The Creative Process

The Creative Process

December 21^st, 2007

Zurich

'A lady never makes a mistake…

'A lady never makes a mistake…

'A lady never makes a mistake…

'A lady never makes a mistake…

'A lady never makes a mis —’

“—But I see no bloody lady here!” roared Guntram as he smashed his red sable brush against his palette.

Once more he had ruined his own work: the nostrils were not symmetric. 'The witch will realise it on the spot. After paying so much for her nose job, she can't be immortalised with a crooked one.'

The soft murmurs of the ladies in the room with him made him blush embarrassed at his own stupid, childish outburst. Nearly dying of shame, he turned around and offered his excuses.

“What's the problem now?” his mentor, Meister Ostermann, asked as he inspected the painting of the woman, dressed in a nude evening dress that enhanced her goddess shape. “Besides this thing being absolute rubbish,” he added nonchalantly.

“Do you also see it? Damn!” Guntram growled. “I have to start again. I can't fix this. It's too notorious.”

“One good hand of white paint and it will be as good as new,” Ostermann said without any hint of humour in his voice, and some of the ladies giggled.

“The nose is wrong.”

“It looks very plastic to me,” Coco van Breda said from her corner. “Standard catalogue quality, too,” she added, and the giggles transformed into chuckles.

“It's not right,” Guntram said miserably, already considering starting all over again with Stefania's portrait. 'At least Sisyphus could hope that the stone would fall and kill him. This will never go away.'

“I need new materials,” he growled as he contemplated one of his most valuable brushes—the one that had taken him almost a full afternoon to shape to perfection—destroyed.

“Yes, buy something that if it breaks then nothing is really lost. Go to the convenience store boy,” Ostermann shrugged, and Guntram gaped at him.

“The convenience store?”

“Where East meets West!”

“Where?”

The old teacher raised his eyes to the ceiling, frustrated once more at his best pupil's passivity. The boy was a mess since that woman had moved into his former lover's house, forcing him on top to paint her and deal with all the unsavoury details of organizing her wedding. 'Honestly, I don't know why he doesn't put poison in the champagne.'

“The Chinese store!” Ostermann yelled outraged. “Good enough for them! It's not as if they're going to pay you!” he continued, hoping to get the young man out of his inertia. “At least don't waste good materials, boy!”

“You are right! I have had enough of all this trash!” Guntram exclaimed, feeling once more his frustration surge. “I’ll paint what I want, and if they don't like it, they don't have to pay me!”

“That's the attitude,” Ostermann encouraged him. “And remember the golden rule for people like that: the bigger, the better.”

Muted by his rage, Guntram only nodded and removed his smock, his fingers entangling themselves with the buttons, and he threw it to one side of his spot, putting his overcoat on and marching in a straight line towards the door, yanking it open.

The elevator was ignored, and Guntram flew down the stairwell ignoring also his thundering heart. He nearly bumped into Milan when the Serb bodyguard left his comfortable position inside the car to meet him.

“Going somewhere?” the Serb asked a bit curious, as once Guntram went inside his teacher's studio, he simply stayed there until it was time to pick up the children from school or to return home.

“Shopping,” Guntram growled.

“Shopping?” the man repeated more curious than ever. Guntram never went “shopping”. Before “the Mess”, the youth would make a face and only see the tailor, and now, if he needed anything, he would announce it two days in advance and always go to the same store, owned by a friend of the cook—and Alexei’s boyfriend.

“I need materials,” Guntram answered, starting to walk fast down the street.

“It's in the other direction,” Milan corrected him, pointing at the art store kept by two kind old ladies where the lad was always going even if he could have gone to a much larger and cheaper shop.

Without answering, Guntram continued to walk and turned around the corner to resolutely enter the large Chinese bazaar located there.

“Here?” Milan asked bewildered as his head hit a bunch of colourful straw baskets hanging from the ceiling. Rubbing his head, he took two steps backwards when Guntram glared at him furiously.

“Here,” he growled, and Milan finally understood why the boy was called Dachs by Dähler, and ‘Sable’ by the Russians. 'Now I see why even Repin kept his distance all the time… And he knows how to shoot; I saw it in Argentina.'

“The office supplies are on the third corridor to the left,” the Serb answered.

“Good.”

'He can be more impressive than the Duke when he wants to,' Milan thought, gaping at the retreating back, purposefully striding in the mentioned direction. 'The crazy bitch must have tried his patience once more.'

“I'm sorry, Milan. I wasn't thinking,” Guntram said when Milan joined him.

“Sorry about what?”

“My behaviour just a few minutes ago. Shouting at you was very inconsiderate of me.”

“Inconsiderate is a Muslim pressing a weapon against your head,” the Serb chuckled. “Don't worry, Guntram. You should have had your ‘bad day’ many weeks ago.”

“I'm under some pressure these days,” Guntram confessed, still feeling very ashamed of his outburst.

“Yes, that's true,” Milan agreed and nodded sympathetically, fixing his gaze upon the large display of office products. “Standard envelopes for the wedding invitations? I still think that changing the champagne brand is a much better one, but plastic flower arrangements could also do the trick. Mirjana told me she can help you with that. She found a webpage that—”

“No!” Guntram interrupted him, hating to be so tempted to follow all of his friend’s suggestions on the many ways you could ruin a wedding. “I really need materials for painting,” Milan looked at him shocked. “At the studio,” he added miserably.

“I don't think you will be able to find anything that you want in here,” Milan shrugged, but Guntram was not listening to him, busily inspecting a twelve oil colours set for 9.99 francs.

“Should be sufficient paint,” he mumbled to himself as he took the pack with a strange-looking, grinning cat on the cover.

“Give that to the boys and the damages will amount several thousands.”

“It's for me. For Ms. Barberini's portrait,” Guntram admitted slowly.

“For the bitch?”

“Don't call her like that.”

“How then?”

Guntram opened his mouth but couldn't find the right words. All what was coming to his mind was unsuitable. “Do you know if I can buy a canvas here?” he asked instead.

“End of the corridor.”

“Thanks.”

The canvases were set against the wall, and Guntram was slightly disappointed that the largest one was no bigger than 90 centimetres long. “Any ideas for Stefania's portrait?” he asked Milan. “Ostermann says it should be big.”

“Here,” Milan answered giving him a pink glitter pack.

“Won't hold with the oils,” Guntram mumbled with a frown. “Perhaps if I were to use acrylics, but the final effect is too shiny for my taste.”

“Over there, Guntram,” Milan said, turning him around and showing him one last, single canvas, without its plastic cover and looking a bit dirty.

Guntram contemplated in rapture the metre and a half tall canvas. “This is it.” He grabbed the 80 centimetres wide piece. “Perfect size.”

“I don't know. Is it not too dirty?” Milan said as his gloved hand brushed the dust aside.

“Doesn't matter,” Guntram muttered as he watched the “-50%” tag. “Is 16 francs not too much?”

“Big spender,” Milan chuckled, already planning to keep the receipt for future uses.

* * *

The old teacher tried for the fifth time to get his pupil's attention, but it was a lost battle; the young man only cared about the canvas in front of him. 'I said big, but not that big,' he thought, watching the progress of the sketch done in charcoal of the standing woman, holding an animal in her arms. 'Mr. Everything Neat and Proper finally threw all conventions to the trash. About time.'

“Is that a... cat?” Ostermann asked without expecting to get an answer.

“The stoat wanted a lot of money to pose,” Guntram growled.

“What are you going to do with the background?”

“Black. Have enough paint,” Guntram growled again. 'Matches their souls.'

“I really don't get where the light source is.”

“I'm not Cecil B. de Mille. Somewhere. Who cares?” Guntram mumbled.

“I don't really care. It's you the one who's always measuring everything with a ruler.”

“The Chinese didn't have one on sale.”

“Which colour is the dress?” the old curator asked with genuine interest.

“The original looks like a Middle Age armour that had a bad day in a baroque orgy. It was a gold-with-diamonds fabric or something like that. A Versace, or a cousin of his.”

“So, is it golden?”

“Don't have enough paint, but orange has a very nice texture. With some touches of grey and black, I can make it look like gold. Gold shines, doesn’t it? There you have your light source.”

“Orange?” stuttered Ostermann.

“Orange. Cat was grey. It's a semitransparent thing. The diamonds and the ornaments are supposed to cover you.”

“I see.”

“Good.” Guntram returned to his work and briefly wondered what those feminine chuckles he heard around him were.

* * *

“Guntram,” Milan said, shaking the absorbed youth by the sleeve. “Either I drive you to Goran's house now, or you take the bus.”

“What?”

“It's almost nine, and I have a pretty lady, filled with a generous Christmas spirit, waiting for me and my wallet.”

“Oh, I didn't realise the time,” Guntram mumbled as he took two steps away from his creation and contemplated it with deep satisfaction. “Now the nose is fine.”

“Sure, like Dorian Gray's,” Milan chortled, but Guntram didn't hear him, still thinking that there was something missing in the neck. 'After all, a strapless dress needs something on top, so the boobs don't feel that so much pressing was for nothing.'

“It's unfinished. Needs some detailing and more work.”

“Whatever you say. Call Goran and let him know you're going to his home. He hates surprises.”

“Fine,” mumbled Guntram as he removed his smock to hang it neatly on its hanger and searched for his mobile phone in his jacket.

* * *

Milan parked the car inside Goran's large building garage, next to his place, and thought, 'Bijou doesn't drive any longer, so there's no problem to park here.' Suddenly, he realised that the black BMW Goran normally drove in Zurich was nowhere to be seen.

“Did you tell Goran you were coming?”

“Sure, he told me to see myself upstairs,” Guntram answered as he got out of the car. “See you tomorrow?”

“Goran is not here,” Milan repeated, hoping the boy would understand that the taciturn Serb's “need for privacy”—his own words—, “total hatred of foreigners” in other people's opinion, was a law of nature.

“I know. He left me a key this morning,” shrugged Guntram. “Bye, bye.” 'Goran loves you. No doubt about it,' Milan thought as he drove away. 'Maybe that's why he invited you over Christmas instead of letting you die of boredom parked in the castle as it was the duke's original plan.'

* * *

Alone in the Spartan flat, Guntram briefly wondered how the children were faring in Rome. 'Hope the bastard remembers to check they are well covered at night. The witch certainly won't do it.

'Why did they go to the other house? It's much smaller than San Capistrano, and the boys would have loved the castle. Probably, Lintorff does not want that they ruin one of the artworks there.

'He's getting as snob as the witch. Perfect match.'

Knowing that thinking about the Duke would only render him sleepless, Guntram firmly decided to forget about everything. 'I could set the table for dinner. That's better than sitting here and doing nothing.'

Resolute as ever, he went to the kitchen and began to rummage in the cupboards for dishes, glasses and cutlery, and set them in order. He opened the refrigerator and was shocked to see a collection of white-and-blue, vacuum-sealed food containers, with dates and strange inscriptions on the lids. 'No, that's too much for me. It's Goran’s call to decide what to eat.' He closed the door and walked back to the living room where he wondered once more why Goran had so many books about classical music.

'That really doesn't fit with his profession. The others about politics, strategy and history do, but music? Did they belong to his brother? But they look too modern and new to be his, if he died in 1994.' He took one volume about Renaissance musical instruments and sat on the comfortable white leather couch to examine the illustrations.

The sound of turning keys made him leave the book on the coffee table and he stood up to meet his host. Goran entered the living room, leaving his overcoat over the unused coach along with his briefcase. He cracked a smile.

“Hi, Goran. I hope you don't mind I set the table. Your cleaning lady left several Tupperwares for heating. I didn’t know what you would prefer.”

“Hello, Guntram. Nicoletta always does that. She cooks everyday, leaves the food in the refrigerator for a few days, and if I don't eat it, she takes it home.”

“She cooked for an army,” Guntram commented with a smile. “She must be thinking I'm going to deplete your pantry.”

“Can't help it. She has a large family, and I say nothing as long as the food is not wasted,” Goran answered with a shrug. “Saves me the hassle of looking for something to eat if I come back at two in the morning.”

“I imagine,” answered Guntram and preferred to leave it there. Asking Goran why he would sometimes come home late might be a bad idea. 'I really don't want to know what he's up to. It’s enough with finding out what he did during the war a day ago.'

“Sorry about my lateness. I was hoping to be free much earlier, but something came up,” Goran told him. “Any preferences about the food?”

“None,” answered Guntram. “Is everything all right?”

“Sure, nothing more than the Duke complaining about something,” Goran replied with a well-studied shrug and turned around to direct his steps towards the large kitchen. 'How long till he asks? Ten seconds?'

He casually walked down the corridor and was able to reach the refrigerator's handle when Guntram asked, “Everything fine?” in a nervous whisper.

“Yes, I think so,” Goran answered, pretending to be busy with the containers. “Noodles and chicken is fine for you? It's not too spicy, I guess.”

“Why did he call you?” Guntram blurted out unable to cope with his curiosity any longer.

'For someone who hates the Duke, you become concerned very fast,' observed Goran to himself. “Yes, all is fine. A situation arose, and the Duke was unable to solve it by himself.”

Guntram bit his bottom lip and fought against the desire to ask.

Goran finally found what he was looking for and closed the refrigerator with a dry thud. He then confidently walked towards the microwave, nonchalantly pushing its buttons and deliberately ignoring the young man's nervousness.

“How was your day, little brother?”

“Good. I painted at the studio and went shopping with Milan. At the Chinese store. For materials mostly.”

“Glad to hear that. For a minute, I thought that the crisis had hit you badly.”

“No, nothing like that. The book is selling fine,” Guntram answered with a smile, watching Goran distribute the steaming food in the dishes.

“Wine?”

“No, I can't. Saving myself for New Year's Eve,” he explained with a chuckle, and suddenly, the memory of his first real erotic encounter, in a dirty hostel's foyer with Konrad, mercilessly assaulted him.

“You must be planning a big razzle-dazzle if you're already blushing, little brother,” Goran commented after he examined Guntram with a professional eye. “Forget it. It's not going to happen in this house.”

“No, it's not that,” mumbled Guntram feeling very embarrassed. “It's nothing, really.”

“I see,” Goran replied. 'He's dying to ask me.' “The Duke was in a real mess today,” the Serb chuckled, visibly amused at the memory.

“Really?” Guntram asked with his best cold voice.

“It was much more than he could handle. Ratko is baffled.”

“Is he... I mean, are the children all right?”

“Yes, we can say that. About the father, I'm not so sure. Fortunately, he has a thick skull. Ratko was afraid for his life,” Goran finished the sentence with a chuckle. And then, “That's what you get for not following the Code,” he grunted dead seriously, abandoning his relaxed demeanour in the blink of an eye to fix his charcoal eyes on the man sitting in front of him.

“Excuse me?” Guntram felt nervous, but he was uncertain of the source of his uneasiness. Somehow, the Goran he knew well had changed into another person.

“The Duke would be still in one piece if you would have done what we asked you to do last October, little brother.”

“Which was?” Guntram asked visibly upset.

“To be nice to him. Now he has a five centimetres gash on the forehead.”

“What?”

“The boys changed the bitch's perfume bottle to something that smelled hideously and stained some expensive drags she was wearing. She went nuts with the boys, the Duke tried to calm her down before she would have turned them into meatballs, and she hit him with the perfume bottle. Ratko couldn't stop her, and now the Duke is upset with him for ‘not adequately fulfilling his duties’.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Goran said. “Big oh. The Duke wanted to fire Ratko, and I had to use all my credit for a year to save his job.”

“He fights with all of you every morning. He has had worse than a cut!” Guntram protested.

“A cut in a fight is something honourable, little brother. A cut in a brothel skirmish is a disgrace. I'm glad he's in Rome, and I don't have to suffer his bad mood tomorrow.”

“Are the children…?”

“Fine. Of course the little devils ran to Mr. Elsässer, and he took them to San Capistrano. I hope they apologise tomorrow to the bitch so I can spend the rest of the week in peace.”

“Goran, I swear they never did something like that before… It must be the upcoming wedding,” Guntram said hurriedly.

“Of course it is the wedding! You should have fixed it!”

“I offered my friendship, and he behaved like a spoiled, pig-headed brat!”

“Big news, Guntram! I thought you knew that already!” Goran huffed and stabbed a noodle to exorcise his frustration with the situation. 'All this nonsense should end as soon as possible. The Duke is totally out of his mind.'

“If she's nasty to the boys, maybe he changes his mind,” Guntram suggested, unconvinced of his own words but willing to further appease Goran.

“After he has announced it to the winds? He will drop dead before saying he was wrong,” Goran buffed now. “Never mind, what's done is done,” and somehow Goran slightly relaxed his stance.

“I'm sorry you had troubles today.”

“Be glad it wasn't in your shift, little brother.”

“I'm very glad. She already hates me, and if they ruin another dress…”

“You're so dead,” Goran chuckled, and Guntram felt relieved. “How are the wedding preparations going?”

“I did what she asked me, and now all providers are on their Christmas break. I still can't convince Jean Jacques to give me a hand or at least some advice.”

Guntram watched how Goran finished his dish, and he forced himself to eat more as his nerves were devouring him whole. 'What if Stefania is nasty to them? I have to speak with Klaus and Karl so they're nicer to her. Lintorff will blame me for this one.

'But he had it coming,' he thought perversely. 'The lady can certainly hit.

'What if she hits one of my boys?' he thought, and his heart filled with a dark mix of anger and hatred. 'Fuck with the orange, tomorrow she gets real golden with glitter paint.'

A large dish with fruits was served, and Guntram took one apple and began to peel it off. “I had no idea you liked music so much. You have very good books about it,” he said to resume the broken conversation, hoping that this time the subject would be less stressful.

“Professional quirk,” Goran answered with a mischievous smile.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm a graduate in musicology and a violin teacher.”

“Ha, ha. You're very funny, but April Fools was quite a while ago,” Guntram said with a smile.

“It's true!” Goran protested almost laughing. “The good thing about having a family business already established is that you can study whatever you want without being worried about the money.”

“Did you really study music?” Guntram asked in real shock.

“Yes, I did. I entered the conservatory when I was six or seven. Who do you think taught my brother to play the piano? I had to work always and never played professionally, but I got to spend two semesters in Julliard when I was twenty.”

“Can you play the violin, then?”

“Not anymore. If you don't practice everyday, the instrument can become a torture to whoever is listening to you. But playing was never more than a hobby for me. I didn't have the talent my brother had. I'm glad I could study it, but I always knew what my profession was going to be.”

“Wouldn't you like to play again?”

“No, why?” Goran asked genuinely surprised. “There are people who can do it much better than I. I never felt the call, the urge, or whatever you call it, to play music or paint as my brother or you do. I was trained to be a warrior, and music counterbalanced it when everything became too demanding for me.”

“I see,” Guntram whispered, completely taken aback by Goran's story.

“What are you painting now?”

* * *

The whispers grew louder, and Guntram repressed an irritated sigh. 'Why can't they leave me alone? I'm working!' and renewed his efforts to ignore them, focusing on painting the stray cat’s hair, comfortably nested in the woman's arms.

The light of a flash over the canvas momentarily blinded him, and he turned around very upset at the interruption, looking like a Fury escaped from Hell.

“What has this woman done to you, Guntram?” he recognised the voice of Andreas Volcker and forced himself to smile at his friend, walking away from the large painting of a standing Stefania, with a shinning golden dress and a flea infested cat snuggled against her bosom.

“If that cat were a man, he would be having a fantastic time. It certainly knows how to rub those pears,” chuckled Andreas once more, and it took a lot of self restraint for Guntram to keep up his polite smile.

* * *

January 3^rd, 2008

“Where are you going with that?” Meister Ostermann asked when he saw Guntram carrying—dragging, really—without care the bigger-than-him portrait across the studio towards the rear door.

“Trash can,” Guntram answered as if it were the most logical thing to do. “It's finished.”

“It's not dry yet,” Ostermann said quickly and blocked the boy's path as the women in the large room stopped painting, staring at him with clear horror written on their faces.

“I don't care. Green container? After all, this is wood and cloth.”

“No! You can't destroy it!” Ostermann shouted, now horrified at his pupil's lack of vision. 'It's your best so far! It's the best thing I've seen in years!'

“I'm not going to keep it, and frankly, it's quite ugly. Trash can,” Guntram said firmly.

'I'm going to strangle him!' the old teacher thought, but Pallas Athena came to the old teacher's aid and whispered in his ear the right course of action.

“I'm afraid you can't throw it in the green container, Guntram,” Ostermann said with great aplomb.

“Why not?” the dumbfounded boy asked. “It's trash. You shouldn't listen to Volcker.”

“This is not organic waste,” Ostermann announced with great dignity. “These oils are toxic waste.”

“Toxic waste?” Guntram stuttered, totally taken aback.

“Yes, all paintings have to go to the recycling centre and be treated accordingly. It costs around 50 Swiss francs to get rid of a small-size painting,” Ostermann lied with great aplomb.

“I had no idea,” Guntram mumbled surprised.

“In the case of such a large one, it would be about a hundred, dear,” one of the ladies joined the teacher's efforts to save the painting.

“That's a lot of money!” Guntram protested.

“This is Switzerland, my dear,” another lady stated.

“But a hundred francs?”

“For the environment,” another lady said very convincingly.

“What do I do with this now?” Guntram said, looking completely lost. 'The damn thing did not cost more than 30 francs in materials! A hundred for getting rid of it? Bloody woman!'

“We could dismount it,” Ostermann suggested. “The wood of the frame can be recycled, and the cloth can be easily stored. At the end of the year, I'll put it out with the others I have, and we’ll save a lot of money because of the bulk. I always do that.”

“Oh.”

“Give it to me,” Ostermann said confidently and took the painting from Guntram's dead hands. “Why don't you ask your driver to get us something for tea time?” he said as he pulled some money out of his wallet after placing the picture against the wall, well away and secured from his pupil's hands.

“I love my life. I'll go myself,” Guntram offered.

“Yes, you do that,” Ostermann said and waved his fingers to dismiss the happy with the newly found solution boy. “Hurry up,” he added merrily, and Guntram chuckled, thinking that, regarding sweets, his old teacher sometimes behaved worse than Klaus and Karl.

The collective gasp of relief was clearly audible when the youth closed the door behind him. “Thank you very much for your cooperation, ladies. We just saved the next Mona Lisa from the bonfire,” Ostermann said, once more examining the portrait with great care.

“What are you going to do with it?” one of the women asked as they all surrounded the teacher. “It's very good.”

“I have the perfect place for it,” the old teacher answered with a smirk. “I already have a prospective buyer.”

* * *

February 5^th, 2008

Frankfurt am Main

Andreas Volcker was utterly tired. 'This is what I get for getting in the middle of a marriage. Next time, my mother and her friend Tita should leave my gallery alone.

'Nine percent interest? Lintorff is crazy.

'No, he's still jealous. Only one dinner with Guntram, and he thinks I'm planning to steal him away. Probably knows about the upcoming exhibition and just exploded.'

His eyes wandered across the modern meeting room and fixed themselves upon the tall, brooding figure sitting next to the other banker explaining to him the conditions for refinancing his company's debts. He let him speak, showing no interest at all, and once he was finished with his speech, he only thanked him for his time and stood up, decided to leave the room with his two lawyers.

He walked down the corridor, ignoring his councillors lamenting already that he had not accepted the new loan. With calculated ease, he missed the elevator and stood in front of the steel door smirking a bit as he checked his blurry reflection on the metal.

His smirk widened when he heard some hurried footsteps behind his back, and Andreas pretended to be deaf to the voice that called his name out loud. A large hand stopped the elevator's door just when he had entered inside it.

“Mr. Volcker, my name is Heindrik Holgersen. The Duke would like to have a word with you. In private, sir.”

“Why is that?” Andreas asked innocently. 'So, he was not expecting me to turn him down. Probably he's concerned that I run to Guntram and ruin his reputation as fair player. Just as Guntram forewarned me.'

“If you'd please follow me,” the blond started, but Andreas took two steps away from him and pushed the elevator's button, uninterested in what he had to say.

“I'm running late to another meeting.”

“Wait!” Heindrik shouted and stopped the door with his foot. “Please, sir,” he said, hating each word.

“Very well. Five minutes,” Andreas agreed with a shrug. “Gentlemen,” he addressed his two lawyers, “could you please continue without me?”

Andreas followed the younger man and entered a different office from the one where the meeting had taken place. It was larger and better decorated than the previous one, and the view over the Mainz was breathtaking.

“Ah, Lintorff,” he greeted him nonchalantly, rising from his chair when the Duke joined him less than two minutes after he had sat down next to the window.

“Volcker,” Konrad greeted him curtly and raised an eyebrow at Heindrik, who left the room in haste. With a hand gesture, he told Andreas where he could sit, and he did the same, remaining silent.

“So, what is it that you needed to tell me?” Andreas asked.

“Why did you refuse our conditions?” Konrad asked.

“Nine percent is an outrageous price for a company of our tradition and prestige. There are other banks that will be glad to have us with them. Something else?”

Konrad watched the man sitting in front of him, and the idea that he was a more dangerous rival than Repin had ever been, became stronger in his mind. “I understand that we are going to see each other again in the near future,” he said calmly.

“How so?” Andreas inquired in a polite voice.

“I was informed you were planning to sponsor an exhibition from my sons' tutor. I might visit it.”

“I would be honoured if you attend it, sir. Being at my gallery could be Guntram's great breakthrough.” 'Notice my use of his first name and sweat, Lintorff.' “Meister Ostermann is very excited about it, and even I was astounded by the excellent quality of his work. I see dozens of artists every year, but none can compare to Guntram's talent.”

'Of course no one can compare with my Guntram,' thought Konrad darkly as the fury crept inside him. “I'm glad to hear it,” he growled.

“Once he's fairly known, he may probably consider moving to Berlin or Paris,” Andreas commented offhandedly. “Zurich is far away from the artistic centres in Europe, and you know what they say, nothing like being there to be noticed.”

“And do you plan to offer yourself as Cicero, Mr. Volcker?” Konrad couldn't help to fire the question before he could even find a proper way to formulate it.

“No, not really,” Andreas replied with a shrug. “I have enough trouble with one Dante in my life,” he added, and Konrad could only gape at him, astonished with the answer.

“I know my professional boundaries, Mr. Lintorff, and Guntram has never expressed any interest to cross them. I'm only a businessman with a gallery as a hobby. Tita von Olsztyn and my mother suggested making this exhibition, and I'm confident in its success, especially after the good critics Guntram got for ‘Childhood Memories’.”

“Your interest is only professional?” Konrad asked very sceptically.

“Yes, it is,” Andreas answered without bating an eyelash, looking at his adversary in the eye. “We share nothing but a professional relationship.”

“I understand.”

“But you don't believe me,” Andreas smirked. “Guntram already warned me about your methods of dealing with the competition, and as I said to him, two can play.”

“Very well.”

“You are mistaken if you think that I am your competitor in this market,” Andreas continued with a sneer, ignoring Konrad's earlier words. “I'm not even a player. In fact, I doubt anyone but you is a player in this… field.”

Konrad's eyes narrowed, and for a fleeting instant Andreas believed that the blue colour showed some yellow dots, like a tiger watching his next prey. Andreas took his mobile phone out of his breast pocket and looked for the photos of Guntram's paintings. Slowly, he passed them till he found the finished portrait of Stefania. Maximizing the picture, he gave the phone to Konrad.

“Do you think that someone who paints this is interested in somebody else but the cause of his rage?”

The Duke took the phone from Andreas' hands and glanced at the picture uninterested.

And he gasped when he saw the portrait of a standing woman, wearing a shiny, no, better say a flashy strapless evening gown in a golden shade. Much to his horror, the gown seemed to be constructed of a series of rococo convoluted ornaments, just as one of Versailles’ gold balconies.

The cat, snuggled in her arms, looked as if it had just come out of a “cat fight” and after rolling in the mud to celebrate its victory.

The woman's self-confident, arrogant gaze almost made his heart stop.

'Stefania is not that...

'Well, she is,' Konrad finally admitted inwardly. 'And I'm the dunce ridden by the whore, just as Friederich says,' his mind immediately supplied. 'She's quite sure of her victory, and once she becomes Duchess, I will not be able to get rid of her so easily.'

“I think that ‘Return of the Royal Parakeet’ would be more than an appropriate title for this composition,” Andreas said with another smirk, enjoying Konrad's sombre expression, but something inside him made him change his mind and he felt sorry for ‘his enemy’.

“He does not love me. You can see all his jealousy and hatred poured into that painting. He assured me it's not for sale, and that is a real pity,” Andreas added slowly, his voice laced with genuine compassion for the first time. “Guntram loves nobody but you, sir.”

Defeated, Konrad returned the phone to Andreas. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“As a professional, and Ostermann shares my opinion, regardless of who was the model, this is one of the best depictions of post-industrial society I've ever seen.”

“Apple meets Versace and the 80s,” Konrad sentenced absentmindedly. “Tacky.”

“Exactly.”

Feeling much older than ever before, Konrad rose from his chair and extended his right hand to Andreas. “I would be honoured if you considered visiting at your convenience our offices in Zurich, Mr. Volcker. Your company deserves our support.”

“No, I'd rather stay with what I know best. Perhaps we should re-discuss the conditions again,” Andreas answered, shaking Konrad's hand.

“Yes, that is a sensible approach to the matter.”

“I hope to see you in Berlin. I'll tell my secretary to send you an invitation for the vernissage.”

“Thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

Alone in the room, Konrad contemplated the skyscrapers, their lights coming to life as the sunset descended upon the city.

'What if I am wrong? What if this is too much for Guntram's nerves? He clearly hates Stefania, but he does nothing to get my attention. He's as cold as ever. Colder even. Maybe he still loves me deep inside him, but his hate gets the best of him.

'Why is he so headstrong?

'If he would just say a word…'