The Players

Frog by Fabergé. 1898.
Formerly living at Guntram's bedroom  in
Constantin's mansion  in London during TS 1

The Players

October 9^th, 2000

Punta del Este, Uruguay.

The young personal assistant was sweating as he waited for his superior at the Carrasco airport. One nervous look at Landau, the man in charge of the Sao Paulo office, convinced him that he was also upset and on the edge.

“On top, we will have to drive for two hours,” Landau mumbled. “The Duke will be furious.”

“Don't tell it to me. What on earth possessed Repin to rearrange the meeting there?” the personal assistant, an athletic blond, answered.

“We need him. Therefore, he sets the rules, Heindrik.”

As they talked, a group of seven tall, well-dressed men approached the crystal-steel doors, which automatically opened for them, and both waiting men stood to attention when they saw their superior, already bearing a very serious expression under his sunglasses.

“Welcome to Uruguay, sire,” Heindrik said courteously. “The cars are waiting for you.”

“Everything ready?” Konrad asked without stopping his stride or even casting a glance at the young man jogging after him.

“We have to drive to another city. Punta del Este. Mr. Repin insisted on changing the meeting place two hours ago. There was no time to modify your flight's schedule.”

Konrad stopped abruptly and looked at Heindrik, while Goran Pavicevic, his head of security, came forward. “We don't change places with such short notice,” the Serbian pointed out. “Even you know this, Holgersen.”

“The place is secure, sir. Belongs to our people.”

“Why the change?” barked Ferdinand von Kleist.

“Mr. Repin says that he finds the place amusing,” a mortified Heindrik blurted out. “Hotel Casino Conrad,” he confessed, and this time Konrad really looked at him.

“Russians are very childish,” was his sole answer. “We drive now.”

* * *

The luminous, gigantic, neon lilac sign of “Conrad”, shinning against the dying afternoon light, truly worsened Konrad's mood. His legendary bad temper almost erupted when the porter took more than two seconds to open his door.

With large steps, the Duke climbed up the stairs and crossed the large lobby, decorated with golden ornamented, white marble columns, and a huge red and golden carpet to match. Konrad felt his hairs rise the minute he stepped on it. 'What happened to silk or wool carpets?' he thought, observing the rug in deep disgust. 'Acrylic or polyester.'

A middle-aged woman, dressed in a conservative business suit, walked to the men's encounter and deferentially greeted the Duke. “Mr. Repin awaits for you at his suite, Your Excellency,” she said. “This way, please.”

Konrad and Ferdinand followed her, with three bodyguards trailing behind them. The woman seemed to be a bit overwhelmed by the men looming over her in the elevator, and she dashed out the minute it reached the top floor.

The secretary opened the door to a large sitting room, modernly decorated with white couches and large windows overlooking the limpid blue sea, before leaving them to their business. Informally dressed, Constantin entered the room alone from a side door and shook Konrad's hand before he invited him and Ferdinand to sit.

“Did you have a good flight?”

“Yes, indeed. The landscape was most interesting,” answered Konrad a bit stiffly. “Odd choice of hotel.”

“Someone in Buenos Aires spoke about this place. It's like the Montecarlo of the underdevelopment. Maybe you bring me luck,” he added with a smirk, already enjoying how critically Konrad was looking at the blue carpet with its intricate designs. His distaste for modern things was well-known, and it was a permanent source of entertainment for the Russian.

“I was never bringing much luck to anyone.”

“Why don't you stay tonight, and we can discuss our business more serenely over dinner?”

“A sleepover?” Konrad joked dryly.

“Pyjama party,” Constantin snorted, enormously enjoying Ferdinand's outraged look.

“We have to be tomorrow in New York, Konrad,” Ferdinand interfered with a serious voice, as he got several papers out of his briefcase, loudly slamming them against the coffee table to prove his point.

“Exactly. Take the plane tonight, and I'll fly tomorrow afternoon,” Konrad said nonchalantly, ignoring the inflamed Ferdinand. “Business is business. Were you already in Buenos Aires, Constantin?”

“Yes, as a tourist, and starting that other thing you told me about. Met a few of the natives too.”

Konrad only looked at him inquisitively and Constantin chortled. “You have no idea of where you're getting yourself into. Leave Latin Americans for the Russians, my friend. Your very German-Swiss core will suffer a heart attack after two hours of dealing with them.”

“It's a matter of taming them,” said Konrad.

“Oblomov landed first, and he was a bit shocked at what he found. That alone tells a lot about them. Zakharov is in charge now. I'm returning in two days time to choose some properties and check on the artists. I was offered an important contemporary Latin American collection for an excellent price.”

“Then you should take it before someone else does. Don't you think, Ferdinand?” Konrad asked, and his friend nodded sombrely. “What is in that collection?”

“Already trying to steal from me, Konrad?” Constantin said with a lopsided smile.

“No, just seeing if we can trade. Fighting with you could be detrimental for my interests,” Konrad returned the smile, and as if a switch would have turned it off, it disappeared after the five customary seconds he usually dedicated to laugh at social occasions.

* * *

At Constantin's insistence, Konrad and he had dinner at the casino's restaurant. For the Russian, the blank expression on his guest's face was most entertaining. 'Speak about obsessive-compulsive disorders! Konrad is on the brink of a collapse just because the people eating here are not “properly dressed” or speak loudly.'

“How is Vania?” Konrad asked to start a conversation that perhaps would ease his nerves after being forced to eat at a brightly lit, very modern restaurant, hating every one of the golden ornamented mirrors hanging on the walls and ceiling multiplying their figures to the infinite. 'Why do these people shout so much? I really don't need to hear their conversations.'

“Your secret service is not what it used to be. Vania is history since three months ago. His name is Stephen, from Virginia. A photographer.”

“I meant your youngest child. Ivan Constantinovich. You told me he was too small for his age,” Konrad corrected Constantin. “I was under the impression that Stephen was dismissed a week ago, and that now you were single,” he added maliciously, and Constantin laughed full-heartedly.

“We can't deny that I'm more predictable than you, Konrad. At least you can keep track of mine, but with you it is almost impossible. You are going to send my people to an early grave. Do you change your women every night or is it every city?”

“A combination of both. It's less emotionally stressing than changing lovers every month,” Konrad smirked. “Do you even have a preference?”

“Of course I do!” Constantin replied falsely shocked. “I know exactly what I want. The problem is that none of them is up to my circumstances,” he sighed and made a gesture to the sommelier to serve him more wine. “And you? The only thing we know is that you like them brunet; boy or girl doesn’t matter.”

“Brunets are reliable,” answered Konrad curtly. “I like them my age, or a bit older in the case of men; younger if they’re women.”

“Should I be concerned? Is there something you want to tell me, Konrad?” joked Constantin as he batted his dark eyelashes, and the German laughed truly for the first time that the night.

“We? Together? It would be interesting to see who kills the other first.”

“It’s the road for sound marriage. Like Olga and I. Married for the past twenty years.”

“I'm still betting my money on you, Constantin,” Konrad said seriously, and Constantin nodded in return.

“It's a good thing that you don't trust women. It will be interesting to attend to your wedding.”

“I'm a convinced old spinster.” Konrad smirked. “And you? When will you settle down?”

“Please, don't tell me you're having your forty-year-old crisis! I had it once, and it lasted two miserable weeks.”

“What did you do?”

“Changed lovers. A younger model. Perhaps you should do the same. Is she not getting a bit too overcooked? That Italian girl you favour so much.”

“A younger model? Like what you have? A teenager, partly deaf because of his Walkman?” Konrad asked sounding deeply disgusted at the thought. “Let me be with my crisis.”

“Did you just say ‘Walkman’?” chortled Constantin. “Let me talk to you about this new brand company. The logo is a bit childish for my taste, but I think they have a future: Apple.”

“Very funny. Let me rephrase that: deaf because of his Discman.”

“Well, we have reached the nineties at least,” sighed the Russian. “MP3 players is what they have nowadays.”

“At least I can return home and have my peace,” Konrad said.

“You have a point there. Lovers demand attention, and frankly, they don't deserve it.”

“A problem of high maintenance costs, I would say. Can be solved in two ways: downsizing or increasing the efficiency at the production line,” joked Konrad.

“Downsizing is out of the question, but efficiency can always be improved,” Constantin replied with a smug smile.

“In the end, it all reduces to finding the right person. The famous other half,” Konrad said dreamingly and with a touch of sadness in his voice.

“I never pegged you for a romantic person, and much less for a philosopher, but you are right. If I were to find the right person, I wouldn't let him escape.”

“Likewise. But princes are hidden, disguised as frogs,” joked again Konrad, strangely moved by the direction their conversation was taking.

“Therefore, I kiss all what's in the pond. Maybe my luck changes one day,” Constantin said half-jokingly.

“Do you have an identikit of your prince?”

“Oh yes. First, he has to have real talent; talent for seeing the essence of things and capturing it into a masterpiece.”

“You have very high standards, Constantin,” Konrad said softly. “I would settle just with: ‘is able to lead a decent conversation and understand fifty percent of what you tell him.’ That this person would not try to take advantage of me would be a plus.”

“For me, all other qualities are immaterial but talent. I'm perfectly aware that artists are a bit crazy, but that's what makes them interesting. Talent denotes a keen intelligence, and in this world, ruled by supreme idiocy, having a little brains leads to lunacy.”

“Yes, that is true,” Konrad agreed darkly. “Any physical characteristics?”

“I think I have a penchant for blonds with soft features, but I'm a flexible person. The eyes are the most important thing for me,” Constantin said, and Konrad raised an eyebrow ironically.

“Yes, perhaps I'm a romantic too. If the eyes are beautiful, the rest is also stunning. I want a limpid gaze on him. The kind of eyes that let you know that the person is intrinsically good and selfless. Do you understand me?”

“More than you can imagine,” answered Konrad, feeling very moved, but he buried that shared sentiment very deeply as the memory of his failure with Roger once more assaulted him. “If such person existed, male or female, there would be riots on the streets to get him or her.”

“I think princes do exist, but their mothers hide them until they can find somebody suitable for them. It's the only logical explanation,” Constantin said half-seriously, but both men knew how to look beyond the shared casual bantering.

Konrad laughed strangely relieved and drank from his glass to cast the shadows away. “It's a beautiful dream, indeed.”

“Maybe,” answered Constantin. “Time will tell.”

The sound of an acrid argument between a young man, perhaps not even thirty years old, and his girlfriend attracted their attention, although both men did their best to avoid looking at the table placed on the other side of the room. The noise grew louder, and Konrad felt the shadows of two waiters rushing past him towards the troublesome table.

The clattering of dishes forced him to look in the couple's direction as such noise was impossible to disregard for politeness' sake. The vision of a woman, loudly shouting in Spanish to her partner as she hurled at him another glass, mildly shocked him. 'Someone was caught on illegal activities,' he thought, and glanced at Constantin, now openly enjoying the couple's fight. The man shouted something at her, and she howled her indignation with the clear intention of hurling something else at him. One of the waitresses intervened and gently spoke to her, making her burst into tears.

“This poor man didn't kiss the right frog; that's very clear for me,” Konrad said disdainfully once she had left the restaurant in a whirlwind. “Not a princess at all.”

“Married for the worst reason, my friend: love. Well, at least he discovered it on the honeymoon. Manners are essential in a marriage, more than fidelity.”

“Do you understand Spanish?” Konrad asked genuinely surprised.

“Not a single word, but look, he's twisting his ring as if he were not used to wearing one,” the Russian said, slightly moving his head towards the young man staring at the wall absent-mindedly playing with the jewellery.

“Or already regretting it. Looks like nothing that can't be fixed in the bedroom,” shrugged Konrad, returning to his dessert, the couple's fight totally forgotten. “I hate dinner shows.”

“I find them completely entertaining. Meeting the artists is also interesting,” Constantin trailed with a glint in his eyes, and Konrad looked at him. “Personally meeting them,” he clarified.

“The Hysterical Nun and the Boring Clerk? It sounds like a job for Boccaccio,” Konrad shook his head, but chuckled softly, already understanding where the Russian wanted to go.

“Where is your sense of adventure? A simple competition to shake off the boredom of the provinces. Should we bet something to make it more interesting?”

“You have already piqued my curiosity. What do you have in mind?”

Constantin half closed his eyes and leaned against the backrest of his chair. “It will be a complicated operation, so the prize should accordingly be dear. Something related to tonight's topic?”

“Finding your other half?”

“Randomly kissing frogs hoping to find a prince or a princess.”

“You are certainly a romantic at heart,” Konrad snorted. “Very well. Let's bet... a frog?”

“Not any frog. A special frog.”

“Nothing poisonous or included in the endangered species list,” quickly clarified Konrad.

“Your concept of politically correct, Konrad, is a very odd one indeed,” smirked Constantin, and for a second, he was lost in his thoughts. “How about a frog from Fabergé? I saw one in Rutdger's last catalogue. Very beautiful piece in bowenite.”

“I like frogs. I can live with one from Fabergé,” Konrad extended his hand to seal the pact. “Which one do you prefer?”

“You know my tastes. Maybe I can even give him good advice on how to tame his wife.”

“It will be a very boring and fruitless night with the clerk. Very well, I’ll take her.”

“I'm afraid you're going to come out from this experience more chauvinist than ever before,” Constantin smirked. “If that could be possible.”

“Should we compare results tomorrow at breakfast?”

“Of course. Your word is proof enough for me,” the Russian said gallantly.

“Thank you. What is an alliance among partners without trust?”

* * *

That the Duke was taking more than an hour to have breakfast with Constantin Repin was a very bad sign. Yesterday night they had behaved very civilized and had even been seen joking with each other. Obviously, they had reached a certain degree of agreement over the presence of the Russians in Latin America, and war had been avoided.

“Make no mistakes, Holgersen. We need Repin here to keep the natives under control. The best outcome would be to make them process their profits through us and stay away from our lands,” the Duke had told him. “A frontal attack from either of us would be very detrimental for each other. Repin has a twisted sense of integrity, but he's a hundred times preferable over the other Russian mobsters. We complement each other.”

The guarded door yanked open, and Heindrik stood to attention when he saw the Duke, already ready to leave, wearing a very stony expression on his face. Walking alongside him was Repin, who smiled at him snidely.

“Don't look so upset, Konrad. You had the toughest adversary,” Constantin said in Russian as he extended his right hand. “Women are unpredictable, my friend. Next time, perhaps.”

“I'm sure next time I'll win,” Konrad replied with false joviality as he shook the proffered hand. “Those two were certainly a couple of ugly toads.”

“Getting and keeping the prince is what counts in the end,” Constantin joked, pleased he had won the battle.

“Indeed. Good-bye, my friend.”

“Good-bye, and thank you for your advice,” Repin said affably, watching Konrad as he left, walking down the corridor in long strides. 'A lesson in humility is good for him.'

Heindrik did his best to keep up with his furious boss, becoming more and more concerned as he saw him throw a murderous look at the chauffeur for not having the car waiting for him at the entrance.

“Get me the latest number of Rutdger's catalogue,” barked Konrad at Heindrik while the young man was setting in order a pile of documents for him to read during the trip back to Montevideo.

“Yes, sire,” he mumbled. “Is there something else?” he added as his boss was obviously fuming at something, his eyes fixed on the seaside.

“No, everything is running as foreseen.”