liked them!'

“Please, let me buy it,” Constantin said out of the blue.

“So you can heap it with the thousands you have from artists at your foundation? No way. I know the exact place for it!”

“Ivan you're not interested in Arts.”

“I saw it first. I like it. Period, boss. Ask her if she has some more.”

“An artist is not supermarket, Ivan,” Constantin answered dryly. “They create and need inspiration to do so. It doesn't grow on trees.”

“Excuse me, miss. How much do you want for the painting?” Oblomov asked in English. “I would like to buy it.”

Luciana gaped at him very unprofessionally. “For this one?” she asked, turning around to look at the painting hanging over her computer.

“Yes, that one.”

“It's not for sale.”

“We are at Christies and you don't sell a painting?” Oblomov blurted out and Constantin had to suppress a sigh at his friend's lack of manners.

“It's not for sale. It's not in the catalogue,” she repeated.

“My friend would be willing to wait until it is included,” Constantin said very kindly. “Peters could give us a call when it's done.”

“Mr Peters?” Her eyes grew very big at the mention of the name of one of the Superior Beings at the main office. Her own boss was trembling each time Mr. Peters' assistant was calling.

“Yes, he's a good adviser to Mr. Oblomov,” Ivan said as a matter of fact, pointing at Constantin.

“I'm afraid there's a mistake, sirs. This painting belongs to my husband,” she stuttered. “It's not for sale.”

“Could I convince you otherwise?” Oblomov said before Constantin could stop him. “How about $ 5.000?”

“Excuse me?” she asked on the brink of a heart attack. “The author is not even an artist! I can't sell it to you!”

“I understand that it must be very difficult to part with this piece, madam,” Constantin intervened with a gentler tone. “Perhaps $7.000 could convince your husband?”

“He will not sell it. It belonged to his grandfather.”

“Yes, I can see it's an old piece. Almost like a naturalist,” Constantin said.

“A naturalist? Impossible!” She said. “This was painted in 1996 or 1997, before my father in law passed away. The painter did it during his holidays at our property.”

“Is he still alive?” Constantin asked very surprised.

“He's in high school with my brother in law,” she replied finding the whole situation totally absurd.

“How about $10.000? Oblomov pressed again.

“It's enough Ivan,” Constantin said in Russian. “She's taking us for fools.”

“Is that your property?” Ivan asked, once more ignoring Constantin's stern looks.

“Yes, my husband wants to sell it and move to London.”

“I'm looking for a countryside property,” Oblomov said. “I could take a look at it, if you don't mind. I've seen nothing that takes my fancy here.”

“I could speak with my husband if you are interested. I will give you my card and if you could give me yours, we can arrange a meeting. Our estancia is very well located, near downtown and excellent for transforming it into a luxury hotel or a spa. I can show you the projects we did.” Luciana said with an ample smile as Constantin looked very upset that again he had been mistaken by one of those Russian parvenus and an obviously uneducated little girl was making fun of him.

* * *

November, 3rd., 2000

“We are sulky tonight. Aren't we?” Oblomov smirked as Constantin had not spoken a single word in their way back from the countryside house the giant had dragged his friend to visit. “Come on! It wasn't that bad! I like my girls and they were cheaper than that Degas.”

“Aha,” Constantin answered, still lost in his thoughts.

“You also got something boss. Those landscapes are nice too. You found something too.”

“Yes, I certainly did.”

“We agreed on this and I'm not such a bad boss to you,” Oblomov said with a devious smile. “I even let you eat from a dish,” he chortled.

“My great grand-father would have adored you, Ivan Ivanovich,” Constantin sneered.

“Cheer up, boss. I have to go out tonight and you can stay here and maybe have a little company while I suffer a night of cheap champagne and people willing to skin my wallet.”

“Are you going to buy the property?”

“No, two million dollars is very expensive. This Dollenberg man is crazy if he thinks I'm going to pay him all that money and keep his staff until they retire. They should go to the Salvation Army or look for a job!”

“The house is still an intriguing concept,” Constantin said nonchalantly.

“Yes, intriguing as why nobody hanged the architect from the nearest tree. And people complain about we, civil engineers designing houses! We can do much better than that.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Oblomov sighed as Constantin was in a non-communicative state and the best would be to leave him alone. 'Always brooding, since we met.' He walked across the room to sit in his own desk, still watching at his silent friend. 'Really don't get him. He shouldn't make things so complicate. Get a good lover and close the eyes when you see something you don't like. People are not perfect yet he yearns for perfection. What does he want? Leonardo da Vinci and Leonardo di Caprio together? Impossible! I've told him many, many times, he should be happy with what he has, but he keeps going after the next good looking twerp who can't shake a brush straight in front of a canvas. He falls in love like an idiot, idealizes an alley cat, and becomes depressed when the fleas jump out of the cat and stain his clothes.'

Constantin was fuming. The impudent woman, with only an Arts degree obtained in a second rate University from a very small French town, had dared to correct, not only once but several times over, his evaluation of that intriguing artist. 'Idiot! As if I would not realise what is good or bad! I pay over 250 artistic scholarships per year and she tells me these drawings come from a high school brat. Impossible! There is not a single trace out of place or hesitation in the concept. True, they are a bit naïve, but that's typical of the nineteenth century. No, naïve is not the word; full of innocence. There's something about them I can't quite place yet.'

The thunderous laughter of Oblomov shook him from his reverie.

“You owe me money... and lots of it!!” Oblomov laughed harder than before. “Wait, we didn't bet anything,” he realised very upset.

“Ivan, I'm not in the mood. I just wasted a whole day in the middle of the nothingness and even had to play to be your secretary. Can't you just look for yourself your own agenda in your own darn cell phone?”

“That's why I need a secretary, boss. You're the best I've ever had,” Oblomov chuckled and Constantin threw a dirty look at him and the giant stopped laughing. “That woman was right, boss,” he said seriously, extending a yellow folder to him.

“What's this?”

“Some intelligence on the artist. I ordered it. I know nothing about art and I didn't want a clever tramp to cheat on me. Maybe she was playing hard at her office.”

“Isn't that a bit extreme Ivan Ivanovich?”

“I don't care about the drawings, but she wanted to sell me a full house at a crazy price. If she “lies” with the painter as you tell boss, she's not good.”

“So?” Constantin asked sceptically, without taking the extended folder, still dangling from his friend's hand.

“He's really eighteen!” Oblomov chortled again.

“What?” Constantin croaked.

“The artist! He's a brat in a posh school and if you don't believe me, he illustrated the school magazine last year! It looks pretty much the same for me!”

Constantin took the folder and opened it with a frown, very upset that now, even Oblomov was making fun of him. The single paper sheet, more like a curriculum vitae told him almost nothing until he saw the birthdate. He couldn't help to gasp.

“Not so sure about it, boss?” Ivan smirked. “Well, was it not this guy... Raphael? The one who started at fifteen? The painter of the Sistine?”

“Rafaello was a prodigy child but perhaps you mean Michelangelo. He started at the Ghirlandaio brothers workshop at twelve years old. At eighteen he was already working for Lorenzo the Magnificent.”

“Yes, that one. I would have paid for his things,” Oblomov shrugged and Constantin sighed in utter frustration. “What? I'm not throwing my money away like you do! Artists should do nice things if they want your money!”

“Art is a conception of life. It doesn't need to be beautiful,” Constantin repeated for the hundredth time.

“No matter what you tell Constantin, I have minimum requirements for spending my money in an artwork. What I bought today satisfies me and maybe I could give it to Tatiana. She was complaining that I don't give her nice things or send Natalya to buy her jewellery instead of going myself. As if I would have so much free time! These ballerinas look nice enough for her new studio in Paris. She's been decorating it since two months and telling me she wants something “delicate and classic at the same time”. It was cheaper than going to an arts dealer.”

Constantin sighed utterly frustrated but preferred to leave the discussion and concentrate on the report. The “mature artist” was in fact born on October 19^th 1982 and about to graduate from St. Peter's, one of the most expensive schools in the country. He had no living relatives, as there was only the name of a solicitor, who was also a criminal judge in the provincial courtrooms, as contact person. 'No more people around him? That's very strange.'

He looked at the printed copy of the school's magazine, downloaded from the internet, and the boy's full name was printed the credits as one of the two illustrators. Constantin inspected the images with great care and they certainly belonged to the same hand that had made the drawings he had bought once Oblomov had finished his own shopping list. 'It's infuriating. I've spent my whole life looking for a real genius, paid thousands of scholarships and Ivan finds one just when he was looking for a ready made coffee.'

'He's the luckiest man in the universe.'

Without speaking another word, he sat at the desk and began to carefully inspect and compare them with what he had. 'Incredible, it's the same hand.'

'But he's only a brat! He's deceivingly simple in his realism but at the same there's a complex space configuration behind. Where did he learn this? It's absolutely classical yet disruptive in a strange way.'

“Boss, you should stop whatever you have in the moment and keep this one,” Oblomov chuckled as he rummaged the abandoned folder. “Exactly as you like them.”

“What?”

“This dove: Blond, blue-eyed, can draw nicely, good grades and very, very young. It's an opportunity you can't pass.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, I like girls, but for you, it certainly deserves a shot this...” Oblomov searched for the name in the folder, “Guntram Philippe Alphonse de Lisle Guttenberg Sachsen. Phew! That's a name!”

Constantin rose from the desk and took the school yearbook's photo from Oblomov hands, still smirking with sufficiency.

The youth was simply stunning, Constantin thought as he watched the photo in rapt. Perfect facial symmetry and the most wonderful eyes Constantin had seen in a young man; they shone showing a great intelligence and kindness at the same time. He was shyly smiling a the camera for the official photo and this self restrained smile was the most bewitching smile Constantin had seen. 'He's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.'

“If he would have a sister, I would be getting a go too,” Oblomov chuckled again, grating his friend's nerves even more. “Really handsome and doesn't look smug. I mean, your boy toys know they look good and they're little prima donnas, Constantin.”

“And they don't last more than a few weeks or months. This one is... different.”

“Yeah, like Mother Theresa,” Oblomov chuckled again as he continued to read the yearbook. “How about a conversion, Boss?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Here, in the yearbook: Guntram is actively involved in the parish activities and every Sunday, he accompanies our priest, Father Patricio Pereyra Iraola to this school's charity project in Retiro. By his face, I bet this one only goes to his knees to pray. It's a lost battle, boss.”

“You don't know that, and I could tell you a few personal stories of men who never ev...” Constantin huffed but Oblomov interrupted him again with his reading.

“Guntram will study Economics and Social Work at the Buenos Aires University. After his studies, he hopes to get married and rise a family.” You are so dead with this one, Boss.”

“Who in his right mind thinks in marriage at... eighteen?” Constantin asked in utter shock.

“A Mormon,” Oblomov joked.

“He's a sensible, intelligent, talented and responsible young man. Perfect for me,” Constantin said haughtily. “Perhaps he needs some polishing and to get some sense knocked into his head because he's insane if he believes he can study Economics and Beggars Support and waste his talent on some welfare parasites.”

“Boss... Marriage and Family in the same sentence. Not playing on your side.”

“We'll see. Find out all what you can about him and his family.”

“He's orphan.”

“Why is he an orphan? I want everything you can find.”

“Boss,” Oblomov whined.

“I want permanent surveillance on him. Does he have a girlfriend or boyfriend? Who are his friends, his workplace, school. Everything. Is that clear?”

“Boss!”

“You have a dinner to attend, Ivan Ivanovich,” Constantin dismissed his friend very coldly and turned his back to go back to sit in the large sofa next to the window.

* * *

November, 15^th, 2000

“Boss, there may be a slight, tiny problem.”

“Tell Zakharov to fix it. I had enough of natives. All of them think they're the brightest stars in the galaxy,” Constantin mumbled without rising his eyes from the reports he was reading. 'Hopefully, Lintorff puts them back in their places once he's finished with them. Thirty-five percent in returns? Whoever heard of a bribe so expensive?'

“No, not that one. The other project. In Argentina.”

Constantin looked annoyed at the riddles. “Until tomorrow we are in Argentina, Ivan Ivanovich,” he answered acidly.

“You know which one. The crusaders might want to participate.”

“The crusaders invited us to play here. I want no troubles with Lintorff. If someone is making troubles, terminate him.”

“Shot in the head or poison? What do you like best, boss?” Ivan asked, sounding like an innocent lamb. Before he could react, Constantin had jumped from his chair and fast as a cobra he launched himself against Ivan and pinned him down. The cold metal on his temple told the giant that they were skating on the edge.

Again.

“Boss, it was a joke,” he gulped, but Constantin didn't remove the automatic weapon from his head. “Please, I didn't mean to offend you.”

“Perhaps I should save my cousin Tatiana the expenses of a divorce,” he growled. “You've grown to fond of yourself, Ivan Ivanovich,” he answered. “And slow too.”

“Boss, get that thing away,” Ivan said feigning some self confidence he didn't have. It wouldn't be the first time Constantin killed someone who had dared to challenge his rule. “You know me since twenty years.”

“Feeling like you need a promotion?”

“Boss, the thing with the secretaries, was your idea after all!”

“Perhaps you want to make this charade permanent?” Constantin hissed and pressed the weapon over the head.

“No! Boss! I'm on your side! I never did a thing against you!”

For a very long minute, Constantin seemed to contemplate his next move, partly enjoying how suffocated Oblomov was. 'One or two minutes more and I'll give him a heart attack. Should serve him right.'

“I'd hate to ruin a good suit with your brains, Oblomov,” he said and removed the weapon from his head. With graceful moves he stood up and returned to his desk as Oblomov fought to control his breathing and remained sitting on the floor, loosening his tie.

“What was this alleged problem you spoke about?” Constantin said casually as nothing would have happened and Oblomov realised how close to death he had been.

“It's about the boy you fancy. The waiter,” he gulped.

“Yes?”

“We investigated his family and we are very certain that he's a member of the Order.”

“In here? He's too young to be a crusader!” Constantin protested shocked and upset at the news.

“The de Lisles took part in the revolution against Lintorff back in 1989. The boy is the only son of Jerôme de Lisle Guttenberg Sachsen, Head of Legal Affairs at the Crédit Financière Mediterranèe. His grand-father was the Order's Head in France and the boy is his sole remaining heir. There's an uncle, but he's good as dead.”

Constantin gaped at him and Oblomov continued with the story as his own deep voice had a soothing effect over his nerves. “It seems the old Viscount de Marignac was among the conspirators who organised the mess at Güstrow. Do you remember it? Volvodianov was shocked.”

“Yes, cleaning up a yard filled with heads and limbs is a bit extreme,” Constantin smirked. “Legend says Lintorff himself beheaded five of the survivors and left the rest to the crazy Serbs. He could really have saved the Stasi the mess of covering all this, but our Konrad was always so traditional. Do you think he called a priest to let the sentenced fix their issues with God?”

“Wouldn't be surprised, boss,” Oblomov muttered. “The thing is that after these mercenaries attempted to kill him, the Order attacked on the next day the de Lisles. The Viscount, the eldest son, his wife and three children, along with the servants were killed and the estate burned down. According to the French Police they all committed suicide because of their bank's bankruptcy.”

“That's the beauty of the Order.” Constantin commented dreamingly. “The clean up process is included in the service. My life would be so easy if the authorities would label everything as suicide.”

“A bomb is as harder to explain as suicide, boss,” Oblomov joked testing the waters.

“Yes, working with them demands small sacrifices,” Constantin chortled. “Why is the boy still alive?”

“I don't know. He's father “committed suicide” a month after, but he left everything in order and appointed a guardian for his seven year old child. The man controlled his money till he turned eighteen. There's not much left.”

“How much?”

“Some fifty thousand dollars. The boy lives from his salary as waiter in a rented flat.”

“Only that? His grand-father must have had millions!”

“All the money was seized by the French Government to pay the Crédit Auvergne debts. The boy has lived in this country since he was two years old. Mostly at that school. The de Lisles were banished and condemned to death. There's a bounty for the boy uncle's head: Roger de Lisle.”

“Nothing on him?”

“Not as far as we know. Rumour has that the Summus Marescalus, Mladic Pavicevic swore not to retire until he would kill his brother's assassin.”

“Speak about vendetta!” Constantin laughed. “Old Razim should go to the nursing home and leave it to his nephew. Pavicevic is quite impressive in his own way.”

“Even the Serbs fear him, boss,” Oblomov said quietly. “He's a fanatic of the worst kind. A war criminal.”

“Back to my original question. Why is the boy alive?”

“He lived here all the time. A child is nothing for them.”

“His cousins were killed. Why was he spared?” Constantin insisted.

“I... don't know Boss. The boy is bad news if Lintorff holds his relatives responsible for what happened.”

“If Lintorff would be so upset against the boy, he would have terminated him long time ago, don't you think? Was he not living under his real name?”

“Yes, but...”

“No buts, Ivan Ivanovich. Lintorff does not care about him. I can keep him.”

“Boss! The crusader is crazy! He may resent you bed one of his enemies! What if he thinks the boy is plotting against him by using your own resources? Do you have any idea of what he could do to us?”

“Konrad knows me better than that. Anyway, if I decide to keep the boy, I'll talk to him.”

“The boy didn't notice you! Yesterday you made...” Oblomov shut his mouth before the words could have escaped from his mouth.

“A fool out of myself?” Constantin completed the sentence. “Yes, he didn't pay attention to me and it only proves that he's a good and decent person. He's just perfect for me. An angel.”

“Boss, he's a fool. You left a hundred dollars over the table, the girl picked them and he forced her to return the money to the “tourist”. Rimsky understood each one of their words while they were arguing! He was translating your order for her and didn't ask his share of the “tip”!”

Constantin sighed at the memory of his first meeting face to face with the young man. 'More beautiful and ethereal than any photo.'

“Rimsky told me he was even carrying the tray for the slut!” Oblomov pressed.

“A perfect gentleman even if there was no lady around. His manners are exquisite even in front of ten recalcitrant old ladies.”

“Boss!” Oblomov whined, cursing himself as after all, it had been his idea to pair Constantin with the lad.

“You still have not answered the most important question.”

“What?” Oblomov asked dumbfounded.

“Does he have a boyfriend?”

* * *

July 28^th, 2001

Saturday

“Pumpkin! You can't do this to me!” Fedérico Martiarena Alvear whined in front of his long time friend.

“No way,” Guntram de Lisle answered as he ignored said friend in favour of reading the instructions in the rice package. “Parboiled means this thing survives even if I overcook it?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Rice again?” Fedérico asked.

“Payday is still one week ahead,” he shrugged. “Be glad there's still tomato sauce left.”

“You have to be kidding,” Fedérico mumbled.

“Come back in two weeks time and I'll cook a lobster for you,” Guntram smirked. “Tomato sauce or butter? Grated cheese is over.”

“Guntram, get your nice jersey on, a tie maybe but not mandatory, and come with me tonight. It's a free, first class dinner.”

“No salmon is worth of a night in company of your mother, Fefo.”

“Please,” Fedérico pleaded making false puppy eyes.

“No. Leave me here with my overcooked rice. I have to finish those reading cards for tomorrow.”

“All the lobster you can eat!”

“You know I hate it!”

“Apple cake and ice cream? Pretty please?”

“It's her birthday and she hates me!”

“I will have to survive fifty “closest friends” of her! All motherfuckers! All alone. On my own!”

“Good luck, Fefo,” Guntram chortled.

* * *

“Good afternoon, Madam,” Guntram said with a small voice, intimidated by Fedérico's mother presence.

“It's you,” she answered very coldly. “Didn't you have to serve tables tonight?” She added watching with clear disgust the “French beggar” her son favoured so much. It was simply inconceivable that Fedérico would waste his time with someone who had no connections, money or glamour, was three years younger and useless as he was not going to help him through Law School. 'Probably he's here to eat for free.'

Guntram felt the words stabbing his heart. 'I have to remember I'm not one of them. Why did I let Fefo to convince me?' “It was my free night, Madam,” he answered sheepishly.

“Good. Why don't you eat something? We have only very important people, dear.” She dismissed him and turned around to give an ample smile to the tycoon approaching her.

Guntram had a knot in his throat looked around embarrassed, trying to locate his friend, lost the minute they had entered in the large private clubhouse. He saw Fedérico lively speaking with a tall and gorgeous blonde woman and he sighed. 'Hopefully, she's not the bimbo of one of his mother's fellow Senators. Somehow she will blame me that he was assaulting her.'

'At least the witch gave me a good advise. Eat. First one in years.'

The sight of the large buffet table, set under the heavily gilded coffered ceiling and walls in the Rococo style, killed his appetite. 'One dish and a whole family eats for a week,' he thought darkly. He shut his mind firmly up or he would have started to shoot against the many that were in the room. 'The Alvears did well in the past. No doubt about it. Those poor devils working for them is another matter.'

He spotted a dark free corner and went there to observe without being watched. 'Bimbo can survive on her own,' he thought just before the headache began to pound his temples. He suppressed a grimace at the pain mercilessly stabbing his head and asked for a cola to one of the waiters.

Constantin had more than enough of the Argentineans flattering Oblomov as President of the Caucasian Oil Ltd as they had smelled the money in him. 'If my Angel would not be best friends with that woman's son, I wouldn't waste my time dealing with these politicians. Zakharov is more than enough for this.'

He watched at the boy hiding in the darkest corner a Rococo ballroom could have and once more he got lost in his beauty. 'Taking him away like Massaiev suggests is too risky. Perhaps he would lose his ability to create or be so terrified that all his paintings would be very bad. No, I have to convince him to come with me. He has nothing and no one really cares about him. Time to catch that brat friend of his. What a fortunate coincidence his mother is begging money from us. The Gods favour me.'

With resolute steps he walked towards the boy already enchanted by one of the girls working at the escort service. “Xenia, my dear,” he greeted her and she smiled deferentially at the man who her boss was so obsequious to.

“Mr. Oblomov, may I introduce you Fedérico? He's the son of Senator Alvear,” she said in English. “Mr. Oblomov is an important art collector from Russia and is interested in young Latin American artists,” she repeated her well-learned lesson, hoping the boy would pick up the cue.

Unfortunately Fedérico was still flashed by her brilliant smile and only grunted a polite hello to Constantin, returning all his attention to the blonde. She did her best to drag him into a conversation about Arts but it was a lost cause as he had no idea about Latin American painters. Only the promise to his mother of “being nice, polite and showing some intelligence to the Russians who wanted to invest in their mines and save them from total collapse” made him react when he noticed the dark haired Russian was losing his patience and about to leave the party. “The black one is Mr. Romanov's secretary and he's the worst; always hostile to us and plotting against our projects,” her mother had told him. “Don't screw it up or you'll find yourself milking cows with that pathetic loser of your father. We need their money.”

The threat of living with his boring and stern father or his “bimbo” Solange, the nun, so bent in “showing him the right path” was enough to make him react and start to pay attention to Constantin's story of his latest purchases. Unable to stifle a yawn any longer, he remembered his friend and excused himself from the group and went to fetch him.

“Leave that thing and help me,” he said-ordered Guntram, busy with a salmon sandwich.

“No way. Do you have any idea how much time it took me to get it? There's like a wall of politicians in front of the buffet,” the youth protested.

“I need an artist and I need one right now. You're the perfect (and only) choice. My mother wants to play Catherine the Great and the Russian likes Argentinean painters. I only know one name.”

“That's a lot,” Guntram said sarcastically. “No way. Me? In the middle of one of your mother's projects? Not in this life.”

“Pidgeon, she's going to send me to the countryside if we don't get their support.”

“Cows are nice and you have nothing to do till next September when you start the University.”

“Pumpkin!” Fedérico pouted.

“Fine! But you'll get me another sandwich from the kitchen.” Guntram agreed and left his dish on the large buffet table. “I'm not exactly a connoisseur and know very little about Arts.”

“Pidgeon, anything will do. Just keep the Russian happy.”

Feeling exactly as he did when visitors were coming to the school, like the inspector or future “customers” such as parents, and he was “put on display” as an example of the “high quality education provided by St. Peter's”, Guntram miserably followed Fedérico to the group of Russians.

Guntram only looked briefly at the taller than him, dark haired man and without any specific reason, he felt very unease near him. His very dark coffee eyes, the iris melting with the pupils, perhaps were the reason of what had driven him so nervous as most people's eyes did not have such intensity or examined him so closely. The stranger's name evaded his mind even if Fedérico pronounced it slowly as he only wanted to escape, unable to understand his need to run away, but certain that there was something very wrong about the aura of power the man clearly emanated.

“Vous êtes né en France?” Constantin asked very softly, already bewildered the boy was not looking at him, stubbornly fixing his eyes on the floor, clearly refusing to make eye contact with him. 'Perhaps if I speak in his mother tongue, it softens him a bit.'

“I don't speak Russian at all. Excuse me, sir,” Guntram blurted out and simply turned around and left the party in haste, leaving an astonished Fedérico behind.

“Did I say something wrong?” Constantin asked in shock at the youth's reaction.

“No, I...” Fedérico babbled. “Guntram is an artist and sometimes he's weird. Don't pay attention to him.”

“I thought he was French because of his name.”

“Yes, he is but he lived most of his life in Argentina. He was good at French in school but he doesn't speak it much,” The youth said nonchalantly. “Perhaps your accent reminded him of his father.” Fedérico added evilly as he had already guessed that “the Russian collector” was collecting something more than paintings and sculptures. 'No way, I'm giving you Guntram, you pervert.'

“Is he an artist? Is he not too young?” Constantin decided to make the best out of a missed chance. 'He's more beautiful than I thought and adorably crazy.'

“Guntram paints a lot but he studies Economics. He's not going to be an artist,” Fedérico answered quickly. “It's just a hobby and besides my aunt Teresa, no one would pay a cent for his work. It's too old fashioned and kitsch. Good for old ladies who want a flower vase at their studios,” he added contemptuously, hoping the Russian would loose interest in his Guntram. 'Darn, he looked as he was going to jump on him.'

“I would like to see an example of his work,” Constantin said very irked.

“He exhibits nowhere,” Fedérico challenged him.

“I was under the impression you told me he had sold some pieces to a relative of yours. Perhaps your mother could inform me better.”

'My mother? She would present Guntram with a ribbon to him, just to get rid of him. I have some of his trash here, maybe that discourages the Russian. “No need to bother her. She's a very busy woman. If you want, I can show you some of the work he left at home. My mother would be delighted to invite you and Mr. Romanov for dinner so you can discuss about Arts and other things.” 'Two birds with a single stone. Mummy dear would do my dirty work when she starts to press the Russians for money and leave me alone because I provided her with her next victim.'

“Mr. Romanov is also a busy man, as you must understand. He's not interested in Arts at all. I can speak on his behalf and I would like to hear your mother's business proposition in more detail,” Constantin answered sharply. “How about tomorrow afternoon? The rest of my week is already complete.”

* * *

October 2^nd, 2001

It was pouring cats and dog when Guntram flocked to the university doors, crowded with many undecided to face the storm students.

'No night for heroics. I'm taking the bus home,' he thought as he opened his battered backpack and stuffed his folders and photocopies instead of his large “Macroeconomics” handbook, covered with a plastic. Murmuring several “excuse me” that went unheard, he was able to leave the entrance and stand in the rain. With decided footsteps he jumped over the many loose tiles and left the well illuminated university street to go the dark bus stop, two blocks away.

As usual the corner was empty except for the four or five young male prostitutes strolling up and down at that ungodly hour, wearing umbrellas or taking refugee from the heavy rain against the shop windows. Guntram felt bad for them when he noticed that they should be around his age or a bit older, but not much. 'I bet they wouldn't be doing this if they could find a job, but who can get a job here? It's simply madness.' Once more he cursed that they have chosen that particular corner to stand. Their presence made him feel very uncomfortable.

He turned his face as one of the prostitutes smirked at him and lighted a cigarette provocatively and another shouted something like “for you it's free, pretty cheeks.”

'No way someone mistakes me for one of them,' he repeated the mantra under the rain and covered against the lone bus signal, hoping no one would think that he was not waiting for the bus. 'The less I need is a policeman asking for my papers because he thinks I'm soliciting.' He sighed in relief when the boys lost interest in him and began to talk among themselves.

The burst of cough took him by surprise and he missed the black and large Mercedes parking in front of him. He only moved a bit away, thinking the people only wanted to occupy the empty spot along the sidewalk.

The car's rear window opened and a man in his early forties spoke to him in French. Unable to understand the words under the thick rain, he looked at him puzzled and blinked.

“Guntram, We met at Martina de Alvear's party. Come here, you're getting wet,” Constantin repeated in French.

“What?” Guntram asked in Spanish, thinking that maybe those were lost drivers.

“Get in the car!” Constantin shouted in English, utterly frustrated at the boy's idiocy when Guntram gaped at him, the Russian's words not really making any sense to him.

One of the boys simply started to whistle “Pretty Woman's” song and Guntram realised what the man wanted, becoming simply enraged.

“You should be ashamed!” he shouted in perfect and clear English to the stranger. “It's because of you that people like them have to do this! Get out before I call the police!”

Constantin could only gape at him, pondering if the youth was deaf or simply mad. 'I said his name and where I met him! He can't be thinking I'm hooking him up!' He opened his mouth to defend his innocent proposition of a ride to his own house but Guntram's cold stare froze his blood.

In all his life, no one had ever looked at him with such mixture of contempt and rage. He simply ordered his chauffeur to return to his own flat.

Still watching the glistening car driving away, Guntram felt a huge wave of relief once more washing over him. 'Perverts!' he thought.

“Hey blondie! If you don't want to work, let others do it!” one of the boys shouted rudely and Guntram chose to ignore him, glad the rickety bus was turning around the corner and coming to pick him up.

^{* * *}

November 14^th, 2001

Montevideo

The bright lights of the casino hurt his eyes, but Fedérico couldn't care less. He was on a strike and his winnings were staggering. The young Russian blonde was certainly bringing him luck.

“Please, Fefo,” let's go home,” she poured seductively. “I'm tired and want to go to bed.”

“In a minute, love,” he mumbled as he placed his bets for the roulette. Over $ 50.000.

“Fefo,” she pouted as he gathered his winnings from the table. “Let's go, darling. I'm bored here. I want to visit my friends.”

“I'm on a roll, baby,” he protested.

“It's too loud in here,” she protested and sipped her drink.

“Fine, we go.” Fedérico said as he knew his luck wouldn't hold for so long.

“Do you want to play still?” She whined. “I know a classy place. This is for rednecks and grannies.”

“Baby, don't be so dense. Enjoy the rest of the evening,” Fedérico growled. “Why don't we go to bed?”

“They're my friends. I know them all. It's at the top of the Conrad's.”

“Baby, that sounds like an illegal poker game. I finished school a year ago.”

“Come on! You know them! People from The Gate! Nothing like this! Patrick is there too. Do you remember him?”

'Yeah, the Miami drug dealer,' thought Fedérico remembering her “merry party” but said nothing. “Let's go to bed, shall we?”

“No! I want to be with my friends. Since we are here I'm bored with you. You only want to be in bed or go to the beach! I want to see people, go shopping, play really hard, not in a second rate casino for grannies playing slot machines.”

“Fine!” Fedérico said. “We go playing with your friends.”

The platinum blonde jumped to his neck completely glad that she was going to get that extra bonus of $2.000 from the Russians for getting the little idiot to their rooms at the Conrad's.

* * *

If Fedérico was shocked to see Constantin sitting behind a desk in the room where he had been dragged after substaining loses of over $200.000 at a poker game, he hid it very well. The Russian was informally dressed with a black silk shirt and unlike many of the men in his entourage, he wore no jewellery at all, save for Vacheron gold watch.

“You are wasting your time, Mr. Oblomov. Guntram is not interested in you,” Fedérico told Constantin sharply. “Don't you get tired of hitting your head against the same wall again and again?”

“If you would have passed my messages along, then he would have noticed me, but you didn't,” Constantin said with a cold and educated voice. “Maybe I should find other incentives to make my intentions clearer to you.”

“He says he's not an artist. He doesn't want to sell,” Fedérico repeated. “He's not interested in you or in anything you may offer him.”

“How much did you lose tonight?”

“That's none of your business.”

“I can cover the two hundred and add a little extra for you if you do something for me in return.”

“No!”

“Very well. My people will demand immediate payment of your debts. Right Rimsky?”

“Yes, sir,” the tall Russian answered from his corner and advanced towards Fedérico menacingly.

“You know I don't have this amount with me!”

“My associates are not patient people, Martiarena. My patience with you is on the limit.”

“What do you want?” Fedérico howled when the man took his hand and twisted his fingers, provoking a burning pain to run from his tips to the armpit.

“What I already asked of you.” Constantin said unimpressed. “Rimsky, you're being too soft. At this pace, we will never finish this.”

“Fine! I'll take him to your place in Buenos Aires!” Fedérico cried when the other giant in the room punched his stomach, making spit some blood on the carpet.

“No, I had enough of your country. Take him to Europe next month. I don't want he stays here and risks his life in that slum when the riots begin,” Constantin said nonchalantly. “It's a very good business for you, Martiarena. Don't complain and do as you are told and you might still live to see another day.”

* * *

December 22^nd, 2001

Paris

The soft winter lights gave the bustling Quartier Latin a mixture of melancholic and romantic air, thought Constantin as he strolled through the streets following the young boy, leaving the Cluny Museum. 'The same shoddy sadness you feel after sex. Befitting for me.'

'Does he do it on purpose?' the man considered as once more, he had been turned down not only once but twice when he had tried to speak with the young man. 'People do comment on art works and the Dame à la Licorne is well known. There were more than ten people there and several were speaking. I only asked him in English where he had gotten the card he was reading, and he smiled and gave me his, before he ran away! At the Museum's shop he was more interested in buying a stupid folder than in anything else.'

Constantin could feel the snickering of his men behind his back. The three bodyguards would have never said or shown anything in their faces, but the youth's refusals or worse, constant disregards, were becoming a legend among his men. A simple waiter, not even twenty years old, ignored the boss and got away with that. 'This has to stop, for better or worse. Last chance, Guntram,' he thought as he followed the youth into a densely populated book store. He watched how the young man looked in awe the art books spread on the tables, touching them reverently and once more the Russian fell under his spell. 'He's like an angel out of this world.'

His attention focused on the small and delicate hands that flipped the pages and he got lost in them. 'It's a sin those hands are used for carrying trays or cleaning tables! They were meant to create beautiful things.'

For a brief instant Guntram looked at him curiously as if he would be searching his memory for something, and Constantin hoped the youth would recognise him. Their eyes met and he looked at him questioningly and Guntram's pupils dilated. 'He has finally seen me,' Constantin thought joyously and closed the distance to the table, hoping that he could start a conversation.

Nevertheless, his angel's sight aimed well over Constantin's shoulder to stop at the door's, attracted by someone yelling on the street. Without caring for the man standing in front of him, Guntram simply ran over him in pursue of a hot chestnuts seller passing by, his cart rocking over the cobbles.

This time, Constantin was able to hear the partly suffocated chuckles from his men. “Get the two whores to work on them,” he barked in Russian as he pulled his mobile phone out of his overcoat pocket. 'Massaiev should start to work again.'

“Get the car. I'm leaving for Venice tonight,” he ordered with a furious whisper before he stormed out of the small bookshop.