Chapter 1
December 10th, 2013
Buenos Aires
For the Spanish for Foreigners teacher that particular afternoon was becoming a difficult one. The usually bright and inquisitive student was mind absent. He didn't follow her directions well and had picked up the odd mania of suppressing the use of the verb “to be” in the 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 the news were to be blamed.
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 anybody 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 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 for 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 down 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 realized 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 plain vegetables what the stranger offered him, had been the perfect push he needed to get a Spanish teacher.
So he had begun to take lessons every day.
A distraction from the ever present boredom hid somewhere in the back of his mind and the questions that haunted him.
A brief one.
The treacherous questions were always there. Waiting to jump at his neck. Hiding in the darkest corners under the plain sunlight.
'What went wrong? What 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? What 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 had 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. You only needed to see his paintings to realize it.
His shy smiles or the way he kissed him back couldn't be fake. Constantin knew very well when Guntram tried to lie to him. The way the youth had loved him-once he had let go of his grievances due to the Buenos Aires Affair or Conor had been born-wasn't a pretense.
'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 back to Lintorff? He killed his entire family; cast him out of his life; turned his existence into a living hell when he married that slut and yet, he jumps to his arms on every single occasion.”
'What went wrong? What 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 yet 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 plays for other people’s benefit?'
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 different,” she said with a bright smile as she opened the box and got a painted in pastel colors 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 shut down all the import business 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 the normally well-spoken and kind man gave her.
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,” her face paled in front of the assorted pastel rainbow colored cigarettes packed 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 sourly 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-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 it if he wanted to avoid the scorching heat. He hated to be “confined” in a place for a smoke.
It made him feel like a battered dog.
He took two deep calming breaths and decided to visit the art gallery located in 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 lotto 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.
“His 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 round 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 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 a newer work,” Constantin said out loud, taking two steps away from the table.
“I understand, sir but this is 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 trees of Plaza San Martín you can see its nest fully made of clay.”
“Made of clay?” Constantin sounded very surprised.
“Yes, these birds have quite a civil engineer in 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 in 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 in 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 turn of the century room, ruining the delicate balance of a good decoration. What a way of spoiling people's happy hour!
The waiter obsequiously bowed to take his order and Constantin 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 des vins by heart; travelled with two nannies; used the hotel chauffeurs and valets; dressed like he did could order such a thing.
“Choripan,” repeated Constantin without batting an eyelash. “To match the new ambiance of the lounge,” he explained to the baffled maître as his hand gentlemanly pointed towards the big and loud TV set.
The maître definitively paled. “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.
“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 favorite 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.'
“I 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 on his back,' 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 got 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 apologize 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 happen 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 still be 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 color 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? What 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. She quickly recovered her wits as business with a fat fish was becoming a rarity nowadays.
“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 liked what he saw.
“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've found 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.” The collective stupidity was getting the best of his nerves. Suddenly, Constantin felt that old urge to teach a lesson to someone but there was nobody around worthy of the bother of doing so.
'Where did I go wrong?'
The TV host spoke about the five million dollars Mandela's family would inherit 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...” The TV host explained Obama's words to the obviously brain dead audience and Constantin hated the fact that he now could understand Spanish.
'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 did.
'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 defense 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 in here. I leave it into your capable hands, darling.”
Non violence was the answer.
There's been a very (galactic size) long hiatus but I intend to post the book in weekly installments over the year. We will start by the first 5 chapters this week. The book is finished but still not edited. One of these days, we will sit and check it to get it "print-ready".
