Into the Lion's Den (25 page)

“Love as the wolf loves the sheep,” was the old proverb and there was nothing more true in his case.

He was going to make sure that his angel would not spend a single minute with that boy. Boris would have to use his own people.

December 29th 2002

I still don't understand him. Maybe I do but and I don't want to accept it. Fefo duped me for the…better
don't count Guntram, you won't like the final number.

I took the plane with a brooding Constantin upset that I was “miserably wasting my time when I should
be working.” He was so right and I should have listened to him, but I'm an idiot! In the plane were Oblomov,
Morozov, Strepovich, Baragan and Raditsky, all of them arguing hotly in Russian for the two hours. Morozov was the
most enraged and shouted with Oblomov all the flight while Constantin was very serious. It seems he made some
investments that collided with Lintorff’s interests somewhere.

They continued their shouting at Constantin's flat in Place Vendôme with Boris Malchenko included.

They had lunch there but I was not invited and I took the opportunity to escape for a walk around the city, without a
bodyguard.

Constantin shouted at me for going away alone and nearly put me on the next plane back to London.

Only Boris' intervention saved my skin. I just took the metro to Pére Lachaise to visit my parents' graves! What could
happen in a graveyard?

At six I was supposed to meet with Fefo at a café at Montmartre, near his hotel but he never showed up
or phoned me. At 8 p.m. I was sick of waiting and getting no answer from his phone. I was freezing my ass when I took
the metro back to Constantin's house.

Boris shouted at me for taking the metro and staying out for so long and told me I was going to catch
pneumonia.

I'm sneezing and feeling like shit so he's probably right.

The Lost Fefo? Should I be worried like I was?

NOT AT ALL! He dumped me for 2 French blondes—peroxide blondes but he doesn't care! He called me
last night at 23:30 to inform me that he had met the two and was having the greatest time of his life
Fuck you!

I went to bed feeling miserable and like a total idiot.

January 3rd 2003

I'm still in Paris and in the middle of a mess. A real one, with police included! This morning a policeman
came to the flat asking about me. I stood in front of him as he checked my documents. Fortunately, Boris was at home
and immediately took the matter into his hands.

“Everything seems to be fine and Customs confirms your date of entrance to the country. Do you live in
London?”

“Yes, I do. Why?”

“Please answer the questions, Monsieur.”

“He has nothing to answer to you. I do not like your way of questioning.”

“We could do this at the Station. I'm sure Inspector Laforelle will like to have a word with the young
man, Monsieur…?”

“Which one? He will come but with a lawyer,” Boris said without flinching a muscle while my knees
were made of jelly. Me? Inside of a police station? I've never been into one!

“We will escort you, monsieur.”

“Wait outside.” The policeman was furious with Boris.

“What could they want with me? I paid everything and didn't touch anything in the Museums!” I
whispered.

“This is why my lawyer will go with you. The police love to hide their incompetence by accusing the
wrong people. Lefèbre is very good.”

In less than half an hour the famous Nicholas Lefèbre was there and he was a man bordering his sixties,
with a clear French accent, like a Belgian. We took his car to the Police Station and he ordered, yes ordered to make
the mighty Inspector Laforelle move his bottom to see us.

“Mr. de Lisle, coming with a counsellor is not the best idea for someone allegedly not guilty,” the
policeman fired at me and I kept myself quiet as the lawyer had instructed me in the car. I should not go along with
their taunts; only answer to a direct question.

“Inspector, my client is wasting a wonderful morning in here. Could you please proceed?”

“Certainly. When did you arrive to Paris?”

“On the morning of the 28th at ten or eleven. I don't remember exactly.”

“Your flight's number?”

“I don't know. It was a private plane. I could find it out.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to visit my parent's grave in Pere Lachaise, had lunch at a kebab stall near the entrance to the
metro, then I took the metro and returned to my flat. At 5:30 I went to Montmartre where I was supposed to meet a
friend. He never showed up. I returned home at 9:00 and at 11:30 he called me to tell me he had met two young
girls.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing with the girls?”

“Reading Proust; what do you think he was doing with two floozies?”

“The day after, on the 29th?”

“Drawing at the Louvre.” The cretin laughed at me and I exploded. “Yes, I study Art History and paint.

I have an upcoming exhibition and I was stealing some ideas!”

“Can you prove it? Do you have the tickets?”

“I don't collect tickets but there must be a hundred security cameras there! Look for the idiot copying at
the Denon wing! I refuse to answer any more questions until you inform me of the charges against me.”

“Charges against you? No, no, you're mistaken, this is only a polite talk between us.”

“Mr. de Lisle will leave this interview room this moment, unless you speak frankly.”

“Do you use drugs Mr. de Lisle?”

“You don't have to answer that,” Nicholas told me automatically.

“Of course not!”

“Do you mind if we run a test on you?”

“Certainly I do. You have no right. Get a Judge to back your words, officer!” I said losing my patience
and rising to leave the place.

“All right, you're accused of nothing. We only wanted to speak with you about one of your friends, a
petty drug dealer.”

“I know no dealer!”

“You called him several times on the 28th and that sounds like someone looking for his fix.”

“I only called Federico Martiarena Alvear and he's a friend from my school days. We were supposed to
meet in that café but he never showed up. He didn't call me after that night.”

“The funny thing is that he says that you're the lover of a Russian mobster.”

“I fail to understand how my client's private life is related to your investigation, Inspector,” Lefèbre
dryly said and added the blow. “You're bordering on harassment with your questioning. Guntram we go, now.”

“I can hold the boy in a cell for twenty-four hours and you know it.”

“And I can return you to the parking tickets era if you try it.”

“Did you say that Federico is a drugs dealer? Impossible! He has a lot of money, he has no need to do
it. It's all a mistake.”

“He accuses you of bringing a half a kilo from London.”

“What? I did nothing of the sort!”

“You came in a private flight.”

“Our luggage was checked and a French dog sniffed us and everywhere. The stewardess was furious
because she's allergic to them and that stupid policeman didn't listen and put the bloody animal almost on top of her.

A doctor had to inject her with cortisone! Check the airport's records!” I cried.

“We will, don't worry. Look, son, you look like a sensible young man, substance abuse is not as bad as
trafficking. Tell me what I want to know and I will do my best to help you.”

“What do you want to know? I haven't seen him in a year. He works in the Argentinean Senate and I live
in London.”

“This man you live with, what do you know about his activities?”

“Guntram you don't have to answer more questions.”

“He's an important businessman. Ask him.” I answered truly pissed off.

“Don't leave the town during the investigation,” the idiot said as if he were Horatio Caine or Grissom
from CSI.

We left the police station and the lawyer was chuckling in his car. “Must be in the genes, no doubt.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you the son of Jerôme de Lisle? We went together to Law School, Sorbonne in 1968. It was quite a
surprise to be your attorney. I'm mostly into tax law. Your father was an incredible lawyer. Never lost a case or a
negotiation in his whole life.”

“My father was working in a bank, not a lawyer.”

“He was the head of the legal affairs of a Geneva based bank. I still copy from him. You look almost
exactly like him, not the hair or the eyes, those are Cécile's. Do you want to go for a coffee?”

“Yes, of course.” I couldn't believe my luck. This was the very first time that I knew someone who had
been a friend of my parents. We sat at a small place he took me, near the police station. It was almost empty, with the
exception of a man, also in his early sixties, drinking a coffee and having a piece of apple cake. For a second he
reminded me of my father. Lefèbre took a table next to him and the window.

“Do you want one too? Apple cake.” The lawyer laughed at me. “Exactly like him. He would have sold
his soul for a piece of apple cake.”

“I know, he was always taking me to the same place in Buenos Aires to get a warm piece with vanilla ice
cream on top and cinnamon sprinkled all over.” I smiled at the memory.

“How's your lawyer, Martínez Estrada? Crazy, but a good man. Was he nice to you?”

“How do you know about him?”

“I recommended him to your father when he was looking for an executor of his will for you. Was he
good to you?”

“He always did his best to take care of me. He was taking me with his family on the holidays whenever
he could. His wife was not so happy to have a third wheel and his children didn't like to have extra competition. He
defended my money and made it last all over my schooling. How is that you work for Mr. Malchenko?”

“He's one of my clients. I'm Senior Partner in a Brussels based law firm. I specialize in making your
taxes bearable and your contracts atomic bomb proof.” He made me laugh. “I survived a divorce, no children and
come to Paris three days per week. My cat ran away on a love adventure; don't know when he will be back. Tell me
about you. Do you live in London?”

“Yes, I live in London and study Art History. I paint also.”

“And you live with a man.” I blushed at his words.

“Yes, Constantin Repin. I don't know why the police are interested in him. He's the owner of a big oil
company and some transport too. He has a Foundation for sponsoring artists and gave me a scholarship to study
here. We met in Buenos Aires because he was interested in some of my pieces and we fell in love later.” There I said it
blushing more violently than before as the stranger with the apple cake was piercing me with his grey, no green eyes.

What's wrong with you? Never seen a gay before?

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am. Constantin is very kind and nice to me. Had it not been for him I should be still serving
tables and drawing over napkins. I think I love him very much and he returns my affections,” I whispered.

“If you're happy with this solution, no one can complain about it. Are you doing something with your gift
for drawing? Your father told me that he had to protect his papers from the little Guntram and his pencils. He was
convinced that you were going to be an artist.”

“I have improved. I don't attack important papers any longer,” I chuckled. Yes, that's true, my poor papa
was always placing his portfolio has high as he could. “I'm studying with a fancy teacher, but it's not working at all.

If Constantin wouldn't be nagging me that he's so important; the St. Peter of the galleries, I would dump him. Anyway,
I have an exhibition at Robertson's next August. It's a well-known place and the owner is my manager. He sells my
pieces ‘quite successfully, young man, keep on with the good work’.” I impersonated his crisp accent and he laughed.

“Do you remember your father?”

“Yes, I do and I still miss him. I don't know why he did it. He was always looking so full of life when he
was visiting me. I guess he never forgave me for my mother's.”

“Do you really think that? Your father loved you with all his soul. Your mother had a serious heart
condition but they wanted to have the baby despite the risks. He was always speaking to me about you. It was really a
pity that he was so sick in the end. He had the same cancer as your grandmother; pancreas cancer, very painful. He
coped with a lot of shit just to save all the money he could for your education.”

“I didn't know he was sick. No one ever told me.”

“Perhaps Chano wanted to save you the pain.”

“I only found out about his death one week later. The school's principal told me.”

“The important thing is that you're happy now. I would love to see your work.”

“I have not much to show you. Most things are in London. I was here only for a week to visit this

“friend”. I really don't understand him. He calls me in Christmas, makes me come here and then he stood me up. And
now I'm accused of bringing him half a kilo of something.”