TS3 Chapter 7

Chapter 7

May 2^nd, 2014

Zurich 

More than relieved to see his youngest son to sit demurely at the table, surrounded by books, folders and pencils, in front of Friederich, seriously writing over the old-fashioned patterns of letters with a pencil, Guntram left the house. 

The young father was happy to see that his troublesome son had finally seen reason and was studying (harder than ever before, but he was not going to tell him that) and had accepted some kind of schooling. He had had some cold sweats when Friederich told him he would teach the three-year-old to add and subtract but the “Chinese children do it since this age, Guntram,” finally convinced him that there was nothing wrong with it. 

His son newly found seriousness on what concerned his education gave Guntram the courage he needed to kindly tell the children's psychologist that her services were no longer necessary and repeat the same speech in his husband's benefit. 

He also noticed that the Serbs avoided him at all costs since Easter and now his security entourage consisted of normal bodyguards and Fedérico, who nagged him almost everyday asking about what happened. 

Guntram never spoke about it with anyone. The last he needed was that somebody outside the Council would know or even suspect that he had forced their Hochmeister's hand. 

His only pending business with the Order was to finish the requested portrait and he truly wanted to do something good as Gulya deserved to have the best he could give her. In a way, he felt as rebellious as he had felt when he had clashed with Konrad over Sofía Repin's portrait. 

That morning somebody would to bring Gulya's falcon for the day so he could get an impression of how the bird looked like and then return it by nightfall. 

Guntram entered in his flat and for the first time in a long time, he didn't hear the workers upstairs, hammering for their lives' sake. He exhaled a long sigh and prayed for the men to have finished the repair works. He opened the lids and let the sun bathe his living-room before walking towards his studio to do the same. 

He scratched his head when he saw how untidy his studio was. Telling Nicoletta to leave his things alone had been bad idea. There were pencils, pieces of sanguine and charcoals abandoned everywhere; over the two large tables he used for sketching and scattered on the floor. 

Guntram slowly cursed when his shoe stepped on a thin charcoal and it was reduced to black ashes. He took a tissue paper from the table and carefully gathered the rubbish before he discarded it into the trash can. 

There were many sketches of Gulya lying on both tables and he studied them. He was sure that after so many tries he was finally starting to capture the essence of her beauty. For a second, he felt heartbroken that nobody considered her to be anything else but a token and his own father was so gladly throwing her to the high society hyenas, and that he was the one who was providing the flesh for the beasts. 

'She wants it. Otherwise she wouldn't be here,' Guntram told himself for the hundredth time. 'Careful with what you want 'cos you might get it,' he remembered the sentence so many times told. 

'Please God give me strength to accept what I cannot change,’  he prayed before he pushed the play button in his stereo to hear the tarantella record he had gotten as present from di Mattei, the new councillor-Komturen after he had highly spoken about De Martino's work and his desire to visit Naples and Taranto. 

A bit nervous to receive a present from a mafioso, Guntram opened the box in front of Konrad who only shrugged. 

“I think, he's a musicologist or something like this. That's why he has such a sound relationship with Goran. Both studied the same.” 

Inside the box, there were many records, starting by “La musica nelle Strade del Regno di Napoli” and a “Let's hope your journey begins here. Kind regards, Enrico di Mattei” written in a card. 

He was so distracted by the music, that Guntram didn't hear his door bell ring twice. The third -and longer than necessary- chime made him jump and drop all his papers to the floor. 

Standing at his door was a girl not older than fourteen. She was chewing a strawberry flavor chewing-gum and wearing the most aggressive shade of violet Guntram had ever seen in human hair. 

“Lessons are here?” she asked nonchalantly and popped a bubble bigger than her slim face. 

“Excuse me?” Guntram asked. 

“For top model,” she buffed as if she were in front of the most idiotic man she had ever met. 

“Does your mother know you're here?” Guntram couldn't help to bark as a mini skirt, tight “Vogue” t-shirt and high heels at that early hour were too much for his taste, not to mention how ridicule her fashions were for a 10ºC weather. “You should go home, young lady.” 'Shouldn't she be in school? Great, I'm officially seventy.'  

“Are you Julius or not?” she asked. 

“Who?” 

“You can't not know him!” she whined. “Obviously,” she remarked the word very well, “you know nothing.” 

Three other girls came out of the elevator and all of them giggled when they saw Guntram. 

'Great, I still have monkeys in my face.' He remembered his effect upon young girls when he was much younger. 

“This guy doesn't know who Julius is!” the first girl shouted to the others and they all burst in laughter. 

‘You probably don't know who Einstein was.' “I teach nothing, young ladies,” he said out loud. 

“It's one floor up!” a brunette realized and yelled her conclusions. “Julius would never date a guy like this guy! So boring and old!” 

'And you'll get the Nobel Prize for Top Models.' Guntram thought. 'But that must be the consolation prize for their kind.' 

“Good day, ladies,” he shut the door on their faces and for a second hesitated wondering if they would be able to find the upper floor but the voices vanished. 

Guntram went to his kitchen to prepare a tea before returning to work but another chime forced him to leave everything as it was. 

“What now?” he barked without looking at who was at his door.

“Hey, Pigeon, it was your idea to get a parrot's perch.” Fedérico held in his hand a large ring joined to a stand. “For the President-Daughter's bird.” 

“Sorry, Fefo. Some funny girls were here and they were really nasty to me. I'm old and boring.” 

“So you don't want to become a pedophile?” Fedérico joked as he entered in the flat. “In the atelier?” he pointed with his head at the large metal object. 

“Yes, of course. If the bird shits on the parquet, I'll get Bijoux's ghost on my neck.” Guntram answered as he followed Fedérico to his atelier. “Those girls should be considered as a cure to pedophilia.” 

“Those were highly desirable young wannabe top models.” Fedérico chortled. 

“What?” 

“You've been graced with the honor of living under the Great Julius Top Models School.” 

“You have to be kidding me.” Guntram said dismayed as he thought about the noise such an academy would bring into his life. He began to miss the construction workers and their pneumatic hammers. 

“I know you can't hold your horses, but relax, the Great Julius is here.” Fedérico chortled. 

“Who?” 

“Those girls were right; you're old and boring. Don't you watch TV? Don't you know who Julius is?” 

“No.” 

“He's the main top models coach of our times. Without him there would be no Kate Moss.” 

“Kate Moss was naked in a Calvin Klein add. I remember that.” 

“No Claudia Schiffer.” 

“That was Karl Lagerfeld.” 

“No Lady Gaga.” 

“That's a singer, not a model,” Guntram protested. 

“Hundreds of beautiful models on TV. He has a program or something like that in the German TV. All girls die to become models or ladies under his guidance.”

“Hardly the same.”

“A man of many talents.” Fedérico opened his arms dramatically. “I'm here to check out the raw material before Mirko finds it out and sends me to look after your kids.”

“When was his program aired?” 

“We do really have a problem here, Guti. One of outmoded speech patterns. When was the program on TV, not aired. Nobody under fifty says that.” 

“Forgive me, oh Lord of the Consciously-Speaking People. When was it?” 

“One or two years ago.” 

“It wasn't aired in Khanty Mansiysk.” Guntram replied sarcastically. 

“It was ON TV for six or seven years before that. In Argentina too.”

“Well, I missed it. I've got better things to do with my life than watching TV.” Guntram was losing his patience with Fedérico's patronizing ways. 

“Sure! Watching Bloomberg TV and reading in bed,” Fedérico chortled again.

The loud bang of a stereo turned on at full volume cut Guntram's answer dead and he looked disoriented at Fedérico who only chuckled louder. Over the music, Guntram heard some rhythmic clops over his head and he lifted up his head to see his ceiling tremble. 

“What the hell is that?” he asked. 

“The Dior Catwalk,” Fedérico laughed outright at Guntram's horrified expression. 

“It can't be. Those girls weight less than an ostrich and this sounds like an elephant dancing with a tutu.” 

“Why do you think the music is so loud in fashion shows? So you can’t hear the models kicking the catwalk as hard as they can, showing they're empowered sexy bitches.” 

“Shut up,” Guntram growled upset at the rude remark. He watched alarmed how the lights trembled stronger than before. “I'll save my Meissen birds.”

The music in his living-room resounded as strongly as in his studio and Guntram picked the two porcelain roosters that were on his mantelpiece. Leaving them over the old mahogany Biedermeier table, eased his nerves a little and he was glad that Goran was already away at the bank because with his current mood after his “fight with his little brother” and the horrible noise making the whole building tremble, they all were in for a “Hostel XII, the Models Massacre” film. 

“I'll have a word with the super Julius,” Guntram shouted. 

“What?” Fedérico shouted back unable to hear his friend. 

“Up. With the Asshole in charge,” Guntram shouted louder and the music stopped abruptly. 

“Oops... you swore.” 

“Shh! It stopped. Maybe they were only testing the sound system.” Guntram said hopeful. 

“Don't count on it. If you have such a monster, you have it for a reason, baby,” Fedérico sauntered. 

“Be very quiet and let me work.” Guntram whispered and dashed for his studio, more than ready to continue to work. 

* * *

Three hours later, Guntram was convinced that upstairs was a full regiment practicing their next victory parade instead of a models' school. He had been forced to phone Gulya to ask her not to send her falcon as the poor bird would have died of a nervous breakdown. Her joy at the news that Julius Kast had moved to his building was very palpable. 

At midday, the noise stopped and Guntram felt absolutely miserable. The aspirin wasn't helping at all to quench his searing headache and he couldn't face to have Fedérico for lunch. Instead, he sent his friend to have lunch with Mirko so he could enjoy some peace. 

The mere idea or eating made him nauseous and he drank some tea with salted cookies. He phoned home to see how Kurt was faring, but the baby was too busy at the pond to speak with his father. Totally alone, he decided to go back to his work. 

At three o'clock the loud noise started again and Guntram heard the furies from hell whisper in his ears. Enough was enough. He also was entitled to work and he was living in the orderly Switzerland, paying ridiculously high prices for the privilege of doing it. 

He took the elevator to the upper floor and gaped like an idiot when he saw that the foyer had been enlarged by simply putting the walls down and replacing them with crystal. He looked for a bell but there was none and he pushed the door to enter into the most lilac room he had ever seen. 

“Hi! I'm Liza,” a girl behind a desk greeted him. “You're late. Julius is going to be mad at you.”

“I'm the neighbor from below,” Guntram explained her acidly. “I'd like to speak with the owner, please.” 

“Are you the Serb from third floor?” 

“No, I'm the Frenchman from fourth floor. De Lisle,” he told her with his patience barely in check. 

“Go in please. Sorry, I thought you were one of the models, sorry,” she said sweetly and Guntram's anger cooled down a few degrees. 

“It's the top floor. It's the top floor,” Guntram repeated inwardly several times when he saw that the walls separating what was his living-room from the studio and library had been turned down to create a painfully white and wide open space only occupied by a central catwalk 'Please Lord, make the bearing wall be elsewhere but here.' 

There were around twelve very young girls, sitting on the floor or over the catwalk all of them wearing ridiculously high stilettos with their informal clothes.

They all ignored Guntram. 

'How can they be so loud with such tiny heels?' he wondered and addressed a very tall blonde who looked the most educated of the bunch. He began to remember vaguely who the man was; he had seen the picture of a very tall young brunet man in an ad in RTL last Christmas while he was waiting to watch Angela Merkel's interview. Yes, he was the one with the Models TV contest. 

'God, he's a “Promi”; he won't stop with the noise.' 

  “Do you know where Mr. Kast is?” he addressed the girl. 

“Julius. You have to call him Julius. Like Madonna, Miley, Britney or Katy,” she answered with a shy smile and a thick accent. “He's on a break and will be back in five minutes.” 

“Thank you,” answered Guntram.

“What's your name?” she asked and bated her eyelashes. 

“Guntram de Lisle,” he replied curtly. 

“Model or photographer?” 

“Painter,” he answered. 

“Painter? I'm not going to pose like for... ever!” she whined loudly and Guntram closed his eyes at the unexpected noise that increased his headache again. “The boa was one thing, but this is too much!” 

“You will do what you're told or leave!” someone shouted behind Guntram's back, making him cringe at the new heights his headache reached now. 

“You're not the one from TV.” Guntram said before he could hold his tongue to the taller than Konrad peroxide-blond man. 

The young aide standing a few steps behind the human statue covered her pretty face with her iPad and grimaced. 

“Of course I'm not like that wretched copy of ME!” the forty something kicked the floor in a way that reminded Guntram of Klaus in his early toddler days. 

Guntram eyes roamed the figure standing in front of him and his headache turned into a migraine with aura, all because he couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. 

Guntram had seen his good old friend George wear exotic outfits when he was very young and lived next to him, but he wasn't ready for a paillete, sleeveless t-shirt, tight blue jeans and ten or fifteen centimeters high heels. The red high heels -Dorothy in platforms- were too much for him. He couldn't pry his eyes away from them.  

“You ruined my day! Get out!” the famous Julius shouted and Guntram cringed. “To compare me with that second rate Latino diva!” 

“I'm sorry,” Guntram apologized out of habit. 

“You'll never get a job with me!”

“Just turn down the volume and don't stomp like an elephant on top of my head.” Guntram was truly sick of being mistaken by someone else for the whole day and his temper got the best of himself. He was sure he would have nightmares with those red shining shoes, Dorothy and Toto. 

“I'm creating here.”

“I'm also trying to create, but in a quieter way. This is Switzerland.” Guntram felt his blood begin to boil. The man didn't know when enough was enough and Guntram had had enough for a week. 

“Ha! Get out of my property!” 

“I'm calling the police. I'm sure you can't carry out any kind of business in this building!” 

“This is not business!” the man loomed over Guntram and he felt like punching him; for him, it was very hard to have someone unknown standing so close to him after Siberia. “This is a Models' School”

“To all what I care, you could run a whorehouse like the previous owners did, but do it quietly. Divas are not welcomed in this building. We don't appreciate so much gaiety here.” Guntram could hear the collective grasp for air coming from the girls, make up artists, hairdressers, aide, but he was too upset to care. 

“You homophobe!” Julius shouted back and Guntram looked at him transfixed. He had never expected to be called that. 

“Stop yelling like a...” Guntram was purple with indignation at the accusation. 

“What were you going to tell? Like a queen? Like a faggot? Come on! Say it. I have more than twenty witnesses here. Homophobe!” 

“A madman,” Guntram answered firmly. “Turn the volume down or you'll face the police. And get down from those shoes.” The mass around them coed in astonishment. “You make more noise than a drunk buffalo.” 

“Get the hell out of here!” Julius howled and Guntram took two steps backwards. “You're nothing but a repressed, boring little man who thinks that because some retarded woman lets fuck her, he's a man.” 

Guntram turned around and walked towards the door while he was more colorfully insulted.  

The final “motherfucker!” made Guntram's head spin. 

“Leave my mother out of this and dismount this gay parade. If not, you will hear from my lawyers and the police too, because there are minors in here!” he shouted before he left in a whirlwind. 

This Julius was nothing like Guntram's gay friend in Buenos Aires. George was a coiffeur and had many TV stars and models visiting his shop but he had never been that impolite. The music was never that loud and he had never-ever started a party in his own building. For Guntram, this man was simply too much for his nerves. 

He felt the familiar electricity pang in his chest and shuddered. He pushed the elevator button and went home. He was pale and nervous and glad that his youngest child was away. With trembling hands, he opened the door and went directly to his kitchen to drink some water and take a pill from the pillbox inside his breast pocket. 

For him, it was very clear that the people upstairs would not change their ways just because of a painter with a heart condition. Hating himself for what he was going to do, he dialed his father's number. 

“Hello, Michel. Are you busy?” he whispered very lowly. He knew his father hated to be interrupted when he was reading a case and this was his normal hour to do so. 

“No, only working for Lintorff. Nothing important. Is there anything I can do for you?” 

“How do you file a complaint in the police?” 

“If Lintorff started again, I'll send you to Margarette Rosenberg. She will put him back in his place.” 

“No, no! It's not about Konrad. He did nothing.” Guntram said hurriedly. “It's my neighbor.” 

“Pavicevic? You already know what I think about buying something next to him. Sell the flat to the first person you see. I'll cover your loses.” 

“No, it's the new one upstairs. He has started a school for models, sorry, for top models and they're driving me nuts with the music and the fandango on top of my head. I can't work like this.” 

“Local police but the best is to speak before with the defendant. A private settlement is always the best solution.” 

“I already did but he called me a homophobe and got my mother in the middle. I lost my temper and... well. I'm not proud of it.” 

“Did you hit the man?” 

“No, insulted him in front of his students and then had to take a pill for the heart. Is there any young lawyer who wants to make a few extra francs by filing a complaint for me at the local police station?” 

“I have a few doing nothing, but let me fix it by myself. Go home with your baby or come home with Fairuza and she'll fix a tea for you.” 

“It's really not necessary that you come over and argue with him. He's a TV star and does not see reason.” 

“This man has dared to say your mother's name. That's enough for me.” Michel answered dryly. “Go home and leave it to me.”