The
Substitute
Book
III
Chapter
1
December
10th,
2013
Buenos
Aires
For
the Spanish for Foreigners teacher the afternoon was probing to be a hard one. His normally bright and inquisitive student was mind
absent. He didn't follow her directions well and had picked up the
odd mania of suppressing the verb “to be” at present tense in
almost all of his sentences.
One
single correction was normally all what it would take to make him
mend his ways and finish the lesson spotlessly.
Not
today.
Perhaps
it were the news.
Yes,
that should be the case. People looting supermarkets because of the
police force strike while civil armed forces clashed against the
looters in the poorest areas -just like any Mad Max scenario was
expected to be- would drive anyone insane. For someone so
sophisticated and rich as he was, the student must have been thinking
he had landed in Somalia by mistake.
Mrs.
Fernández Prieto was more than happy when the man's Vacheron wrist
watch struck five o'clock and she was free to continue with her
English for Executives lessons somewhere downtown.
“Same
time tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Arseniev?” She asked and the man only
nodded, walking her towards the entrance of his suite at the luxury
hotel he was staying since two months.
“Yes,
of course. Thank you for your time, madam,” he replied, slightly
bowing his head and she fell under the spell of his dark eyes.
A
gentle knock on the side door was answered in a quick French and a
woman in her mid-thirties entered the room carrying in her arms a
very blond baby, not even a year old. She gave the smiling baby to
the man and the teacher thought how awkward it was that his hair was
so blond while the man was so dark.
Nevertheless
she came forward to caress the beautiful child while the man fired a
few questions in French to the nanny.
'My
god, who does still hire French nannies in Buenos Aires?' she thought
as she smiled and lightly touched the small hand trying to grab her
golden necklace. She smiled one last time and dashed for her next
lesson.
“Would
you take him out now, Mr. Arseniev?” the nanny asked and watched
how the normally cold and aloof man melted down under the child
smiles.
“No,
I have several appointments later. Take him to the park after his tea
time. The weather is not too hot.”
“I'll
be back in time to tell you a bedtime story, my Kostya.” Constantin
kissed the blond head and the nanny took the baby away.
Alone
in the middle of his living room, Constantin calculated that he still
had one and a half hour free before his meeting with the real estate
agent. More than enough time to walk to the cigars shop and buy his
beloved black cigarettes. The weather was still not too hot and
walking would be a good way to cast the boredom away.
He
took the elevator down to the lobby and put on his sunglasses the
minute the doorman opened the door for him. In a way he loved the old
fashioned manners of Buenos Aires. They reminded him of the Paris he
had seen as child with his mother.
The
sticky heat wave hit him not two steps away from the air conditioned
cool cocoon the Plaza Hotel was. Quickly crossing the street,
Constantin took refuge under the tall
tipuana tipus
of Plaza San Martín. An acrid smell assaulted his nostrils and he
grimaced. The fallen springtime flowers had formed a thick amorphous
mass of putrid flowers. 'The Summer is here,' he realise with
disgust.
He
began to walk up the hill towards Calle Florida, preferring to make a
slight detour in the way to avoid the sun. He stopped in front of a
large leather shop to catch his breath as the humid heat was more
suffocating than in St. Petersburg.
“Verdes?
Greens?” a man in a suit whispered in his ear and Constantin shook
his head negatively. He had no need of buying or selling dollars. He
had been more than shocked the first time one of the locals had asked
him if he wanted “greens”. Not knowing if it was a new drug; a
young Adonis or simple vegetables what the stranger was offering him,
had been the perfect push he needed to get a Spanish teacher.
So
he had begun to take lessons every day.
And
the boredom hid somewhere in the back of his mind and the questions
that haunted him took a holiday.
A
brief one.
The
treacherous questions were always there. Waiting to jump to his neck.
Hiding in the darkest corners under the plain sunlight.
'What
went wrong? Where was my mistake?'
Constantin
knew that once those two had popped out in his mind, there will be no
rest for him.
And
here they were again. 'What went wrong? Where was my mistake?'
mercilessly drilling his brain.
He
walked down the pedestrian street as the images of a happier time
with Guntram stabbed him. The light blue eyes that smiled at him
before they got lost in the banks of reeds along the Ob River or in
the endless grasslands or skies.
Despite
Guntram had been a foreigner, he had truly understood the Russian
soul and loved it. He didn't judge or questioned it; he just embraced
it as it was. No matter how afraid he could had been of the harsh
climate, he loved Russia.
His
shy smiles or the way he kissed him back couldn't be a fake.
Constantin knew very well when Guntram tried to lie to him. The way
he had loved him once he had let go of his grievances due to the
Buenos Aires Affair or Conor had been born.
'Loving
each other was never easy but it was worthwhile,' thought Constantin.
'No matter how sick he is, I love him just as he is.'
'I
gave him his health back; our Conor; taught him how to be a real
artist and yet, he ran away at the first sight of trouble.'
'Why
does he always run to Lintorff? He killed his entire family; cast him
out of his life; turned it into a living hell when he married that
slut and yet, he runs to him on every single occasion.”
'What
went wrong? Where was my mistake?'
'He
can't love him as much as he says. We were perfect for each other
since the first time we saw each other and he ran away as fast as he
could.
What
was he afraid of? To create? To see himself for what he really is and
not the perfect doll he shows to the other people?'
Constantin
stopped in front of the light, waiting for his tun to cross Avenida
Córdoba and take refuge inside the cool shopping centre. He pushed
the heavy crystal door open and took the electrical stairs to the
cigars shop in the last floor.
The
saleswoman greeted him by his name and obsequiously smiled at him,
already knowing what he wanted.
“I'm
afraid that due to the new import laws we couldn't get your exact
brand, Mr. Arseniev,” the woman said as she knelt down to look
inside the closed wooden shelves for the man's box.
“Well,
this is a bit of a disappointment, Mrs. Adanez,” Constantin said
coldly.
“It's
the same brand, just a little bit different,” she said with a
bright smile as she opened the box and got a painted in pastel
colours carton box.
“Sobranie
Cocktail-Smoking seriously harms you and others around you,”
read the label.
“I
ordered Black Russians,” Constantin said coldly as a righteous fury
boiled inside him.
“We
did our best to get them, but the government closed all imports last
week,” she excused herself. “It is almost the same. The tobacco
is produced in Ukraine.”
“Really?”
smirked Constantin. “I understand this is a gay friendly country,
but I prefer the Russian outlook on things and decency. There is no
way on earth I will smoke one of these in public.”
“Why?”
she asked clueless, feeling intimidated by the deadly look in the
normally well-spoken and kind man.
Constantin
didn't waste his breath with something so trivial. His fingers
quickly broke the seal and took one of the ten packs inside the box.
He opened the box and showed it to the saleswoman.
“Oh
my,” she lost her colours in front of the assorted pastel rainbow
coloured ten cigarettes laying inside the golden box.
“Should
I take the pink or the yellow one, my dear?” Constantin asked with
an edge to his voice as she profusely offered her excuses for the
mistake.
“I'll
get my husband in a second,” she finally said and ran away.
The
shop owner looked like a round beetle and offered thousands of
apologies to Constantin saying they were not familiar with the brand
and that perhaps he would like to take Belomorkanal or Dunhill
instead.
“Belomorkanal.
It's the fastest and cleanest way to die,” Constantin answered
darkly as he gave him his credit card. “Send them to my hotel.”
“Right
away, sir,” the man answered impressed, thinking that not even a
Montecristo would calm the good customer down.
Outside
the store the urge to smoke a cigarette hit Constantin with full
force. He was still furious -and any other time, both culprits would
be literally hanging from their feet- and smokeless. He knew he
should go to the only restaurant that still allowed to smoke inside
if he wanted to avoid going out in the heat. He hated to be
“confined” in a place for a smoke.
It
make him feel like a battered dog.
He
took two deep calming breaths and decided to visit the art gallery
that was on the same level. Perhaps the marchand had finally found
something for him.
The
receptionist ran to look for her boss the minute he entered the
gallery, leaving him alone to watch the collective exhibition.
Everything seemed to be dull and lifeless, yet he got lost in one
abstract composition that reminded him of one of Guntram's charcoals
made during one of his “trances” as he used to call them.
“I
have excellent news, Mr. Arseniev,” the man announced joyously and
Constantin wondered if he had finally won the loto by the way he was
clutching a large size folder against his chest.
“This
artist you asked me to look for. It seems he worked in Argentina for
some time and I found a series of drawings when he was young. The
owner, a very charming lady, would like to sell them as his prices
have increased so much over the past years.”
Constantin
followed the man to the office where a large crystal table occupied
most of the space. With a satisfied grin, the man opened the folder
and began to carefully place five large drawings made in pencil and
ink.
“The
technique is fantastic, as you can see. I understand he was not older
than eighteen when he made them. All of them are depictions of the
Argentine countryside. It's a pity he retired so young. I understand
his large oils can bring several thousands at an auction.
Constantin
circled the table slowly and fixed his eyes upon the drawings. No
doubt they were Guntram's. Two landscapes, two portraits of
countrymen and a beautiful drawing of a reddish-brown simple bird.
The
image of the peaceful boy drawing under the big ombú tree he had
seen so many years ago, at a silly party, came back to his mind.
Constantin had been almost being lost in the beauty of Guntram at
that time. He looked ethereal yet human at the same time. Nothing
around him could touch him as he only minded on the beauty of simple
things. Constantin also wanted to find magic in the ordinary things.
How
he had hated Lintorff for all the lies he had told the boy about him.
He
had poisoned his mind against him.
Or
how he had pushed the boy against everything he believed in to keep
him under his hand, nearly crushing his soul in the meantime.
'He
turned him into a nanny when he could had been greater than
Michelangelo.
'Only
for that, Lintorff deserves a painful death.'
“No,
these are very immature works. I was thinking more in the lines of an
older work,” Constantin said out loud, taking two steps away from
the table.
“I
understand, sir but this has been the best I could obtain so far. The
lady who owns them does not want to part with them.”
“I
understand it,” Constantin mimicked the man's accent and the
marchand saw an easy sale go down the drain.
“They
are at a very good price and early works of an artist who retired so
young can attract a lot of attention in the future. Look at Basquiat
for example.”
“Basquiat
overdosed with drugs from Andy Warhol's Factory and as far as I know
this de Lisle is still alive; illustrating children books,”
Constantin displeasure and contempt was well heard.
“I
believe ten thousand dollars for the whole lot is a very good price,
sir. A painting of him is valued more in more than 30.000 dollars.”
“The
drawings are good but not so extraordinary as to achieve such a
price. Besides, it's not my taste.” Constantin said but the
brilliant black eye of the bird caught his attention again. Guntram
had been drawing one of them the second time they met face to face.
“Does this bird really exist?”
“Yes,
of course. It's an hornero. Our national bird. Up in the tree you can
see its nest fully made of clay.”
“Made
of clay?” Constantin sounded very surprised.
“Yes,
these birds have quite a civil engineer trapped inside them.” The
man saw the light of hope shine again. “Perhaps you could be
interested in one picture then.”
Constantin
remembered the worn out little notebook that Guntram had forgotten
that afternoon and later had given him, now well protected in a safe
box at Geneva. The bird in the picture was very much the same Guntram
had been drawing when Constantin had found him to be the most
beautiful creature upon this earth.
“Yes,
perhaps the bird would look good at my son's bedroom,” he said.
“Offer the owner two thousand dollars cash plus your fees.”
Once
more back in the heat, Constantin began to walk back to the hotel. He
only had half an hour left before his meeting with the nice real
estate agent and only her elegance and good manners were preventing
him to look for another agent as she was always coming empty handed
to what he wanted.
For
a minute, Constantin wondered why the streets were so empty as it was
the rush hour and the people from the offices rushed down the hill
to the main train station like a mad tidal wave, eating tourists
alive. He stopped in front of a café and saw all the people glued
to the giants TV sets.
But
they weren't enthralled by the flickering lights of a football game.
They were bewitched by the hellish images of mobs scorching a humble
supermarkets, annihilating everything in their wake.
'Again?'
thought Constantin as all the pieces began to fall into place in his
brain. The lack of dollars; the out of control inflation; the
shortages; the outages; the fact that nobody in the hotel had booked
the large suites he had or how the manager had touched the skies when
he had offered to pay three months in advance while he “looked for
a good house to buy”.
'Well,
this time they can't blame it on Lintorff. It was all of their
doing.' He saw and smelled the fear in the people faces and snorted.
He
hurried back to the hotel and went to the bar in a straight line.
Much
to his annoy there was a big flat TV screen installed in the middle
of the room. What a way of spoiling people's happy hour!
The
waiter came to take his order and he said simply “Choripan,”
closing the menu with a dry thud.
“Excuse
me, sir?” the waiter was appalled. Certainly the customer could not
be asking for something so vulgar, worthy of dockworkers.
“Chorizo
con pan,” Constantin repeated punctuating every word and the man
went livid as the black eyes forebode nothing good for him.
Two
seconds later, the maître was at his side. Obviously, the rich,
elegant Frenchman had made a mistake and he should help him out. It
was unthinkable that a man who knew la carte de vins by heart;
travelled with two nannies; used the hotel chauffeurs and valets;
dressed like he did could order it.
“Choripan,”
repeated Constantin without bating an eyelash. “To match the new
ambiance of this lounge,” he explained to the baffled maître as
his hand gentlemanly pointed towards the big and loud TV set.
The
maître definitively lost all his colours. “Monsieur, it's the
funeral of President Nelson Mandela. The hotel management thought
that our distinguished guests should not miss this historical moment.
President Obama will address the world soon,” he babbled an
explanation.
“Ah,
in that case, what would you suggest to accompany such a tragic
event?”
Glad
to be back in the realm of normalcy, the maître made a few
suggestions and Constantin decided himself over a fresh white wine
and some hors d'oeuvre as his guest was a lady.
Bored,
his eyes followed the funeral transmission and he nearly huffed when
he saw the world leaders packed on harrows as if they were mere
college students cheering for their favourite football team.
'It's
a good way to go for the inventor of the necklacing technique,'
Constantin thought when he saw both widows embrace and cry openly
their tragic loss. 'A simple and effective way to keep your
underlings in line. A tire, some fuel and matches and he could always
blame it on his wife.'
“Wish
I could have done the same, but no; I was the violent, reckless, cold
hearted Russian.”
'The
Ivan who came from the Arctic,' he thought miserably. 'That man broke
his country and reduced it to a shadow of what it was and yet, all
the monkeys are crying for him.'
'Why
everything turned out so well for him and so bad for me?'
Constantin
reclined himself on the comfortable sofa he was sitting and watched
the reactions of the people in the room. They all watched the TV as
if they were spellbound and truly feeling the Africans' loss. The
Argentineans had people killing each other for a piece of bread and
felt nothing for their own people. For what he had seen so far, all
of the present people in the room had grown a thick skin against
their countrymen suffering.
Yet
they wore tearful eyes for former terrorist-president-now Human
Rights Saint.
For
Constantin it was interesting to find out why.
The
mass roared when Barack Obama took the stand and began to speak. 'Ah,
the Peace Nobel Prize with two wars on and a legal torture centre,'
thought Constantin.
'Do
they love him because he's half black or is it because he's telling
them what they want to hear? Mandela's non violent methods? Obama
should have seen the ANC's shopping list with me and then eat that
corny speech he's giving us.'
'But
I'm sure he has a copy of it somewhere. Well hidden from the public
eye.' The audience literally clung to each of the American
President's words and Constantin wondered if a collective lobotomy
had taken place while he was out for cigarettes. 'Why? Argentineans
had gotten nothing good out of Obama or Mandela'.
“I'm
terribly sorry for being so awfully late, François,” a tall lady
greeted him and he immediately rose from his sofa, liking her soft
gardenia perfume.
“I
apologise in advance Constanza for meeting you here, under these
circumstances,” he said as he helped her with her chair and saw how
she was also spellbound by the TV.
“What
a lovely idea,” she mumbled but he well knew she was way away; in
the savannah to be more precise.
Suppressing
a sigh, Constantin sat and let her being enraptured by the ceremony.
'Why
was Guntram so afraid of me? No, he wasn't afraid of me because he
would have never been so good to me after his surgery and when Conor
was born. No, it was something else that made him change his mind.
'Why
was he so afraid of those useless bums? He trusted Dima and he could
have blown up a full kindergarten without a single regret, but two or
three football hooligans drove him mad with fear. Pavicevic is a kind
man and I am a monster while I never buried a full village alive. I
never cut children into pieces! Not even roasted someone alive!
'He
was terrified something may have happened to our Conor. The poor
thing was so crazy that he was selling himself to them for a few
things. At least, it taught him to be tougher and only see for his
child's welfare. Otherwise, he would be a still a pansy crying on my
shoulder or Lintorff's. About time he learned how hard life is.
'Did
something so trivial like a business disagreement drive him mad? I
know he was always a schizophrenic but with medications and care he
was fine and more creative than ever. Massaiev took good care of him
and they had an understanding between them.'
Constantin
watched his companion go mute with the emotions, drinking from her
glass nervously as her beautiful eyes were full of sorrow.
'Is
it now the right moment to start screaming “santo subito”?
Lintorff would love it. His pantheon needs some more colour indeed.'
Constantin nearly smirked at the crowd almost gone mad with hysteria
at the loss of the leader as the speeches became more and more
grandiloquent and filled with common places.
''What
went wrong? Where was my mistake?'
A
barely contained sob caught Constantin's attention and he fixed his
eyes on the woman's glossy ones. Without saying a word, he offered
her his handkerchief and she took it mind absently.
“Did
you meet him at some point?” Constantin asked with a false
compassion.
“I?
No, never.” She was quite shocked that her client would ask her
that, but coming to think, if he was so rich as she thought he was,
then it was no wonder that he might have known him. “Obama is such
a wonderful person.”
It
took a lot of effort for Constantin to keep a nice face for her
benefit.
“Why
are you so affected?” Constantin couldn't refrain himself to ask.
“He was a great man but South Africa had a very limited commercial
relationship with Argentina as far as I know.”
“How
could someone not love a person who taught us the power of
forgiveness and love?” she wiped out her tears with the offered
handkerchief. “Thank you,” she sobbed again as she rummaged
inside her tote bag to look for her Ipad.
“I
have good news for you François. The owner of this house is in a
hurry to sell and move to the States,” she said as she switched on
the white devise. “It's in a fantastic area, all of them prime
villas, with a wonderful view of the river, but far enough as not to
be worried about a flooding.”
Constantin
cast a glance at the photo of a neoclassical French petit chateau
built in the middle of a very large garden and he liked it.
“When
was it built?”
“Beginning
of the past century but it is in perfect conditions. Only a few minor
details would be needed. The gardens were designed by Carlos Thays
and as you can see, they overlook the river from the hill where the
house is located.”
“It's
nice indeed,” Constantin commented as she showed him the photos.
The house looked very much to the one he had visited years ago. “Is
it in... San Isidro?” he asked.
“Yes,
indeed. Your son could be so happy, running and playing in these
gardens. There are almost no properties like this one left.”
“Why
does the owner want to sell?”
“Well,”
she looked uncomfortable with the blunt question. “The family would
like to move to Miami or Florida. They would prefer the payment to be
made offshore.”
“I
do not want any kind of deals outside the law.” Constantin replied
firmly. “I will pay the exact amount in pesos of what they ask in
dollars. I will not go against the laws of this country. You know
these are my conditions.”
“We
will all get a better price if we are not so strict with the law.”
“If
I see correctly, there are laws against smuggling money out of the
country; trading with currencies or failing to declare them. Tell the
owner I am not interested in his conditions.”
“François,
we are not in France,” she pleaded him but Constantin held her
puppy eyes in a way that made her nervous. “We are not speaking of
not paying taxes but avoiding the government to have access to this
large amount of dollars.”
“Constanza,
my dear, perhaps you should look for something else for me,”
Constantin said and she was taken aback because now the man was
focusing hard on the TV set.
'Why
do they all cry for him?' It's not Gandhi.'
“It's
the best opportunity we have crossed so far,” she insisted. “The
owner is very attached to it.”
“The
owner is fleeing from the country, but he's late, my dear.”
Constantin answered without blinking. “He should accept this is all
over -again- follow the rules and start anew with the money he should
have stashed somewhere. He shouldn't be trying to burden me with his
lack of vision and much less expect me to pay for the drinks at his
burial.”
'Where
did I go wrong?' The TV host spoke about the five million dollars
Mandela's family would get and Constantin had to bit his lips to
prevent his laughter to escape.
“But
Madiba's heritage was much more than money. It was about dignity; it
was about self respect; it was about non violence. He taught our
people that revenge was not the way; that people should always follow
the way of peace...”
'No
doubt this is a world made by and for women.' Constantin felt
disgusted at the hypocrisy of the world.
'It
was never about what I did or with whom I did it. It was about how
I did it.' The revelation dawned in Constantin's mind as the real
estate agent continued to prattle about the wonderful opportunity he
was missing.
'Yes,
that was what went wrong. The method; not the objectives or tools.
Lintorff was no better than I. He kidnapped, raped, beat and
threatened Guntram more times than I.
'Who
is a better general? The one who obliterates a city or the one who
takes it over without firing a single shot?'
For
the first time in months, Constantin smiled. He had solved those two
maddening questions. He had finally discovered the way to recover all
what had been lost.
“Constanza,”
he stopped her defence of the property's assets abruptly. “Please
ask the owner of that villa in Punta del Este if he would like to
rent it to me from next week onwards for a year or two.”
“This
is only a holiday villa. I don't know if the owner would be
interested in such a long lease.”
“I
would like to leave Buenos Aires as soon as possible. I'm afraid this
weather doesn't suit me. The seaside will be fantastic for my
Kostya.”
“That
villa costs 25.000 per month,” she stammered. “It is only being
rented for the holidays.” she repeated it.
“Then
perhaps, it will be better to buy something there; in Uruguay. The
country's legal framework seems to be more stable than here. I leave
it into your capable hands, darling.”
Non
violence was the answer.
OMG!!!!!! TS3 is here finally!
ReplyDeleteRepin is truly creepy. I wonder how dark this story is going to be.
Thanks Tionne :-)
The Substitute 3 is really here!?! YAAAYY!!!!
ReplyDeleteWoow i never thought Constantin is still thinking about Guntram. Somehow i feel sorry for him, because he truly loves Guntram in his weird-obsessive-scary way...just like Konrad.
Can't wait the next chapter! Thanks Tionne ;)
Yes ! Yes ! Yeessss ! I can't believe it ! New book !
ReplyDeleteSo happy ! :)
And I can't believe Constantin is going after Guntram, again... Poor boy... Well, he's not a boy anymore. He's 30. Can't wait for the next chapter !
Thanks Tionne :))
miles
Thanks, Tionne
ReplyDeleteNow begins another roller coaster ride
Eager for the next chapters.
VALL
Ahhh!! I know you said it was about to happen, but I still cannot believe the new one is here! Incredible. And of course we have to start off with our favorite (re: most despised) crazy Russian.
ReplyDeleteI cannot wait to see how the Lintorff men are doing!!! When do you think you'll publish this new book on lulu?
Congrats on another book!
-L.S.
For being over Guntram, as Constantin claims, me thinks the gentleman protests too much.
ReplyDeleteThere's only one way to express my reaction at seeing this entry:
\ ^________^ /
Yeah is there already! Thank you Tionne!!! Can't wait for the next chapters and how the other characters are doing.
ReplyDeleteI really love your books but sometimes I wonder if Konrad and Guntram can have their happy ever after ending. I feel like they deserve it as a reward for surviving hell.
ReplyDeleteThanks a lot Tionne. ¡¡¡This is so exciting!!!!!
ReplyDeleteMay
I'm so excited about this!!!
ReplyDeleteThanks for this chapter! But I am wondering about the time and place set of this new book (sorry, English isn't my nature language). It seems, that you are going to write about present events. Its just that I came from Ukraine and as my friends form all over the world are telling me, Ukraine are now popping at every tv news and newspapers. Our current situation in some ways are similar to that of Serbia and Kosovo. So I was curious would these events be mirrowed in some ways in your book or not?
ReplyDeleteThanks for this chapter, and the next, when can we expect TS3? I keep checking every week :( but, maybe an update would help. Please.
ReplyDeletePls published Ts3 Pls....dear, love ur work so much...
ReplyDeleteAre you doing okay? We haven’t heard from you recently. Please take care, and don’t let the world get you down!
ReplyDelete