Encounters

Bookstore El Ateneo-Grand Splendid, where
Guntram used to work.

Encounters

October 28^th, 2000

Buenos Aires

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

“Number 72 or 73?” Constantin asked in 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’ve only seen a few photos,” Ivan said lamely. “I helped with the other folders too.”

“It's the least you can do, ‘Mr. Romanov’,” Constantin barked.

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

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

“I said ‘personal assistant’, boss. That’s better than ‘secretary’.”

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

“But it saves you a boring night with those 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’s history.” Constantin smirked slightly appeased. “But you are right, the last thing I want in this life is to spend a night with a brainless bimbo with airs of grandeur. Reminds me of Olga.”

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

“I know, my friend, but this whole thing is simply frustrating,” Constantin backed off and eased his stance. “This morning it was useless meetings and stupid marchands. Now, it is watching photo after photo of boring 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 he was sitting in.

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

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

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

* * *

The young secretary simply dashed away when Oblomov asked her for a coffee. 'Nothing like money to make them dance,' he thought and looked around the newly built offices of Christie’s Buenos Aires, located in a small street on one of the most elegant areas of the city and only a few blocks away from Constantin's new flat at the Kavanagh Building. The place still smelled of fresh paint, and he could perceive the faint odour of glue coming from the dark blue carpet. 'Boss should not bitch so much. They have been here for less than a week; it's a miracle they have something to show at all. We should have gone to the real estate agency Zakharov recommended. Bloody Constantin and his fixation with 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 fit much better in a more modern room, Oblomov stood in the middle of the corridor of 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 decided after a quick expert examination and shrugged, but the gesture died the minute he saw a medium-size watercolour hanging on the wall above the woman's head.

Oblomov was mesmerized, captivated by the simple picture of a landscape showing an immense plain and a looming sky over it. “It's like the 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,” Oblomov said, and pointed again to the painting. “That one. What's its name?”

“Excuse me?” Luciana asked dumbfounded.

“It's a painting at the Tretyakov Gallery. It was in my textbooks. What's its 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?” his friend huffed.

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

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

“Ha, ha. Très rigolo, boss,” he growled, and Constantin rose an eyebrow in warning because the ironic tone used by Oblomov was not to his liking. Nevertheless, the other Russian ignored him, so carried away he was by his finding. “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 it to 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,” Oblomov replied with a proud smile as he had finally remembered the name all by himself.

“A copy no doubt. Worthless. Wait till you are home and commission the work to a good artist,” Constantin dismissed his friend's bursting enthusiasm, mentally preparing himself for ‘something kitsch, no doubt’ that would ruin his own appreciation for the original.

“No, I don’t mean 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 nowadays, but we could ask his agent,” Constantin said very seriously as he watched how Oblomov's eyes lit with excitement at the prospect of being able to buy something from the artist himself. “Although he died well before the Revolution,” Constantin cruelly mocked Oblomov's cultural naïveté.

“How much do you pay for something from him at Christies'?” Oblomov asked instead, deciding not to be reminded once more of his poor and uneducated background. He had come a long way from the boy he had been when he had met Constantin many years ago while both had attended university in Moscow.

“Ivan, it cannot be 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?” pressed Oblomov.

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

“So much?” Oblomov asked visibly shocked.

“The last one was a very large painting,” Constantin answered sarcastically.

“Good,” Oblomov mumbled and mercilessly dragged Constantin out of the meeting room. “You hated to be parked there,” he grunted as an excuse when Constantin glared at him, angry at his friend's rustic manners.

“I'm going to hate this 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 seemingly about the drawing of the family’s country estate that her husband had given her to decorate her part of the wall. 'It can't be,' she dismissed her impression. 'That thing isn't valuable. A schoolboy made it!'

“So? Is it good or not?” Oblomov asked Constantin in Russian while his friend inspected the watercolour with great intensity.

“It's fantastic,” he answered. “But it's not a Levitan. It has his same ability to give 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 in my office,” Ivan said proudly, 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 the artists at your foundation? No way. I know the exact place for it!”

“Ivan, you're not interested in the 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 they 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.”

It was Luciana's turn to gape very unprofessionally at the strange Russian. “For this one?” she asked, turning around to look at the painting hanging above her computer.

“Yes, that one.”

“It's not for sale.”

“We are at Christie’s and you won't sell a painting?” Oblomov blurted out, and Constantin had to suppress a smirk at his friend's lack of manners.

“It's not for sale. It's not in the catalogue,” Luciana repeated barely coming out from her shock.

“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,” Oblomov said as a matter of fact, pointing in Constantin's direction.

“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 five-thousand dollars?”

“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 in a gentler tone than the one employed by Oblomov. “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 replied in total shock. 'Russians with money and no class, no doubt.' “This piece was painted in 1997 or 1998, before my father-in-law passed away. The painter did it during his holidays at our property,” she explained to the men in a kind voice.

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

“He attends high school along 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 told her. “I would like take a look at it, if you don't mind. I've seen nothing in here that strikes my fancy.”

“I could speak with my husband, if you are interested. I will give you my card, and if you could give me yours, we could arrange a meeting. Our estancia is very well located, near the capital, and excellent for transforming it into a luxury hotel or a spa. I can show you the projects we did,” Luciana replied with an ample and professional smile. 'It's a good opportunity to sell that old barn.'

Constantin glared at Luciana, very upset that again he had been mistaken for one of those Russian parvenus and that an obviously uneducated little girl was making fun of him.

* * *

November 3^rd, 2000

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

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

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

“Yes, I certainly did,” he answered mechanically.

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

“My great grandfather would have adored you, Ivan Ivanovich,” Constantin sneered from the couch he was sitting on.

“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, Ivan?”

“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 another job!”

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

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

“Yes, indeed.”

Oblomov sighed as Constantin was in a non-communicative mood and the best would be to leave him alone. 'Always brooding, ever since we met.' He walked across the room to sit at his own desk, still watching his silent friend.

'I really don't get him. He shouldn't make things so complicated. Get a good lover, and close your 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, just to become depressed when the fleas jump out of said cat and stain his clothes.'

Constantin was fuming. That 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—his evaluation of that intriguing artist. 'Idiot! As if I could not realise what is good or bad! I pay over 250 art scholarships per year, and she tells me these drawings come from a high school brat! Impossible! Watercolours don't lie. 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 when Constantin looked in his direction. “Wait, we didn't bet anything,” he suddenly realised very upset.

“Ivan, I'm not in the mood. I just wasted a whole day visiting the middle of nowhere and even had to play your secretary. Can't you just look yourself for your own agenda in your own darn cell phone that you needed to ask me for every single thing while we were there?”

“That's why I need a secretary, boss. You're the best I've ever had,” Oblomov chuckled. 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. I thought maybe she was playing hard to get at her office.”

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

“I don't care about the drawings, but she wanted to sell me an entire house at a crazy price. If she was ‘lying’ about the painter as you said boss, then she's no good.”

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

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

“What?” Constantin croaked.

“The artist! He's a brat at a posh school. If you don't believe me, he illustrated the school magazine last year! It looks pretty much the same to 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, looking like a curriculum vitae, told him nothing, until he saw the birthdate. He couldn't help a gasp.

“Not so sure about it now, 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 when he was 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. Maybe I could give part of it to Tatiana. She was complaining that I don't give her nice things or that I 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 for the past two months, telling me she wants something ‘delicate and classic at the same time’. This was cheaper than going to an arts dealer.”

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

Repin took the printed copy of the school's magazine, downloaded from the internet, and he saw the boy's full name was printed on the credits page as one of two illustrators. Constantin inspected the images with great care. They certainly belonged to the same hand that had made the drawings he had bought once Oblomov had finished with his own shopping list.

'It's infuriating. I've spent my whole life looking for a real genius, have paid thousands of scholarships, and Ivan just finds one when he was looking for a ready-made coffee.

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

Without speaking another word, he sat at his desk and began to carefully inspect and compare the magazine’s illustrations with what he had bought.

'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 dismiss whatever you have at the moment and keep this one,” Oblomov chuckled as he rummaged through the abandoned folder. “Exactly as you like them.”

“What?”

“This dove, I mean. Blond, blue-eyed, can draw nicely, has good grades and is very, very young. It's an opportunity you can't miss.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“No, I like girls. But if I were you, I would certainly give it a shot at this…” Oblomov searched for the name in the folder, “…Guntram Philippe Alphonse de Lisle Guttenberg Sachsen. Phew! That's a name!”

Constantin rose from his chair and took the school’s yearbook photo from Oblomov’s hand, still smirking with sufficiency.

The youth was simply stunning, Constantin thought as he watched the photo in rapture. 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. The boy was shyly smiling at the camera for the official photo, and his self-restrained smile was the most bewitching one Constantin had ever contemplated. 'He's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.'

“If he had a sister, I would have a go at her too,” Oblomov chuckled again, grating on his friend's nerves even more. “Really handsome, and doesn't look smug. I mean, your toy boys 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 he had taken from Constantin's hands. “How about a conversion, boss?”

“I don't quite 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 help at this school's charity project in Retiro’. By his face, I bet this one only gets down on his knees to pray. It's a lost battle, boss.”

“You don't know that,” Constantin huffed, “and I could tell you a few personal stories of men who never—” 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 raise a family.’ You are so dead with this one, boss.”

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

“A Mormon,” joked Oblomov.

“He's a sensible, intelligent, talented and responsible young man. Perfect for me,” Constantin said haughtily, oddly irked by the joke. “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 an orphan.”

“Why is he an orphan?” Constantin repeated his question, punctuating every word as if he were speaking to an idiot. “I want to know everything you can find.”

“Boss!” Oblomov whined.

“I want permanent surveillance on him. Does he have a girlfriend or a boyfriend? Who are his friends? Where does he live? What does he do at 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 sit on the large sofa next to the window.

* * *

January 15^th, 2001

“Boss, there may be a slight problem.”

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

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

Constantin looked up annoyed at the other man’s 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 problems with Lintorff. If someone is making trouble, terminate him.”

“Shot in the head or poison? What do you like best, boss?” Ivan asked, sounding like an innocent lamb. But before he could react, Constantin had jumped from his chair and, fast as a cobra, had launched himself at him and pinned him down. The cold metal on Oblomov’s temple told the giant that they were walking on the razor’s 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 too fond of yourself, Ivan Ivanovich,” he answered. “And slow too.”

“Boss, get that thing away,” Ivan said feigning a self-confidence he didn't felt. It wouldn't be the first time Constantin killed someone who dared to challenge his rule. “You’ve known me for twenty years.”

“Feeling like you need a promotion?”

“Boss, the thing with the secretary role was your idea!”

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

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

For a very long minute, Constantin seemed to contemplate his next move, partly enjoying how suffocated Oblomov was becoming. '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 if nothing had happened, and Oblomov realised how close to death he had been.

“It's about that boy you fancy. The artist,” he gulped.

“Yes?”

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

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

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

Constantin gaped at him, and Oblomov continued with the story as his own deep voice had a soothing effect on 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 horrified.”

“Yes, cleaning up a yard filled with heads and limbs is a bit extreme for anyone's taste,” Constantin smirked. “Legend has it that Lintorff himself beheaded five of the survivors and left the rest to his crazy Serbs. He could really have saved the Stasi the mess of having to cover all this, but our Konrad has always been so traditional. Do you think he called a priest to let the sentenced fix their issues with God before he cut their heads?”

“Wouldn't be surprised, boss,” Oblomov mumbled. “The German is nuts. The thing is that, the day after these mercenaries attempted to kill him, the Order attacked 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 hard to explain as suicide, boss,” Oblomov joked, testing the waters.

“Unfortunately, working with them demands small sacrifices like going to Mass every Sunday,” 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. This man controlled the boy’s money till he turned eighteen. There's not much left.”

“How much?”

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

“Only that? His grandfather 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 three years old, mostly at that school. The de Lisles were banished and condemned to death. There's a bounty on the head of the boy’s uncle: Roger de Lisle.”

“Nothing on him?”

“Nothing as far as we know. Rumour has it that the Summus Marescalus, Mladic Pavicevic, swore not to retire until he kills his brother's assassin.”

“Speak about vendetta!” Constantin laughed. “Old Razim should go to the nursing home and leave it to his nephew. Goran 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. And a war criminal.”

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

“He has lived here all the time. A child means nothing to 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 were so against the boy, he would have terminated him long time ago, don't you think? Is 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 that 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 escape 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 on the table, the girl picked them up, and he forced her to return the money to the ‘tourist’. Rimsky understood each one of their words while they were arguing, as he was translating your order for her, and he says he didn't ask for 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 were 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.”

“Which one?” 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 to his long time friend.

“I said no,” Guntram answered, and proceeded to ignore his friend in favour of reading the instructions written on the rice package. “Does ‘parboiled’ mean that 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, put your nice jersey on, a tie maybe—but it isn't mandatory—, and come with me tonight. It's a free, first class dinner.”

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

“Please,” Fedérico pleaded.

“No. Leave me here with my burnt 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? Please?”

“It's her birthday and she hates me!”

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

“Good luck, Fefo,” Guntram chortled, doing his best to ignore his friend's puppy eyes.

* * *

“Good afternoon, madam,” Guntram said in a small voice, intimidated by Fedérico's mother’s presence.

“It's you,” she answered very coldly. “Didn't you have to serve tables tonight?” she added watching in 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, no money or glamour, was three years younger, and completely 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 that I'm not one of them. Why did I let Fefo convince me of coming?' “Tonight is 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 dedicate an ample smile to the approaching tycoon.

Fighting against the knot in his throat, Guntram looked around embarrassed, trying to locate his friend, lost the minute they had entered the large private clubhouse. He saw Fedérico lively speaking to a tall, gorgeous, blonde girl, and sighed.

'Hopefully, she's not the bimbo of one of his mother's fellow senators. Otherwise, she will somehow put the blame on me that he was harassing her.

'At least the witch gave me good advice: eat. First one in years.'

The sight of the large buffet table, set under the heavily gilded coffered ceiling to match with the walls, all in the Rococo style, killed his appetite. 'One of these dishes would feed a family for a whole week,' he thought darkly. He shut his mind firmly up lest he started shooting against the many wealthy people that were in the room. 'The Alvears did well in the past. No doubt about it. The poor devils working for them are another matter.'

He spotted a dark free corner and went there to observe without being watched. 'Bimbo can survive on her own,' he thought as a 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 passing waiters.

Constantin had more than enough of the Argentineans flattering Oblomov in his impersonation of President of Caucasian Oil Ltd as they had smelled the money on him. 'If my angel were not 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 the boy hiding in the darkest corner a Rococo ballroom could offer, 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 of his paintings would turn 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 that his mother is begging money from us. The gods favour me.'

With resolute steps, Constantin walked towards the boy, already enchanted by one of the girls working with the escort service. “Xenia, my dear,” he greeted her, and the woman smiled deferentially at the man whom 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 interested in young Latin American artists,” she repeated her well-learned lesson, hoping the boy would pick up her cue.

Unfortunately for her, Fedérico was still dazzled 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 art, but it was a lost cause as the youth had no idea about Latin American painters nor pretended to fake an interest in culture.

Only his earlier promise to his mother to “be nice, polite and show some intelligence to the Russians who want to invest in our mines and save us from total collapse” made Fedérico react when he noticed that the dark-haired Russian was losing his patience and about to leave the party.

“The black-haired 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, 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 and with his ‘bimbo’, Solange the nun, so bent on “showing him the right path” was good enough as to make him react and start paying attention to Constantin's story about his latest purchases. Unable to stifle a yawn any longer, he remembered his friend and excused himself from the group to go fetch him.

“Leave that thing and help me,” Fedérico 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.”

“Pigeon, 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 August when you start 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 I know very little about art.”

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

Feeling exactly as he did back in school when visitors would come to the campus, 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 for no specific reason, he felt very uneasy near him. His dark coffee eyes, the iris melting with the pupils, perhaps were the reason of what drove 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 as the boy would not look at him, stubbornly fixing instead his eyes on the floor, clearly refusing to make eye contact. 'Perhaps if I speak in his mother tongue, it will soften him a bit.'

But Guntram simply blurted out, “I don't speak Russian at all. Excuse me, sir,” and 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 has 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 aside from 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 in their studios,” he added contemptuously, hoping the Russian would loose interest in his Guntram. 'Darn, he looked as if he was going to jump 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 he did. You have just told me that he sold some pieces to a relative of yours. Perhaps your mother could inform me better.”

'My mother? She would present Guntram to the fucker with a ribbon just to get rid of him. I think some of his trash is still 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 art and other things.”

'Two birds with a single stone. Mummy dear will do my dirty work when she starts to press the Russians for money. She should also leave me alone as I provided her with her next victim.'

“Mr. Romanov is a busy man, you must understand. He has no interest in the Arts at all. I can speak on his behalf, and I would like to hear your mother's business proposal in more detail,” Constantin answered sharply. “How about tomorrow afternoon? The rest of my week is already full.”

* * *

October 2^nd, 2001

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

'No night for heroics. I'm taking the bus home,' the youth thought as he opened his battered backpack to stuff his folders and photocopies inside, instead of his large “Macroeconomics” handbook, covered with a plastic bag. Murmuring several “excuse me” that went unheard by his fellow students, he was able to get past the entrance and stood under the heavy rain. With decided footsteps, he jumped over the many loose tiles and left the well-illuminated university street to walk towards the dark bus stop, two blocks away.

As usual, the corner was empty except for the four or five young male prostitutes that strolled up and down the street at that ungodly hour, and were now carrying umbrellas or had sought shelter from the heavy rain under the awnings of the stores.

Guntram felt bad for them when he noticed that they were around his age or a bit older, but not by much. 'I bet they wouldn't be doing this if they could find a job, but who can get a job here? Everything is simply madness.' Once more he cursed that they had chosen that particular corner to stand. Their presence made him very uncomfortable as they were always trying to catch the attention of any who went past them.

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

'No way someone mistakes me for one of them,' he repeated his mantra under the rain as he took cover against the lone bus signal, hoping that no one would think that he was not waiting for the bus. 'The last thing 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.

A coughing fit took him by surprise, and he did not notice the large, black Mercedes that came to stop in front of him. When he did, he only moved a bit away, thinking the car only wanted to occupy the empty spot along the sidewalk.

At that moment, the car's rear window opened and a man in his early forties said something to him. Unable to discern the muffled words under the thick rain, he gaped at the stranger and blinked once or twice.

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

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

“Get in the car!” Constantin shouted in English, utterly frustrated at the boy's idiocy when Guntram only gaped at him again as the Russian's words made really no sense to him.

One of the boys at his back 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 Guntram, 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 trying to hook him up!' He opened his mouth to defend his innocent offer of a ride to the boy's flat, but Guntram's cold stare froze his blood.

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

Watching the glistening car drive away, Guntram felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. 'Perverts!' he thought.

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

* * *

November 14^th, 2001

Punta del Este, Uruguay

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 girl was certainly bringing him luck.

“Please, Fefo, let's go home,” she whispered 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 dollars.

“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 answered her.

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

“Fine, we go now,” Fedérico accepted as he knew his luck wouldn't hold for long and the blonde was too good to let escape.

“Do you want to play still?” she whined as they walked through the room. “I know a classy place. Something more in our style. 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.”

“Baby, that sounds like an illegal poker game. I finished school a year ago. They won't let me in.”

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

'Yeah, the charming Miami drugs dealer,' thought Fedérico remembering her “merry party”, but said nothing. “Let's go to bed, shall we?” he insisted. “I know a way to cure your headache,” he added with a wink.

“No! I want to be with my friends. Since we arrived here I've been nothing but bored. You only want to stay in bed or go to the beach! I want to see people, go shopping, play really hard and not in a second rate casino for grannies playing slot machines.”

“Fine!” Fedérico said utterly irritated with her whining. “We’ll go play with your friends for an hour and straight to bed after it.”

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

* * *

If Fedérico was shocked to see Constantin sitting behind a desk in the room where he had been dragged to after suffering losses of over $200.000 at a poker game, he hid it very well.

The Russian was informally dressed in a black silk shirt, and unlike many of the men in his entourage, he wore no jewellery at all, save for a 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 had only passed my messages along, then he would have noticed me, but it seems you forgot to do it,” Constantin said in 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 his lie once more. “He's not interested in you, or in anything you may have to offer him.”

“How much did you lose tonight?” asked Constantin.

“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,” a tall Russian answered from one corner, and advanced towards Fedérico menacingly.

“You know I don't have that amount with me!” the boy protested. “Wait till tomorrow!”

“My associates are not patient people, Martiarena. My patience with you is at 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 the tips of his fingers to his armpit and making him fall on his knees.

“What I already asked of you,” Constantin said unimpressed at the display of brutality. “Rimsky, you're being too soft. At this pace, we will never finish,” he scolded the man holding Fedérico.

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

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

* * *

December 22^nd, 2001

Paris

'The soft winter light engulfs the bustling Quartier Latin with a mixture of melancholia and romance,' Constantin thought as he strolled through the narrow streets following the young boy after they had left the Cluny Museum. 'It’s 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, and not only once but twice. First 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 about it. I only asked him in English where he had gotten the card he was reading, and he smiled and gave it to me 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 barely contained snickers of his men behind his back. The three bodyguards would have never said or shown anything at his face, but the youth's refusals, or worse, his constant disregards, were becoming a legend among his men.

A simple waiter, not even twenty years old, had ignored the boss on a permanent basis and gotten away with it.

'This has to stop, for better or for worse. Last chance, Guntram,' Constantin thought as he followed the youth into a densely populated bookstore at the Quartier Latin. He watched how the young man looked in awe at 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.'

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

For a brief instant, Guntram looked up at him curiously, as if he were searching his memory for something, and Constantin hoped that the youth would recognise him. Their eyes met. 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, past the door, attracted by someone yelling on the street. Without caring for the man standing in front of him, Guntram simply ran past 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's pocket. 'Massaiev should start to work again.'

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