TS3 Chapter 5

Chapter 5

March 20^th, 2014

Zurich 

“What you are asking is simply impossible, Guntram. I will not change my boys from school. Not in the middle of the term and much less so near their First Communions,” Konrad refused three days later. 

“That place has no security at all!” Guntram yelled at his husband. “Kurt escaped his classroom!” 

“Like many others in the past did. He didn't leave the school premises.” 

“Those teachers can't handle him!” 

“I agree with you.” 

“So?” Guntram asked in disbelief. “You agree with me.” 

“He needs a firmer hand or more work.” Konrad stated and poured more coffee in the porcelain cup. 

“He's only three years old.” Guntram told nervously as he didn't like at all what Konrad was suggesting. “Another kindergarten will be fine.” 

“According to Friederich, Kurt knows the letters and is able to read by himself. We need a special school for that.” 

“I will not send my child to a school for snotty children.” 

“Then you will face more serious problems in two or three years time.” Konrad shrugged and Guntram fulminated him with his blue eyes. “Save it, my love. It doesn't work with me.” 

“No, and that's my final answer.” Guntram said firmly. 

“In that case, the boys remain in that school. There is no other institution nearby with such good security measures, unless you prefer to send the boys to a boarding school.” 

“No, thank you,” Guntram’s voice poured acid. “I don't want my son to become the next circus attraction.” 

“You certainly have a gloomy outlook on the situation.” Konrad replied dryly. “He won’t be a “freak” if that is your meaning.” 

“Kurt is my son.” 

“And mine too,” Konrad growled upset at Guntram's possessiveness of the baby. “I agree with you that he should remain with Friederich until we find a good school for him.” 

“He will not go to a “special school”.” Guntram repeated sternly. 

“He put the teacher out of the game in what? Three weeks?”

“Kurt attends that school since January 2014.” Guntram defended his son's behavior with great dignity. “He was still adapting to his new environment.” 

“I'll ask Monika to look for something suitable for Kurt once his tests' results are ready. Have you spoken with the psychologist?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Good,” Konrad grunted and rose from the table, leaving his napkin aside. “See you in the evening. I'll see that the twins are sent to school.” He took his black leather portfolio and went to work, leaving Guntram with a well-known dread as Konrad had taken matters into his hands. Nevertheless, Guntram finished his breakfast telling himself that it was useless to become concerned over his husband's ideas for his child. 

As it was too early to go to work, he preferred to read the news in his iPad until he remembered he had a date at five with a lady from Russia.  

“Damn!” he mumbled and went back to his bedroom to change his jacket for a more formal one and search for a tie. 'Bloody Ostermann'. 

* * * 

“Ratko is checking her ass.” Fedérico commented joyously as he looked down the window towards the large avenue in front of Guntram's atelier. “Wait till Mirjana finds about it.” 

“Fefo, go home.” Guntram sighed as he straightened his tie. 

“No way. I have to protect you.” 

“It's a lady and an almost eighty-year-old, recalcitrant old man.” 

“You haven't seen the lady yet. Two more like her and all European men will move to Russia.” 

“Wait till Mirko knows about it,” Guntram smirked and walked towards the door only to remember the maid was supposed to open the door. 'I still don't know why Konrad or Goran allowed this. They're up to nothing good.' 

“I'm overseeing your chastity, pigeon.” Federico smirked back and Guntram smiled truly amused.

“Was it not the other way?” 

“You did a poor job. I'm in charge now.” Fedérico joked partly glad that Guntram had forgotten their earlier argument. “Isn't she from Borat's lands? Land of the mankini.”

“Let's pray we don't end up with an international conflict in our hands if she hears you,” mumbled Guntram and Fedérico smirked at him before he went to answer the door. 

Guntram was used to see stunning women at parties or theaters but none of them could compare to the lady standing in his foyer. He nearly missed his former teacher standing next to her and Ostermann had to shake his hand stronger than normally to get him out of his shock. 

'A princess,' he thought when his eyes met the enhanced with mascara dark ones. Guntram quickly summarized her features looking for any kind of faults in her face but found no imperfections; her face was strangely symmetrical and he couldn't see the ghost traces of any kind of plastic surgery in her face. 

“Please call me Gulya,” she said with a partly shy smile that melt the ground under Guntram's feet. He was only able to growl a “hello” and wave with his hand in direction of his living-room. Guntram barely heard the studied introduction Ostermann gave him as he watched her walk and sit in one of his armchairs, her eyes immediately fixing upon the two porcelain fighting roosters standing on his mantelpiece. 

“They are very beautiful indeed, Vicomte,” she said. 

“Guntram, please,” he said uncomfortable at the use of his title. He had never been used to it and now he felt like a usurper as his father should have worn it. “They're Meissen. Seventeen sixty-three, if I'm correct.” 

Nicoletta entered in the room and without a word she served tea, making Guntram feel glad that he didn't have to handle the teapot as he was sure he would drop it on his visitor's stilettos. He was absolutely taken by the way the young lady drank her tea or nodded with a kind smile at Ostermann's happy explanation about the birds or one of the pieces hanging at Guntram's foyer. Her voice was soft and educated and her remarks sharp, without wasting words. The two piece light blue suit she wore along with her discreet jewels gave her an elegant air around her. Guntram calculated her age to be in the mid-twenties but he wasn't totally sure. The way her dark hair, partly gathered, cascaded over her back in a mess of soft waves made Guntram ponder if, after all, the use of a veil wasn't such a bad idea because he found it to be sexy to the point of madness. 

“Usually Guntram's a bit shy in the beginning,” he heard Ostermann say and without knowing why, he blushed like a tomato. “Come on, say something,” his teacher encouraged him and he felt like the nerdy student at the prom. 

“How did you know my work?” was the best Guntram could come up with. 

“Through one of my friends; Sofia Repin. Her brother went with me to Corpus Christi in Oxford. She had a portrait you did when she was fifteen. I simply loved it, but I want something more conservative, with my falcon. I would like to place it on top of the mantelpiece of my new flat in London.” 

“I see,” Guntram paled at the name. “How does Sofia fare?” he asked for politeness sake and gulped, fighting against the desire to bolt away from his own living-room. 

“Oh, she sends you her greetings. She has opened a boutique. She's a fashion designer now after being a trainee at Vivienne Westwood's for a year or two.” 

“I'm glad she's doing well.” Guntram answered nervously. “She was a very nice girl.” 

“Constantin is almost a lawyer, but I think he will be more into business,” Gulya said casually and Guntram's heart nearly stopped. “They had a hard time some five or six years ago, but they are doing so much better nowadays. The younger boys are still in school.” 

“Yes, I understand,” Guntram hid his uneasiness by standing up and retrieving a drawing pad from his atelier. 

Without saying a word, he began to quickly draw the contours of Gulya's face and body with a pencil. 

“Are you going to start now?” she asked very surprised. 

“Why not? I will only make a few sketches and will try to make the art concept to present it to you as soon as possible.” Guntram said nervously, already determined to get rid of the commission as quickly as he could. 

“Don't you want pictures of me?”

“No,” Guntram grunted as he continued to draw at an incredible speed. “I paint what I see of the person.” 

“What do you see of me after talking for less than an hour?” she asked ironically and Guntram froze and left his pad over the table.

“First impressions are what people expect to see in a painting. It's anybody's visit card.” 

“Really? I never thought it like that. But you haven't answered my question.” 

“I'd rather seldom speak about what I paint. I leave my works to speak for myself.” 

“Sofia told me you were speaking with her and her mother for hours before and then you painted her as if she were a princess from the fairy tales.” 

“A fifteen year-old lady is always a princess.” Guntram replied curtly. “She looked like one and I think she was one.” 

“Her father was very proud of that portrait. I saw it at their house in London. My father thought about buying it when it was for sale and giving it later to Sofia as she is one of my dearest friends.” 

“I have no further contact with that family.” 

“Oh,” she was taken aback by the sharpness of Guntram's tone. “Sofia thinks very highly of you.”

“Perhaps I should go along with your suggestion and work with photographs.” Guntram said sternly. “Talking distracts me and I'm sure you have a pressing agenda.” 

“Then, I'll be quiet while Mr. Ostermann tells me what to expect this year at Basel,” she answered sweetly still puzzled by Guntram's snappishness. “I'm trying to start an art collection of my own.” 

The sound of Ostermann's deep voice along with the scratching of the pencil against the paper began to ease Guntram's nerves as his hand drew at a faster than his usual speed. His inner agitation at the memory of Constantin enhanced his senses and the only way he knew to cast the demons away was to draw.  

The mere name “Repin” had the effect of plunging him into one of his most dark psychotic episodes. He repeated to himself several times that Sofia had nothing to do with her father's doings and that she and her brothers were only victims of their own parents, just like he. 

Without saying a word, he tore his first two sketches and felt much better. The third sketch was destroyed and nobody told him anything, letting him feel once more in control of his own creation. 

'Her eyes are really beautiful,' the thought flashed through Guntram's mind before he would take another glance at the woman softly speaking with Ostermann about an exhibition at Tate's. Feeling better and more creative than ever, he left the pencil aside and went to look for some charcoal in his studio. Without saying a word, he continued to make sketches at a much faster pace than before, the picture of what he wanted to achieve beginning to take shape inside his mind. He was only casting a few glances now and then to check if the image of the woman he had in his mind was real. 

“What kind of bird do you want to have?” Guntram asked all of the sudden. 

“My falcon; I call him Merlin. It's a Falco columbarius lymani. His species are from Central Asia.” 

“Do you hunt?” Guntram asked very surprised as he couldn't match the image of a frail lady with that of a huntress.

“No, never. I couldn't do it. I like watching him fly. That's all. He's such a wonderful creature. My father gave him to me when he was just a chick and I rose it, with the help of our oldest falconer.” 

“Freedom is important for you?” 

“For everybody. Without it, there's no life.” Gulya replied and Guntram nodded. 

“I used to like a lot the barn owl that was living in my former school. Her nest was on top of our bedrooms and we could see her sometimes but she kept good distance from us. She was one of my first models.”

“I always wanted to have an owl but it wasn't possible. I like them very much.”

“Ours was clever enough as to hide well and come out late at night. Only the usual revelers could see her.” 

“Were you one of them?” 

“No, I was only staying up late. Drawing.” Guntram felt much more at ease with her presence and continued to draw, forgetting all about the people in the room, just like in the old days. 

The sunlight began to fade and he only frowned as he forced his eyes to see better, still ignoring Gulya and Ostermann's soft talk. He realized for a brief moment that he had lost track of time, but this time, it didn't matter at all. 

Ostermann cleared his throat several times as the third teapot was stone-cold and the maid was not coming any longer to refill the dishes. It was almost nine o'clock and the lady showed some signs of being very tired. 

“I think we must stop for the day.” He stated firmly and shook Guntram by the arm, making him jump slightly. 

“I'm terribly sorry,” Guntram said embarrassed. “When I draw, I tend to forget the rest of the world.” 

“I guess most painters do that,” Gulya replied kindly. “Some say that painting is like a trance.” 

“Something like this.” 

“I don't mind it at all. Mr. Ostermann updated me on all the exhibitions I should visit this year and what I should pay attention to at Art Basel's. It has been most entertaining and educating.” 

“Thank you, my dear. You're lovely.” Ostermann used his best grandfather's voice. 

“How should we arrange the details...?” Gulya asked Ostermann casually. 

“I will contact your secretary and speak with her about the terms,” the man replied with a satisfied smile. 

“No, no. No need to pay me until you see the final piece and like it,” Guntram interrupted his teacher. “We have to see if it is up to your expectations.” 

Gulya was taken aback by Guntram's reaction but managed to smile on time. “Then we will see each other soon.” She offered her hand. 

“In two days time?” 

“Yes, I think my falcon can be there by that time. I'll bring him so you can sketch him.” 

“That would be very nice of you,” Guntram was mentally thinking on asking Fairuza, his father's maid, to chaperone the next visit while she looked after his smallest son. Maybe seeing a falcon would keep Kurt quiet and out of trouble for a whole afternoon. “At ten?” 

“Of course,” she replied and walked towards the door, accompanied by Ostermann.  

Guntram was distractedly looking at the pages he had tore out of the folder to choose an expression of the fascinating lady he had met. She was not exactly “on display” like many he knew, yet she was unforgettable in her own discreet way. She was able to communicate much more with a single nod of her head than many other women with a full hour talk.

He smiled inwardly; if he would have met a woman like her during his twenties, his life would have turned out completely different. 

“Fuck. Say nothing to Mirko, but this babe is worth a try.” Fedérico snorted loudly but Guntram didn't pay attention to him. “Come on! Even you were looking at her!” 

“She's very beautiful.” Guntram exhaled a long breath to release the tension. “I'm a married man who shouldn't be thinking of what I'm thinking now.” 

“Good, you've got some hormones hidden somewhere.” Fedérico smirked. “Glad to know you're human after all.” 

“I was thinking to ask her if she wants me to accompany her to Basel, but I'm sure Ostermann has already forced her to book his services.” Guntram was upset that his pure and true admiration for the young lady had been turned into something dirty. “I was only thinking of pushing him out of the scene.” 

“Guntram, you're hopeless; A date in a Modern Arts supermarket? No way.” 

“Mind your own business. I'm not planning on cheating on my husband and literally lose my head in the process because that's what happens if you try anything with somebody else's lady. Be warned you too. You have too much free time. You'll clean after her bird.” 

Fedérico chuckled at the choice of words and did his best to hide his barely contained fun and desire to say something atrocious in return. 

“What?” shot back Guntram angrily. “I have a heart condition and you're supposed to do your best to look after me. You have to go to the pet store and buy a perch or whatever a falcon uses for sitting and some newspapers to put under it. Nicoletta will kill me if she has to clean that.” 

“Never mind,” chuckled Fedérico. “Such “bird” must be very expensive and well kept.” 

“Falcons are birds, Fefo.” Guntram clarified feeling more and more upset at the clear fun his friend was making out of him, just like when they were in school. He hated double meaning words. “Family: Falconidae.”  

“Now, you're giving me the bird in your own very charming way.” Fedérico laughed unable to hold the snickers for longer.

“What?” 

“You need some new English lessons, pigeon. Ones without the Websters' dictionary. Never heard American moms saying “bird” instead of “vagina” in front of their daughters?”

“I'm afraid I was never involved in such an exciting conversation with a mother and her toddler, Fefo. I guess that would be considered illegal in some states.”

Only the heavy approaching footsteps stopped Federico's next atrocious upcoming sentence. Ostermann looked like a fury; a fat fish had escaped his fishnet and Guntram stared at him as if nothing had happened. 

“How could you do this? I had already settled an upfront payment of fifty percent, boy!” Ostermann was truly mad with Guntram's passivity.

“You are perfectly aware that I'm in the middle of my “Rubbish Period”. Let her see it and see if she can hang the thing anywhere,” Guntram shrugged. 

“Nobody does things like that!” 

“Well, I do!” Guntram shouted back and Ostermann gaped at him because in all the years he had known the boy, he had struck him as a little mouse. “I'm the artist and I decide what's good or not.” 

“My boy, to be frankly, in this case, you could draw two lines and she would be happy about it.” 

“I have some standards!” 

“You don't get it, do you?” Ostermann sighed tiredly and sat on the sofa to explain a few things to Guntram. 

“She wants to be high society of the old kind, not with the nouveau riches, therefore she needs a portrait from you. If she's to be accepted she has two or three ways to do it. One, she's a patron of the orphans or the arts, but that takes time; years or decades even. Two; she becomes the muse of a fashion designer, but I'm afraid fashion designers have so many muses nowadays that the Parnassus will be a bit crowded. Three; she gets a portrait from you and can invite lots of real ladies to show it to them. After all, you were some sort of Vigée-Lebrun with trousers. I had queues at my door to get me to persuade you to paint them. Jumping the line, so to speak, is a favor the duke is doing to her father. And I know nothing else on the matter.” 

Guntram's mercury rose to the top much before Ostermann could have finished his lecture. He let his teacher finish his speech before they would hear a piece of his own mind. 

“I settle my own conditions for working, Meister Ostermann,” he barked. “If I need twenty years to finish this portrait, like Antonio López does, I will do it. If he can keep the King of Spain waiting because his work is always evolving, I can do the same. If you and the Duke were again negotiating behind my back with a Russian businessman for some shale-gas or whatever they're after this time, it's none of my business. This young lady deserves something good and not two or three sloppy strokes of a brush over a canvas.”

A fifty years career had left Ostermann impervious to any kind of tantrums any artist could throw. He rose from his seat and held Guntram's furious stare and shrugged. With arthritis laden slow footsteps he walked towards the coffee table where Guntram had left his many sketches and began to examine them with great care as the young man's indignation with him grew. 

“Are you going to ignore me now?” Guntram said and Ostermann didn't bother to answer him as he was so focused in one of the sketches. 

“This one,” Ostermann pointed at one sketch showing Gulyas' profile. “I'll see if I can get a stuffed falcon on loan.” 

“This is not what I have in mind,” Guntram answered furiously. “I was thinking on...” 

“Save it,” Ostermann shut him up. “Here she is,” he showed Guntram a frontal face of Gulya with his large eyes and a soignée attitude. “Maybe a white shirt, no jewelry, and the parrot in her gloved left hand, looking at her. Yes, that's right. Place the thing a little higher than her waistline. A glorious example of the female sex.” 

“Do her black hair like the... Wella girl and show some cleavage,” Fedérico suggested. 

“Forget it. I will not paint her with her hair flowing in the air like in a TV commercial. After all, dad's paying and I don't want something trashy.” 

“Nah yah,” buffed Ostermann. “Good art is always controversial.” 

“Why don't you ask her what she wants?” Fedérico was the voice of reason. 

“Yes, I'll make two or three concepts and then see what she likes.” Guntram agreed defeated. “I have work to do.” 

“Welcome back, Guntram.” Ostermann said softly.

* * * 

April 12^th, 2014

Montevideo

Constantin snorted at the visit card in his hand; “Mr. Adam Smith”. 'The Agency boys are getting less and less creative,' he thought with a touch of melancholia at the old times when he had played this game with real professionals. 

'Did they send their newest apprentice?' he couldn't help to think when his eyes identified the young man from the photographs his own people had taken from the Americans working in the area. 'I see now why Satskia was laughing so much.' 

“Mr. Kropotkin?” The young man asked with a strong middle west accent. 

'Don't they teach phonetics any longer?' Constantin nodded and invited the man to sit at his table with a single wave of his hand. 

“My boss apologizes for not being able to come,” Mr. Adam Smith said. “I can speak in his name regarding this matter you spoke about.” 

Constantin only rose his eyebrow critically and tore the sugar pack open before he began to slowly stir the black coffee with a silver spoon. 

“I'm fully entitled to deal with you, Mr. Kropotkin.” the young man said anxiously and Constantin ignored him. “I've read the files.”

'Well, somebody thinks he deserves a medal for doing his homework. Americans will not even know what hit them in ten years.' 

“I was stationed in Afghanistan for two years. Kabul.” 

“I'm afraid I don't know that city,” Constantin preferred to use a heavy French accent for the recording's benefit. “Nor the area.” 

“We know who you are, Mr. Kropotkin and how many weapons you sold in Chad. If you want our protection, then it's giving time for you.”

“As you say, young man, I do not feel in a generous mood today. Tell Mr. Arbuckle to call his superior and send someone of a higher rank if you want to know my generous side. There are other people who are more generous than your side and would be happy to sympathize with my cause.” 

“You Russians are...” 

“Remember to tell “Georgie pie” that my patience wears thinner and thinner.”

“Are you threatening us?” the young agent rose his voice and several people in the elegant hotel turned around their heads. 

“Russians do not make threats, Mr. Smith, only promises. Ukraine and Syria should have taught you that by now.” Constantin rose to his feet slowly, calculating that if the Americans were listening, then they should know their chance to do business was now or never. “Good afternoon.” 

Constantin had not picked up his trench coat casually left on one of the chairs when he saw a bald and fat man enter the restaurant in a quick stepped pace, charging against his table with as much grace his rhino frame allowed him to. Constantin's lips twitched amused for a fraction of a second but his face kept his cold expression.

“Mr. Kropotkin,” the man buffed nearly out of breath and Constantin knew that someone had been doing desk work for a very long time. “I'm sorry for the delay. The traffic was impossible.” 

“I suppose four o'clock is the rush hour in Montevideo,” Constantin replied ironically and sat again, ready to wait for the man's first move. 

“We're interested in what you have to say,” the man said without any preambles and Constantin wondered if this person was the boss of the intern or the older intern. By the photos and intelligence he had, “Mr. Smith II” was section leader. For him, it was unthinkable that another “colleague” would admit to have any interest on anything. On the other hand, the man didn't seem to be much older than forty and probably had missed the Cold War and only knew the joys of the unipolar world. Constantin felt so old at fifty something.   

“I have nothing to say, Mr. Watkins,” Constantin preferred to use the man's real name instead of his official alias. He saw him jump on the seat at this and Constantin preferred to fix his gaze upon the ceiling's ornaments to save him the embarrassment of “being caught like an amateur”. 

“You, nevertheless, have much more to read,” Constantin continued with a soft smile playing in his lips as he placed an usb memory stick on the table. “Thirty-two gigabytes of bedtime stories.”

“That's a lot.” The man gulped.

“Less than Snowden's, more than what you get from a spy novel at Amazon.” 

“What do you want in exchange of this?” 

“An indictment.”

The man gaped at him and for a second Constantin missed the old times. “Who?” 

“Read the papers and pass them on. I guess many of your colleagues would have something to say on the matter. Perhaps even other agencies would be very happy to read them.” 

“Do you want our protection?” Mr. Watkins doubted to pick up the black and red mini stick wondering why was it for free. 

“I already enjoy it, but I prefer to use my own resources.”

“A small description of what's inside?” 

“Europeans are very touchy people, sir. They still resent this girl at the State Department who said something like “fuck the UE” regarding the crisis in Ukraine. Some parts of their elites plan to turn their backs to the Americans and side with the Russians. Not returning the Rhine Gold was a bad idea too. I guess they're already thinking your bullions are filled with tungsten and are buying the real thing... in Russia. Read what's inside this thing and judge if they have enough power as to shake the tree like they did in 2007. They gathered a lot of apples back then and turned them into gold. Literally. What will happen when the Europeans, instead of the Russians or Libyans, start to demand being paid in gold or in their own currencies for goods? What about the Chinese? What will happen when people realize that the Emperor is naked? I'm offering your country a loincloth.” 

“Do you?” 

“There is the rumor that Americans have this “Skulls and Bones” not so secret-society. Well, I'm offering you their European Catholic counterpart on a silver tray. Bring their leaders to their knees and you may get the UE to be humble again.” 

“It's a fantasy what you're telling Mr. Kropotkin. There's nothing like that in Europe. If so, we would know about it.” 

“I'm afraid you were snooping in the wrong e-mail accounts,” Constantin chortled. “You should have tried the old way; microphones in the confessional booths. No, the Order, that's how they're called, prefers secrecy and there's something like a death penalty for those who speak about it... and after their past executions, nobody wants to speak about it. I remember there was an American journalist, Trevor Jones or something like that, who got too close and now is buried somewhere in the States. Car crash in Madrid. Follow that “accident” and you will get the leaders.” 

“What do you get out of this?” 

“Nothing. Everything.”

This Friday more...