TS 3 Chapter 15

Chapter 15

July 30^th, 2014 

London 

Dima's pouting face was enough proof to Constantin that his henchman was about to explode. Flying to London had been a bad idea. The city had changed so much in the past seven years that the Russian couldn't recognize it any more. 

Constantin had had enough of the countryside quietness and needed to see some action. He took the plane and flew to London with Kostya. The two-year-old watched everything wide eyed; the tall buildings and all the people walking down the elegant streets briskly. 

According to Constantin's original plan, his new house in Knightsbridge, with its interior yard would be a lovely place for his child to play in while he visited art galleries. Constantin had brought the nanny along so he could escape to a gallery or to a theatre in the evening. 

But the loud music and boisterous laughs from the mansions at both sides of his home, had forced him to change his mind. The finding of some female lingerie along with champagne bottles scattered in his own yard had killed all Constantin’s hopes of letting the child play there. 

Young people from the Middle East celebrating the end of Ramadan -along with a roaring Lamborghini under his window- was the final straw to break Constantin's nerves. Rap music was something he hated with passion and seeing his baby covering his ears while he cried because of the noise, was too much for his patience. 

Just when he was going to take justice into his hands, a well aimed watermelon flew from one of his windows to smash itself against the shiny, golden car windshield. A furious Dima ran over him and began to shout in Arab with the wild youths and their call-girls right in the middle of the street. The only word Constantin could understand was “haya” as Dima reminded them of their Islamic duties. 

The roaring cars’ noise came to a halt but the indoors party remained. 

Dima became crankier than usual, making Constantin to expect a massacre at any time. Dima had even called some of his former soldiers and they were all now camping at Constantin's place. 

'Ten Chechens are too much for anyone.' 

The Chechens looked like about to explode with the young cocky Arabs, convinced that their wealth would protect them from ten enraged Chechens, glaring at everything that moved. 

'None of my business. They're old enough as to know where to bury the pieces.'

Therefore, Constantin took his little boy, moved to a hotel near Covent Garden and recovered his peace but lost the nanny in the process. The lady, shocked by the many dirty words hurled at her every time she was leaving the house, decided that it was a good time to visit her family back in Lyon. 

'Could have been worse,' thought Constantin as he took his little one by the hand and slowly walked with him the two hundred meters to the gallery where he had an appointment.

The child was greeted with great displays of affection and given some cookies to eat along with paper and pencils at one of the secretaries' desk but the guilty expression in the marchand's face forewarned nothing good for Constantin's business. 

“Mr. Arseniev,” the man said once he had shown Constantin the large painting of two girls in traditional Russian dresses. “I'm afraid there had been some changes to the original conditions.” 

“How so?” Constantin grunted. He remembered the girls; two students Guntram had seen at a McDonalds’ now transformed into two fairy princesses in a live size oil portrait. He loved the painting as it had made him believe that perhaps Guntram had finally given up his past life and was beginning to accept his new life in Siberia because once more he was painting people once more as if they were ethereal beings. 

“The price has increased by fifty percent,” the man said quickly. “I'm sorry but the seller wants more money as the artist is quite famous now.” 

“Fifty thousand pounds isn't good enough for him?” Constantin cursed the moment one Russian official had taken the artwork for himself instead of letting it in the nice pile the Russian authorities had made with all of Guntram's paintings. No, someone had to steal the painting and now was trying to make more money out of him. 

“To be honest, Mr. Arseniev, I wasn't aware that I had such an important piece in my hands. In the past week alone, we had had several offers for it. I was only waiting to speak with you before I make a sale.” 

'Not that old trick.' “An artist who has no exhibitions loses his value faster than a brand-new car,” he said instead. 

“This is a rare case indeed,” the man retorted affectedly. “Normally it is as you say, Mr. Arseniev, but there's a huge demand for this particular artist in China.” 

Constantin blinked several times. “China?” 

“It really leaves me a bad aftertaste to say this, but the artist is some sort of local celebrity among the high society in Hong Kong or Shanghai, I'm not really sure, but I was surprised with the many offers we received for this particular piece. Chinese collectors are very special and you know how it is. Rich Chinese people have a penchant for Westerners. I read once that they hire Europeans to show their luxury flats so people think they're something special.” 

“How can all this be related to the art market still eludes me, Mr. Johnson,” Constantin replied dryly. 

“The artist is quite quoted in Weibo and there many... girls who like his lifestyle. He's from French nobility and seems to be a quite wealthy young man, as you can see here, Mr. Arseniev.” 

The word shock could have not been enough as to describe Constantin's reaction when the marchand handed him a copy of the “Hello” magazine. He passed the pages in total astonishment until he found himself watching a full-page photo of Guntram, sitting in his atelier, surrounded by many of his works with the caption “Portrait of a Young Artist” written at the bottom. Constantin began to read the article about the young nobleman who had received “Hello” in his “dreamy atelier overlooking the Zurich Lake where he creates, surrounded by priceless antiquities, all of them an heirloom from the Guttenberg Sachsen family”. 

'Lintorff is going to have his second heart attack when he reads this shit.' 

Constantin turned the pages over and noticed that the article was an eight-pages piece. His eyes jumped from paragraph to paragraph, unable to digest all the flattery words put together in a single sentence.  

“Guntram Alphonse de Lisle Guttenberg Sachsen is well-known for having painted the portraits of many Jet Set ladies like Corinna von Bismark, Tita von Olsztyn or Ekaterina Massimova. 

“His works can be seen at the Vatican Museums and the Städel Gallery along with the most important world collectors' home estates walls. “The creative process is something you can't control. You can only leave yourself be driven by it.” 

“There's no way I could describe how I work. Sometimes I need to do hundreds of sketches before an idea can be captured in the canvas but sometimes I paint directly the image that's in my mind. I like observing people but I don't know what the result is going to be or what could come up. It's always a surprise.”

'Chaotic as usual, angel' Constantin lightly shook his head at the photo of Guntram's tangle of pencils and dirty brushes stuck inside an old jug next to a flower vase filled with lilies. 'Massaiev would have killed you for this.' 

Constantin got lost once more in the blue eyes that looked at him with such kindness. 'He looks amazing as usual. No wonder all Chinese tramps are dying for him. There are going to be queues to see him; bye bye to keeping the prince locked up in the castle, Konrad.'

'I pity Lintorff now.' 

'No, not really.' 

“I had no idea, Mr. Johnson,” Constantin said out loud. “One hundred thousand pounds will be enough to keep the Asian hordes away?” 

The marchand was dumbstruck but he quickly agreed on the price. “I got an offer from a Kuwaiti fund but it wasn't as generous as yours, sir.” 

“The Kuwaitis too?” Constantin asked dismayed. 

“No, silly me. It was from the new National Gallery that's being planned in EUA. De Lisle's style is exactly what they like in the Middle East. One could describe him as a hyperrealist but he's quite different from Ron Mueck or Duane Hanson. Perhaps is this Latin American magical realism coming to life.  I had two floral sketches in watercolors that sold very well there. The few things we had from this seller were quite welcomed there. I suppose this conservative aura around his work makes him popular among the Arabs. Some of the other things we have on display here might offend them.”

'Anybody would feel offended by a painting made out of vomit.' Constantin only forced a knowingly smile. 'Dima liked some of his things too. I think he gave two of Guntram's landscapes to his daughter. He was always painting more than what we could store.' 

“De Lisle isn't a hyperrealist at all. His use of light and space has a dramatic quality that any good hyperrealist would reject because they look for perfection in their creation. To be as close to reality as possible. De Lisle deforms reality if you take a closer look. You can almost feel the breeze that caresses the few strands escaping from that blonde beauty's braid. How does he do it? He scratches the oil in those areas and your mind fills in what's missing; the memory of a soft wind. Look carefully and you will see that it's your mind the one who creates the image you're seeing. It's a highly fabricated illusion.”   

The marchand looked again at the painting and moved his head several times away and close to the many details he was discovering now; the slanted Slavic eyes were larger than they normally would be; the richness of the velvety embroidered robes was suggested only with the use of a thick layer of oil and some light touches of other colors mixed. 

“All the tricks painters have used all over the centuries are there and you don't even realize you've been made a fool out of yourself.” Constantin smirked. “That's what I call genius.” 

Satisfied that everything had gone according to his plans, Constantin picked up Kostya and decided to take him to a restaurant. The small one, like his brother, had very good manners at table and perhaps it was time to take him out. 

“Would you like to have lunch with me?” Constantin asked in Russian and the child replied in French. 'Too much time spent with the nanny.' 

With the toddler secured in his hands, Constantin walked towards one of the restaurants he used to go so many years ago. Obtaining a table was easy as the lady maître was enthralled by the child and quickly settled Constantin near the piano, right behind some ferns. 'She might like Kostya, but babies are banned from the centre,' thought Constantin. 

'The de Lisles must carry a gene for proper table manners,' the proud Russian thought when the toddler carefully picked up a dessert fork specially given to him and began to slowly eat the pieces of duck in his dish, without complaining or making faces at the new taste. 

“Hello Boss,” a slightly contrite Dima interrupted Constantin's lunch. “I just wanted...” 

“To apologize for your behavior of two days ago?” Constantin huffed but made a sign with his head to allow Dima to sit at his table. “From golf balls to watermelons. It's quite a career you're pursuing lately.” 

“I lost my temper with these idiots.” The man mumbled. “I'm sorry.” 

“How much will it cost me?” Constantin asked upset. 

“Seven or eight pounds, boss. I don't know how much a watermelon costs.” 

“The car fixing.” 

“It's up to them.” Dima said. “We spoke and they won't park in your space any more. The police don't interfere if it's a multicultural problem. We fixed it in the Chechen way.” 

“Just be careful,” Constantin growled. “I don't want to be responsible for the next 9-11 in London if your people start to lose their tempers.” 

“No boss, we have nothing of the sort here.” Dima assured his superior. “We won't blow anything up here.” 

“Good because I like the city, even if it is so crowded nowadays.” 

Dima gulped nervously at Constantin's words and knew he and his people were in trouble with the boss. The best was to lay down for a while and wait for him to calm down.   

“No, no,” Constantin chided Kostya, lost in his own world as he rhythmically balanced himself on the chair. “Finish your potatoes.” 

“He's distracted with the piano, boss.” Dima observed. “Has he seen one before?” 

“No, I think not,” Constantin frowned as Kostya had lost all interest in his lunch and gaped at the man playing the piano. “His great grandmother was a virtuoso if I remember correctly.” 

“He likes it.” Dima said and took the child in his arms, before he would fall from his high chair in his attempts to see the instrument better. 

Constantin watched how the child carefully looked how the man pressed the keys with wide open eyes. The old pianist smiled at him and moved his body a bit from the keyboard so the child could see better while Dima held him tight to prevent him from escaping and touching the instrument. 

“I want one,” Kostya declared once the musician finished the piece and Dima returned him to the table. 

“If you finish your potatoes,” answered a distracted Constantin and the child enthusiastically ate them all at a very fast pace. 

“It looks like he really wants one,” Dima chuckled as he drank the coffee boss had ordered for both of them; black and straight. 

“He has no idea of what he's getting into,” Constantin answered laconically. “I'll show him one and he will lose interest in a day or two. My mother forced me to take lessons and I hated each one of them.” 

“There's one at the house, boss.” 

“It's a Steinway and there is no way he will lay a finger on it. A studio piano will be sufficient.” Constantin rose and put the child on the floor again. “Let's go home, little one.” 

But Kostya instead of following his adoptive father, ran back to the piano and stood in front of it, mesmerized. Hesitantly, he came closer to the open keyboard and stood in awe in front of it. Loudly sighing, Constantin went to retrieve his child but Kostya shyly extended his right hand over the white and black ivory keys and repeated the first notes of the dull melody the pianist had repeated so many times. 

Constantin froze on the spot and only the feeling of people staring at Kostya forced him to react; he picked the smiling child in his arms and walked towards the exit with Dima in tow. 

“You really have to buy him a piano now, boss.” The Chechen said when they reached the street and hurried to open the Rolls Royce door for Constantin before the chauffeur could overtake him. “Did you teach him?” 

“No,” Constantin growled, still shocked because of how easily the boy had played the tune, only by looking at the musician. Kostya was now busy looking through the window, totally clueless of what he had done. 

'The father, in his own neurotic way, was a genius too.' 

'There is no way my Kostya can remain in Uruguay. There will be no school good enough for him.'

“Would you like to learn to play the piano?” Constantin asked softly. 

“Yes, please,” Kostya answered just as his nanny had taught him to do. 

“Then we will stay in London for the time being,” Constantin said. 'Mozart was giving concerts at the age of three. Kostya has only begun now. It's not the same,' the Russian tried to ease his own nervousness. 

* * *

Guntram de Lisle's diary 

July 29^th 2014 

If I could, I would shoot Ratko and Milan dead. Both of them. They used my visit to Italy to plot right at my back and “get rid” of Barashi. The excuse? They caught him smuggling people through Greece. Sunni Syrians, charging them 10.000 and declaring 5.000 to us. Barashi “broke” two rules; I allegedly only allowed Shia and Christian people; and two, fraud (as if we were the tax office!). 

Two shots in the head did the trick for he and all his people. The Venice seat is vacant now. 

I ordered Ratko and Milan to come here but the Serbs just told me they were “busy” with the “loose ends” and that I could wait for them. 

I had to sit here and eat my own fury because none of the Serbs responded to me. Alexei told me to be quiet and wait until everything was over; that I should be glad that Ratko and his pals were only after the Muslims this time and that I was doing my job well, but this job was no place for “bleeding hearts” like me. The refugees were none of my business because the “competition” between Bulgarians and Romanians against Syrian and Turkish smugglers was rendering the whole situation explosive. Lying to us or disobeying direct orders was a bad thing. Italians were profiting from people's misery too and what the hell did I expect from this job? Drug addicts are our customers and that's exploiting people's misery too. 

As usual, I was told to only mind about the economical situation of the many businesses the Order still has and gather money to get the duke out of jail. Enrico said pretty much the same but with more diplomacy and then added that there had been reports of “private citizens” from Greece and Serbia “patrolling” the waters near Greece, sinking or robbing refugee ships if they weren't Christians. 

I feel sick and I'm very worried because our Serbs are “flying solo”.