Into the Lion's Den (2 page)

“This can't be true! I saw one of your landscapes in Christies' when I was buying some properties there.

Luciana Dollenberg sold me several of your drawings when I visited her house, La Candelaria.”

“Sir, I know no Mrs. Luciana Dollenberg, only Juan and Pablo Dollenberg who have a property of that name.”

“Didn't you draw this dog? It's the same hand that made the ones I have at home.”

“How did you get it?”

“You threw it away. A real pity. He looks like the real little pest it is. Coming back to my original question, who's your manager?”

“Manager? I'm no artist! In fact, I don't paint at all. I only draw with pencil and ink and that's a hobby. I don't know who could have told you that I was one. I study Economics.”

“You have a great talent. Bigger than many consecrated artists I've seen or even sponsored.”

“This is a mistake, sir. I'm sorry,” Guntram said and dashed for the door as the man stood there, looking at him.

“Did the dove run away, boss?” A large, mountain size man rumbled in Russian. “Definitively you have no luck at all with this one,” he chuckled, visibly entertained by the show and the bad moment his superior was having.

“No, but my chances are improving, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“Sure, he speaks to you and runs away.”

“He knows I'm after him, now.”

“It won't help you. I bet a thousand dollars that you could flash a million dollars at this one's face and he wouldn't look at you. You'd better try with a colours box.”

“That's why I like him so much and he has to be mine.”

Guntram was exhausted the next morning as he had been almost unable to sleep with concern. Who was this man and from where had he gotten the idea that he was willing to sell anything? He was only drawing for poor children. Nothing more. He didn't have any of the things artists were supposed to have, like canvases, oil paintings, brushes and all what a long—and expensive—list it could include. My only thing is a box of pencils and some inks left over from Federico's painting set in the school. To make his life harder, his best friend decided to drop by his flat and stay for dinner. At least he had the good graces to bring some turnovers to eat along with a salad Guntram had made.

“Federico, today a Russian was at my workplace. He says he knows me from your mother's birthday and wants to buy some paintings from me. Do you know anything about it? The name is Repin.”

“Repin? I know an Oblomov, who's a very rich, heck, filthy rich Russian with some oil, mining and transport companies. He was at my mother's because she was presenting a new law about gold digging in the South, but stay away from him. He's not good at all.”

“Why?”

“Lots of money. In the big league. Billionaire. What could he want from a poor guy like you?”

“Thank you Fefo, most obliged.”

“The guy is an art collector… Picasso, Miró, Gaugin, and all that shit. My mother is sucking up to him since she met him. I think she's seriously considering spreading her legs for him.”

“That ‘shit’? Damn Fefo, I'd kill to see one of those in live. Don't speak about your mother like that.”

“Pumpkin, my mother despises you and I still don't know why you defend her.”

“OK, let's don't talk about Mommy Dear. She gives me the creeps, that's for sure,” Federico seemed to nod and mumbled “likewise” but Guntram would not join him in his self compassion journey. “Fefo, do you know something about him buying my drawings? I'm cash short these days…”

“You don't want to sell to him. That secretary of his is gay, I'm sure, and he wants to buy from you since he saw you at my mother's birthday party. He wants to screw around, Guti. Nothing else. You're no artist! You draw well, but truly boring… besides, you and a Russian? Do you even know how two men fuck?”

“I'm not going to bed with him!” Guntram protested, “I just wanted to know if you knew something about him.”

“Ever been with another boy, Guti? Interested? Should I show you?” Fefo asked blowing kisses toward his long time roommate.

“Leave me alone! Fuck!”

“Well, if you want. Your bed is small but if you go on all fours, we can manage. Girls like it a lot despite their complaints.”

“Fefo, you're disgusting,” Guntram said when the other made a lascivious gesture with his tongue, “I'm having dinner.”

“Come Guntram, show me how you can swallow in one go with the turnover. The stronger you suck, the better.”

“Shut up or get out!”

“It hurts a little when you get a shaft like mine in, but the secret is lots of lubricant, a good previous suck, relaxing and going along with the ride. If you don't like it, which I doubt because once you have tried a superb quality cock as mine, you can say that you're straight. Not before. Wanna give it a try?”

Guntram didn't know how to understand the last sentence as the previous joking tone had disappeared and his friend was looking at him seriously and straight into his blue eyes. He held his breath for a minute as he was truly lost but the idea was ridiculous, so he laughed. “Sure… first tell me where you plan to get the great shaft you spoke about?”

The other feigned an offended look and answered, “In the sex shop. Only the best for you my love, and some leather straps too.”

“And we go to the barn, among the haystacks,” Guntram chuckled.

“You're a pervert!” Fefo said falsely shocked, “besides you get the hay everywhere and in. Not good. I know what I'm speaking about.”

“OK, Fefo, too much information. Go home, now.”

“You don't know what you're missing. One of the best in all Buenos Aires.”

“I can live in blessed ignorance. Now, let's change the subject because my stomach already churns badly.”

“Sure, I'm going on Saturday to Pacha with the guys from the school. Do you want to come with us?”

“Nah, I have to work till 5 p.m. and later study for the mid-term tests. Math is hard.”

“Don't complain. You chose Economics and Social Work at the same time.”

“Yeah, but my money is on Economics; Social Work is more like a hobby. I doubt I could finish that one.”

“I don't know why you waste your time there. It's poor people around! If you finish it, you'll get—with lots of luck—a penniless job for hearing some loser's problems the whole day.”

“They're not losers. Their luck sucks which is a different story. Many want out but they need help, or a push to get out of there.”

“Sure, Mahatma Gandhi.”

“Don't be mean to me. Father Patricio does his best for them and I like to help him.”

“Wait till you run to confess to him and tell him that you have a Russian boyfriend. He's gonna make you eat the censer.” Federico smirked.

“What? I have no boyfriend! Idiot! I was only asking you.”

“Would be good for you. This Oblomov has plenty of money and lots of girls around.”

“Did you just not say he was gay? Or better, you, in your infinite wisdom thought that he was gay?”

“The secretary, that already sounds gay. A tall one, dark eyes, very serious bird, silent like Lurch. That's the one he wants to buy from you. Don't know his name.”

“Repin and he's not that tall. Perhaps 6 feet.”

“That's already much taller than you,” Fefo snorted.

“I'm 5 feet 9!”

“Wow inflationary theory applies to size, midget. You're 5 feet 6. By the way, do you have something to sell?”

“No, nothing,” Guntram confessed very embarrassed as drawing over kraft paper couldn't be considered as

“selling material”.

“Then, don't worry about him any longer, unless you want something else,” Federico winked under Guntram's disapproving gaze.

Three days after the first encounter with the “Russian Secretary Collector”, Guntram had totally forgotten the man because he was very busy with his own work. Tomorrow was his free day and he expected to visit the slum he used to go since he was fifteen-years-old. Too focused on drying several beer glasses with a towel, he missed Verónica coming to him and hitting the counter fretfully with her small hand.

“Earth to Guntram! The Asshole is back!”

“Which one?”

“The foreigner. That French guy! He wants you! Can you believe he sent me away? ME?”

“OK, I'll serve him. Can you finish the glasses here?”

“Do I look like the cleaning lady? Martin told you to do it.”

“Exactly. Troublesome customers are your problem today. Not mine. My left wrist is sprained thanks to someone we both know, dropped a full beer crate over it,” Guntram replied rather hotly.

“All right. I'll do it!”

“Thank you.”

“Either you lash them or they are very nasty, Guntram. Keep her under control or next you'll be paying her rent too,” Luis laughed at their exchange, while Guntram was looking for his own tray and apron from under the counter. Verónica gave him the finger before taking the towel and started to dry. “Don't worry, princess, you'll always get one from the Second Division League. Vacheron is too much for you. You're more the ‘made in China’ type of watch.”

“Fuck you!” She roared as Guntram sighed, still not understanding why Luis and Verónica were always fighting for the most stupid things like a customer. He was only two hours from finishing his shift.

“
Bonsoir monsieur
.”

“Hello Guntram. What happened to your left hand?” Repin asked while his head slightly indicated the elastic bandage around Guntram's wrist.

“Nothing, stupid labour accident. It happens. It's only sprained. Should not move it or carry heavy weights for a week or two. What can I bring you?” He whispered, feeling again very uncomfortable at the close examination he was being subjected to.

“Your hands are your biggest capital. You should take care of them. Have you given some thought to what I told you?”

“I have nothing that could interest you.”

“Don't you paint any longer?”

“Yes, I do but I'm no artist. I draw over old newspapers and kraft paper.”

“What I saw were some watercolours.”

“Yes, from my school time, made on the school's paper, long time ago. Good paper of that weight is very expensive.”

“It's a waste and a shame that you do nothing with your talent. Two merchants think that you show great promise.”

“What can I bring you, sir?” Guntram blurted out.

“Straight coffee and water,” the man barked, infuriated that he had been dismissed so rudely.

Several minutes later, Guntram came back with the coffee and served the water, the Russian completely ignored him, busy with a mobile phone. Guntram stood by him.

“It's all right. You can go,” he said absently.

“I'm sorry if I was rude to you. It wasn't my intention, sir. I don't understand why anyone had the courage to sell something from me but if you like it, I can give you some of my drawings, for free of course. They're worthless, really,” Guntram mumbled ashamed and afraid at his own audacity of speaking with a customer.

The Russian left his phone over the table and looked for a long time at the boy, almost fidgeting in his place.

“They're very good, no matter what you think. To be honest, the first time I saw them, I thought they were made by a seasoned artist and never by a boy. I take your offer but I insist on paying you.”

“I will be robbing you, sir,” Guntram admitted.

“Then, I'll set the price, if that eases your conscience,” Repin decided and folded his hands over the table, his jacquard jacket slightly rising and showing the white cuffs of his shirt and his watch.

“All right,” the boy mumbled, realising that Luis was not joking when he had said Vacheron. That one was a real one and not a made in Paraguay copy. “If you want we could meet tomorrow as it's my free day so I can give you what I have and you can choose what you like.”

“All right, as it's Saturday I can take you out for dinner.”

“No, that's not good. I can't.”

“All right. Tell me what you would prefer, Guntram,” the Russian chuckled finding the boy's reaction totally adorable as he was blushing and thinking hard for a solution.

“There's another big bar, fifty metres from here. It's called
Au Printemps,
but the light is not so good. If you want you can pass my flat and check what you like. It would be more comfortable. Are you free tomorrow, so I can select what is not too bad?”

“Of course, tomorrow at 10 a.m.?”

“All right, but I have to leave at 11 p.m, as I have another engagement. I'll write you down my address and phone number.”

“Fine,” Constantin growled as he was very displeased that he was shown to the door before even entering.

“Good afternoon,” a big man rumbled, with the same Russian accent, standing next to Repin but not sitting until the other made a small gesture with his head.

“Guntram, this is Ivan Ivanovich, my right hand. Get him the same,” he only said while the boy ran away to fulfill his order.

“Quite a long chat, boss. Almost there,” Oblomov chuckled.

“I'm there, he invited me to his own home,” he replied under the astonished look of the other man.

“Never would have guessed. He doesn't look the type.”

“To see his work, what a dirty mind you have!”

“Indeed.”

“This one is like a Château Lafite 1771. You have to palate it, smell the cork. If you rush it in your throat, you'd ruin the taste and the incredible feeling. He's exactly what I always wanted to have. The house in London will be perfect for him.”

Chapter 2

“Guntram, if you're only showing him your work, tell me again why do you need me?”

“For moral support. For Christ's sake George, you're my neighbour… and, you know, the other.”

“OK, and why exactly do you think that one gay man will kick another out? The minute he sees me, boom!

He has to steal you from me. It doesn’t work like that, my boy. Besides, no man with such a good taste and clothes would throw you to your bed to rape you.”

“All right, go away, but leave Lola here,” Guntram exclaimed with a victim's face.

“Sure, my poodle will defend your virginity,” George snorted, shaking his head.

“Please?”

“All right. I'll chaperone your virtue and I hope this guy gets it soon because you're starting to worry me, Guti. You're almost nineteen and nothing so far!”