TS3 Chapter 8

Chapter 8

May 5^th, 2014

Zurich

Three days later, Guntram returned to the flat. Much to his astonishment, he heard nothing and saw nobody cramming the elevator. He greeted Nicoletta, still cleaning his flat and asked her nonchalantly if she had seen Goran. 

“Yes, sir. Mr. Pavicevic asked me to ask you if I can bring the baby tomorrow to his flat. He'd like to take him to have tea at Mrs. Hurst's shop.” 

'Still giving me the cold shoulder.' “Yes, of course, Nicoletta,” Guntram said out loud. Kurt will be here at around three and I'll bring him to the flat.” 

“Just send me a SMS and I'll pick him up, sir.” The old lady looked mortified by the situation and her clear orders of keeping Guntram away. 

'So I do have the plague now.' “Very well, Nicoletta,” Guntram answered courteously. “Tell Mr. Pavicevic, that I expect the child to be back at six at the latest.” She nodded and continued to polish the chairs with more energy than usual. 

“Anything new about the pest upstairs?” he asked casually as the cleaning lady vigorously patted the living-room's cushions. 

“Nothing more than the police came two days ago and then, he had a long conversation with your lawyer,” she replied. 

“What about Mr Pavicevic's nerves?” 

“Oh, he heard the noise the day before you quarreled with him and said: “If I do a thing, I'll get all the LGTB associations and journalists banging on my door. Let Guntram deal with him.” Ratko told me,” she said. “And it seems you did deal with the problem,” she chuckled. “I had a few words with one of the “secretaries” upstairs about their pupils standing in our stairwell.” 

Guntram wondered for a brief moment if there was a second intention in Nicoletta's use of the word “pupils” but preferred to let it go. 

“Bijoux's girls were ladies.” Nicoletta sighed loudly. “Mr. Pavicevic's father was saying that and Mr. Mladic too. One could have never guessed what they did for a living.” 

“It's all a matter of keeping things down, Nicoletta.” Guntram blushed as he realized the old lady had been working for the Serbs perhaps since she was in her twenties. “I'm going to work now,” he announced and went inside his studio. 

With slow and tired moves, Guntram sat at the largest table and looked for his watercolors and the black ink and nib. He tore a sheet of paper from his largest sketch pad and draw a few reference lines with a pencil before he would take a brush and spread a large stain of light peach color over the page to simulate Gulya's skin. 

Nicoletta entered in the studio and sighed. As usual, Guntram was working and forgetting about everything. He had been working for more than four hours without moving. She left his hot lunch on one of the table's corners and approached him. 

The maid gaped when she saw the beautiful woman giving her back to the viewer as her whole attention was focused on the beautiful bird standing on her delicate brown gloved fingers. The bird was still unfinished, but the cleaning lady could see the woman's profile and hypnotic eyes. 

“Is that silk?” Nicoletta couldn't refrain herself to ask as she pointed at the small turban that covered part of her black and wavy hair. The pattern of the cloth was unfamiliar for her.

Guntram jumped when he heard the voice and the spell was broken. He quickly regained his pose and smiled weakly. “Yes, I copied or tried to, a traditional Turkmenistan pattern. Her family has interests there.” 

“Can you do this with watercolors?” she asked in awe. 

“And ink and pencils,” Guntram smiled guiltily at the mess of pencils scattered around the table. “Sorry for the mess.” 

“It's no problem. Your lunch, sir,” she added shyly. “I called you but you didn't answer me.” 

“I'll go to the kitchen.” Guntram took the tray and she immediately took it away from his hands as he winced a bit when all its weight fell on his left fingers and Nicoletta, knowing it beforehand didn't let the tray go. 

“I'll take it myself.” She scurried away.

“It's a beautiful painting.” Nicoletta said when Guntram entered in his kitchen and found the table already set. “She looks incredibly amazing. What's that bird?” 

“It's a falcon but I still should see the real thing live. I think, this is what I will do.” 

“And the background? A living-room? A curtain?” 

“No, I'll guess it will be black. Her white shirt is luminous enough. I hope I don't get into trouble,” he mumbled. 

“Why would you? She looks great and it will be a beautiful thing to hang. If she dislikes it, I'll buy it.” 

“I will give it to you for free, Nicoletta.” Guntram said with a smile. “But I have better things, if you want any.” 

“No, sir. The things you have here are very expensive. The sketch, if she doesn't like it.” 

“I'll give it to you regardless of what she thinks.” Guntram decided and watched how she began to gather her purse and light jacket to go away. 

“I'll be back tomorrow at three,” she said. “I bought yoghurt for the baby, sir.” 

“Thank you, Nicoletta.” he said but she was away already, softly closing the service door behind her. Guntram began to cut his meat in small pieces, leaving them aside, distributing them around the white china dish, to finally abandon it and begin to fondle with the bowl of green salad, Nicoletta had prepared. 

He drank two glasses of water before having enough courage as to finish the salad and nibbled two or three pieces of meat and a middle size boiled potato. 'Jean Jacques stuffs me like a pig at breakfast,' he lied to himself to wash the guilty feeling he had for not finishing the delicious lunch. 'I'll get dinner tonight.' 

* * *

Glad that he was finally left to work in silence, Guntram continued to draw alone for several hours, forgetting everything around him. Only the insistent ringing of his door bell took him out of his creative trance. A quick glance over the papers and paint over the easel showed him that he had been only working in Gulya's portrait.

He was still terrified of repeating the trances he had suffered in Siberia. For him, they were the final proof that he was a schizophrenic and he would lose all his children, no matter what that silly psychiatrist thought. 

Relieved that everything had only been one of his normal “distractions” due to working hard, Guntram checked his watch and saw that it was a little past a late teatime. The doorbell rang again and he went to get the door. 

Standing tall as ever was Julius von Kast, holding a bottle of wine and looking contrite at his doorstep. 

“I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass. I didn't know it,” Julius blurted out before Guntram could say anything. He extended the bottle and said, “For you.”.

“Please come in,” Guntram moved aside to let Julius enter in his flat and quickly checked the man's regular shoes; he still had nightmares with the high heels. 

“I'm truly sorry.” Julius stood in the middle of the living-room and Guntram motioned his hand to indicate him to sit in one of the chairs as he took the other and left the bottle on the coffee table. 

“I thought you were the Serb.” Julius said ashamed. “I'm terribly sorry.” 

“I shouldn't have said that.” Guntram said slowly, still wondering if the man was sincere. “I offer you my deepest apologies for my behavior. It was most inconsiderate of me to mistake you for someone else.” 

“I saw you and I thought it was he. The owner told me he's short and bad tempered and threatens you with lawyers and police. He drove mad some nice tenants he had a few years ago and fought in the courts against the previous owners, a nice old couple.”

'Be glad if Goran thinks about police and courtrooms.' Guntram thought and smiled weakly. 

“It's not that bad with him,” Guntram cleared his throat. “I know him and he just wants to have silence around. Look I have no problems with you, as long as you don't make so much noise. I'm a painter and I also need some quiet to create. Your floor should be soundproof if you have something like a dancing studio. The police said that to you.” 

“If you go to the police once more, I will be closed and broke. I put a lot of money into this.” 

“I don't want to ruin your business, but please don't make so much noise. I really can't handle it.” 

“We'll do our best to be quiet. I'll get a thick carpet on the floor and dismount the catwalk as I promised to your lawyer.” 

“That would be lovely.” Guntram said earnestly. “I don't want you to have troubles but this is a residential building. Let's try to keep it down before the Serb gets you closed.” 

“He's nasty, isn't he? I think he works in a bank. A bankster.” Julius pouted. 

'You couldn't be more right.' Guntram said nothing but felt that the man deserved to know where he had gotten into. “Mr. Pavicevic works at the Lintorff Privatbank. It's one of the largest investment banks in Switzerland.” 

“Lots of money and connections?” 

“Something like that.” Guntram sighed. “He hates noise, but he's almost never here now. Stop all noise at seven and you shouldn't have any problems with him.” 

“Do you know him well? The sellers were more than happy to find someone who could match his offer... Or at least to make any offer because nobody dared to go against him.” 

'Clever people.' “I know him well,” Guntram went for the truth. “He's the godfather of my son.” 

“Oh, shit.” Julius rolled his eyes. “I screwed it up again. I'll move out the day my contract ends. I already paid for a full year. It's a lease, you know.” 

“Don't worry. Goran is used to be called spooky.” Guntram replied with a soft smile. “I'll tell nothing.” 

“No chance he gets a transfer and disappears?” Julius asked. 

“None. My husband is very pleased with his work.” 'There I said it,' Guntram watched how Julius eyes widened. 

“I'm married to Konrad von Lintorff, the owner of the bank where Goran works. We know each other since twelve years ago.” 

“Darling, I'm so sorry for all what I said,” Julius said in a hurry. “It was totally out of place. I did really mistake you. I saw you with a baby and thought...” 

“The baby's name is Kurt and he's my son. His full name is Konrad Goran, but we call him Kurt and then, you'll see his elder brothers, Klaus Maria and Karl Maria who are nine.” 

“You've got three children?” Julius nearly screamed. “Never in my life I'd get one.” 

“It's not that bad,” Guntram chuckled visibly relaxed now. The man was not a threat; he only had a big mouth. “You have no idea how nice they are once they're in bed asleep.”

“Are you really married?” 

“Yes, in Sweden. Almost two years ago, but we live together since twelve years,” Guntram answered with a smile. “My husband told me that I was an endohomophobe for the things I said to you,” he confided doing his best to keep his chuckles down. “But he's more boring than I.”

“A twelve-year marriage? Then, you're boring too,” Julius couldn't help to say and Guntram laughed full heartedly. 

“You have no idea how much it is.” Guntram said nearly choking with his laughter as Julius laughed too, glad that the young man wasn't really interested in going after his throat like that particularly nasty French lawyer had said. 

“What do you do for a living? You know what I do.” 

“I already heard what you do,” Guntram joked and Julius smiled not offended at all by the pun. “I'm a painter with a creativity crisis but I wasn't trying to steal your models.” 

“You can have them for free.” Julius snorted. “All of them.” 

“No thank you. I have already enough problems.” 

“Show me what you do.” Julius stood up, obviously expecting to be shown something. 

“I used to be better,” Guntram said as he also rose from his chair. “Don't you want to open the bottle and drink some before? It will certainly improve the quality of my work.” 

“It can't be worse than the fashion show I have to put up next week. A nightmare.” 

“At your risk.” Guntram opened the door to his studio and watched how Julius looked carefully all the paintings and sketches there. 

“The ones at the entrance are better,” Guntram said but Julius was looking at Gulya's first “draft” portrait in oils. 

“It's wonderful. Reminds me of something.” 

“It's a commission,” Guntram explained. 

“She looks stunning.” 

“She's better in the flesh.” 

“I think I know her from somewhere.... Let me think,” Julius was doubtful for a moment, while he searched in his memory for that face. “I know it! That's Gulya! I saw her at Karl's last fashion show. I think you should go for something more risquée. She's quite open minded.”

“Maybe she is, but I'm not.” Guntram chuckled. “I'm still having doubts about the hair.” 

“Do you want to use a piece of cloth that looks like a garbage bag? She will kill you if you do that. And also, this scarf is nice, but one from Galliano would look a thousand times better.” 

“It's one of Turkmenistan's traditional motives. Her mother was from there.” 

“Honestly, it looks good but like a royal portrait for the National Gallery,” Julius said shaking his head. “It isn't she.” 

“Of course it  is.” Guntram frowned at the critics. 

“It's what you see when you see her for the first time.” Julius affirmed and Guntram gulped nervously, well aware that it was the truth. 

“Well, maybe,” he admitted as he frowned at the piece now and Julius walked around his studio to see the other artworks. 

Guntram studied the picture and wondered how he had got everything so wrong. The likeness was perfect but he felt he was looking at “Turkmenistan Barbie”, just like Stefania's official portrait. 

“You're right. It's trash.” He put the painting down from the easel.

“I think I remember your name now. You're the one from the Städel Galerie; the one with the portrait of Stefania Barberini. I worked with her several times and she... Well, it's bad taste to speak evil of those who aren't here any more.” 

“I'm not in the Städel,” Guntram said upset that he was still remembered for that painting and the scandal that came along with it.  

“Of course you are,” Julius said after checking something in his mobile phone. “All of us were there. For the opening. Karl said you have captured her so well. That's what I call a portrait and that's what I want to have before I kick the bucket. Me, with the good and the bad things I have. All me.” 

“What?” Guntram looked clueless and Julius showed him the phone. 

Guntram blinked several times as he looked at the photo of Julius, one gorgeous boy and a woman dressed in a futuristic orange-blue tailleur posing next to his “Lady with Diamonds and Cat”, hanging from a wall. 

“Do you know where I can get the cat? He's so tramp-like that he would look gorgeous in Martin's show.” Julius asked. 

“Is that piece of shit in the Städel?” Guntram blurted out, feeling on the brink of the heart attack. 

“It's an old photo,” Julius answered. “Let me see. Two and a half years ago. Everybody was there as the guy who donated it is best friends with the one who organizes the Mercedes Fashion Week and you don't want to mess with them. Really.” 

“Andreas gave my painting to the Städel?”

“Who? I don't know. Anyway. It was a large reception as there was another painting by Georg Baselitz donated by a millionaire lady.” 

Guntram leaned against one of his tables as he looked at the photo totally astonished. 

“As I was saying, your name rang a bell when I heard it the first time, but then I saw you with your son and I thought; “No way, this one is not an artist.” 

“No, no. I'm most responsible for this thing.” Guntram mumbled. 

“You got her right. We were all surprised that the... she accepted to pose for that, but you never know people. After all, the poor thing had something between her ears and could laugh at herself. Only very clever people can do that. Stefania wasn't the Versace sod we all thought. Heidi was shocked at first but loved your painting. Are you doing many more like this one?” 

Guntram looked at Julius disoriented. “Do you mean this is in the Städel? The big, large museum that's in Frankfurt? In front of the river?” 

“The same. Karl was so upset that it was now there. He wanted to buy it but now it will be impossible. He was such good friends with her.” 

“Karl who?” Guntram's right temple pulsated in a funny way. 

“There's only one Karl in the fashion industry, dear.” 

“That Karl,” Guntram said impressed. “The Kaiser.” 

“The same. He might want a portrait made by you, but he has so many. I think he couldn't get in contact with you at that time.” 

“I wasn't available,” Guntram mumbled miserably. “Anyway, I'm not too good for portraits. I'm more into painting what I like. Commissions are not my thing as you can see.” 

“No, no, that's the trash.” Guntram said as Julius rummaged through a pile of drawings and paintings leaned against a wall. 

“The trash? You're crazy,” Julius said as his arm took a canvas out of the débris and inspected it under the bright sunlight that bathed the ample room.

“This is so different from the other,” Julius said finally as he showed the black and red painting of grotesque figures to Guntram as if the author didn't know his own creation. “This is wonderful. How much do you want for it? Well, nothing if it's for the trash.” 

“Leave it there,” mumbled Guntram as he looked the other way, unable to stand the sight the half distorted face of Massaiev when he was shot dead. “It's just a therapeutic exercise.” 

“More therapy like this, and you'll get your own room at the Städel. I know when I see real creativity.” 

“What can you know about creativity?” Guntram snapped as he violently pulled the painting away from Julius' hands and dropped it face down on the farthest corner of the room. 

Julius could only gape in utter astonishment how the young man gathered all his sketches and made a large paper ball with them, throwing them on top of the nearly destroyed painting he had admired a few seconds before. He watched how Guntram took Gulya's sketches and tore them in half, throwing the remains on top of the other things. 

When Guntram was coming to destroy the rest of his “trash” Julius blocked his way and caught him by his arms before he spoke softly, trying to calm down the extremely nervous young man. He was well familiar with breakdowns. 

“More than you can imagine. I was a soloist in the Royal Ballet and had to retire due to a serious injury in my back. Kenneth MacMillan created pieces for me when you probably were mixing colors in kindergarten.”

“I never mixed colors,” Guntram said softly as he snapped out of his trance. “I preferred to create them by painting one layer of color over the other. I tried to explain that to Kurt, but he only doodles and ruins folders.” 

“Maybe he doesn't like painting. My dance notation sucked and my Labanotation was a big disaster.” 

“I apologize for my outburst,” Guntram said embarrassed that he had simply lost it in front of a total stranger. All the years of self-training to keep his emotions well bottled were crumbling down like a house of cards. 

“I'm glad to know I'm not the only psycho in the building.” Julius replied testing the waters.

“Oh, no, you'll have to face a lot of competition before you get the crown. Maybe you're in third or fourth place.” Guntram was glad for the man's understanding. 

“Who gets the first? You? No way.” 

“No, the neighbor who lives under me.” Guntram chortled. 

“The Serb? Yes, that's what the doorman told me but he should get used to the idea that Julius is here now and his days of Supreme Psycho are over.”

'I wouldn't count on that.' “I'm sorry for my words. I had no idea that you... I mean, I have the utmost respect for ballet dancers.” 

“I didn't know you were an artist. If I would have known, I would have kept it quieter... to a certain degree.” 

“When I wasn't even an artist, I used to go to a place in Buenos Aires where dance students gathered and danced in the open air to draw them.”

“Do you know what I do when I have a creativity crisis? Not that I have too many, of course. I go back to basics. I can't dance as I used to do because I would get a heart attack, but I can read my old choreographies, watch videos and remember what I loved to do most. From there, I get fresh inspiration and sometimes I really need it.” 

“I had... a rough time a few years ago,” confessed Guntram. “Since my marriage the only good thing I could do was the portrait of my children. The rest is trash or things I can't stand. That portrait was the pinnacle of my art. At least, I'm glad it was about them.”

“Go back to do what you felt most comfortable with. Then see what happens.” 

“Should I paint ballerinas again? I don't know a single one.” 

“I'm helping one girl for her trials at the Zurich Ballet. Christian is very demanding. She reminds me of Sylvie Guillem. Do you have any favorite dancer?” 

“Maya Plisetskaya. I never saw a Swan so dramatical as hers, even at sixty.” 

“She retired at eighty.” Guntram looked at him incredulously. “She did. As I was saying, you can paint my student if you want. Be quiet and sketch her or do what you do, tomorrow at six.” 

“Well... Thank you,” Guntram didn't know what to say. “I...” 

“No need to thank me. Just keep that nasty lawyer away from me.” 

Before Guntram could say any other word, Julius turned around and walked towards the exit, so fast that he was out of the flat before Guntram could reach the living-room. 

'That was something,' thought Guntram as he returned to his atelier to continue to work, fresh with new ideas about Gulya's portrait. 

* * *

May 6^th, 2014

His peace was cut short too soon. Three hours after he had arrived to work, the door bell interrupted Guntram's work and he sighed, utterly tired. 

“He kicked me out!” Fedérico yelled the moment Guntram opened the front door, brushing his friend aside as he strolled into the living room. 

Guntram contemplated the elevator looking for a divine intersession and sighed again before closing the door. 

“This happens if you play with nasty boys.” Guntram said to the pacing lion in his living-room. “Does it hurt?” 

“Of course it hurts!” roared Fedérico. 

“Do you need antiseptic? I have some aspirins left in the bathroom.” 

“No, you idiot! Aspirins do nothing for this!” 

“You're the one who came here crying because one of the Serbs kicked his mighty ass.” 

“Mirko kicked me OUT! Lord, are you deaf?” 

“Kicked you out... of the flat? What did you do now?” 

“Out of his life! During lunch! I have no place to go!” 

“What happened?” Guntram sat on one of the chairs and made a gesture with his head towards the cognac glass bottle and glasses standing on a silver tray. “Do you need one?” 

Fedérico said nothing and poured himself a glass of Konrad's favorite cognac that Guntram always kept just in case his husband was passing by his flat. More at ease after he drowned one glass and served himself a second one, Fedérico sat next to Guntram. 

“We were having lunch, Mirko, Ratko, Milan and Stefan. Everything was going fine, I mean, the food was good and zack! In a second, Mirko tells Ratko he wants to meet the girl his aunt has selected for him. I was lightened struck.” 

Guntram blinked several times trying to digest the information. 

“I said, “which girl?” and he said: “I'm looking for one to marry.” I nearly got one of your heart attacks.” Fedérico continued to tell without stopping for air at all. 

“Weren’t you and he... having a relationship?” 

“That's what I thought! But no, he wants to marry now. Right there he tells me he would be very obliged if I move my ass out of his flat-mind I pay half of the rent-by tonight. Ratko and Milan looked at him in shock, so I wasn't the only twerp shocked. 

“”What?” I said. “You want to end us?” There the Stefan dude looked at us in shock... I thought he knew!” 

“'It's for the best,' he tells me. “We don't make good room-mates. You're too sloppy and it's about time I find a wife and have children.” Fedérico squeezed the glass in his hands. “I mean, I was already thinking to use this year's bonus to try to get a baby for us. I never expected that. I mean, I'm over thirty-five now.” 

“I can't believe it,” Guntram said slowly. “I mean, Mirko isn't like that. Were there any problems between you?” 

“Well, not many. I mean, I didn't do anything wrong! I followed that stupid lent of his and kept my hands still since it began!” 

“Easter is over since a month, Fefo,” Guntram reminded him slowly. “Two months without any kind of physical contact means that there are some problems indeed.” 

“I thought we were going through a phase because he wasn't yelling or being nasty to me. We weren't even arguing!” 

“Mirko never argues,” sighed Guntram. “He acts upon and blows something up while he's at it.” 

“I know,” replied a sombre Fedérico. “I quit smoking, drinking, clubbing, eating red meat and sleeping around. I was practically married to him!” 

“Maybe you two can work it out,” Guntram said in a conciliatory tone. 

“No, not really. I was transferred. Goran saw to that. Fired via WhatsApp.” 

“What?” 

“I'm still an Executioner, but I'm only in charge of you and your children. The Serbs will take care of the usual matters. I'm team with Ratko. Mirko thought everything beforehand and kicked me out like a dog.” 

“No, it sounds more like something Goran might have concocted,” Guntram said slowly. “He told me once he would choose his replacement between you and Mirko, but I guess we have a winner now. Mirko needs a wife and children to look respectable.” 

“I would have never run this flying circus!” Fedérico said heatedly. “Besides, Goran has no problems with gays. His boss married you.” 

“His former boss,” clarified Guntram somberly. “What are you going to do now?” 

“I'm staying here.” Fedérico answered simply. 

“Here? I have no place.” 

“You never sleep here and I don't fit in the boys' beds.” 

“No, no, no, not in my bed. Go to a hotel.” 

“I don't want to be in a hotel. Do you have any idea of what I'm going through? Do you want to sent me to a cold place? I need a home.” 

“Fefo, you always move to my flat when you have trouble.” Guntram refused softly. “I work here.” 

“I will be out when you come. In fact, I have to pick you up and bring you here and baby sit you like always. Do you get that I have no place to go?” 

“You will not sleep in my bed. Period.” 

“Ok, I'll get a new one and put it somewhere. Maybe in the corridor” 

“All right, you can use it, but you will get me a new mattress once this is over... And you will look for a new place!” 

“Thanks Guntram,” Fedérico said earnestly. “You're a friend.” 

“You always get me into trouble,” Guntram smirked. 

“That's what big brothers are for. What Am I going to do now?” Fedérico asked to himself sadly. 

Guntram saw his desolated expression and rose from his chair to hug to his friend close to his chest. For him, it was a new experience to see a Fedérico so distraught over anything. The face he knew was the one of a man who took nothing seriously and everything for granted, unable to compromise or even stand for something for too long. 

'Maybe I judged him harshly,' thought Guntram as he embraced his friend harder. “You can stay for as long as you want,” he said out loud. 

Fedérico couldn't hold the tears any longer and began to sob in Guntram's shoulder, clutching his kneeling in front of him friend as if he were the last wood piece in the vast sea. 

“I really did my best to change,” Fedérico sobbed. “I really did.” 

“It's something that goes beyond that,” Guntram felt crushed by Fedérico's sadness. “Everything will get better.” 

“How?” 

“I don't know, but it will.” 

“Everyone I love, goes away.” 

“Your luck at love was lousy.” Guntram tried to calm his friend down and Fedérico sobbed while he dried his tears, embarrassed to be seen crying.  Guntram quickly averted his eyes.

“Just don't make me find your dirty clothes in my bathroom.” Guntram said to clear the ambiance. “I'll tell Nicoletta that you're staying here not that she gets a heart attack when she sees you in my bed.” 

“Do you have salted roasted almonds?” Fedérico's eyes were red and he squeezed the eyeballs to make them look better. 

“Salted almonds? No, I'm not pregnant.” Guntram joked. 

“As usual pumpkin, you have nothing at home.” 

“I don't live here, but there must be a rice package hidden somewhere.” 

“Not your bland rice again, Guti. I have enough pain in my life as it is.” 

“I've improved over the years. It's been a decade since you tried it.” 

“I can live in blessed bliss for another one,” Fedérico mumbled. “Honestly, pumpkin, your cooking sucks.” 

“The boys like it.” Guntram rebuked a bit offended. 

“See how much they love you?” Fedérico retorted and Guntram gave him a light punch on the arm. “Ouch! Did you have lunch?” 

“No, I forgot.” 

“Good, we'll get a pizza.” 

“Didn't you just eat?” 

“No, the fucker didn't wait for me to finish my dish when he kicked me out. I left before I would have punched him on the face and I think, I still will do it.” 

“Fefo, don't fight with Mirko. It can turn nasty.” 

“He's not the meanest of us. I was hanging around with the Mossad and Hamas boys before I moved to Europe.” 

“Did you?” Guntram asked in shock. 

“Triple border, baby, and yes, Mossad training for free. I never practiced law. I'd die if I were to write an indictment. Shooting is better. I didn't get this job because I was your friend. I got it because I was better and more creative than them.” 

Guntram gulped as he well knew what “creative” meant. 'Fefo is Fefo, but on the other hand, he was always going to the extremes and he picked up a fight with Constantin without thinking it twice.' 

“OK, call me when the pizza is here. I'll go back to work.” Guntram said out loud and left the room in haste, happy to return back to safer lands; his atelier. The mere mention of the Russian's name terrified him because Constantin was always at the centre of his work.