Into the Lion's Den (7 page)

“Mr. Repin asks you to join him in the dinning room,” the maid informed him, curtly bowing her head and vanishing direction to the kitchen.

“Wait! Could you get me some aspirin please? My wrist is giving me some troubles.”

“Right away, sir.”

Feeling unhappy at this new turn of events, Guntram suppressed a frustrated sigh and went to the dinning room as ordered, still wondering why the man was up working so early, and how on earth could you get a secretary at such an ungodly hour. He stood in front of the closed door and softly knocked to hear Constantin's voice saying “come in”

“Good morning, Guntram. Sit down. Do you know Zakharov?”

“How do you do, sir?” The boy asked to the old Russian sitting at the table, who only bowed his head in response.

“Sit down now,” Constantin repeated this time more sharply than before, making Guntram feel as if he were again in the Headmaster's presence.

“I only wanted to thank you and say good-bye. I start at 8 a.m. today and I still have to pass by my house…”

“Have breakfast and then we will see,” Constantin only said, turning and resuming his previous conversation with the man in Russian. Undecided about the best course of action, Guntram sat where Constantin had told him to and immediately, a different maid served him a coffee and asked him if he wanted eggs for breakfast.

“No, just bread, thank you.”

“Here is your aspirin, sir,” the first maid returned with the pill and a glass of water.

“Do you have a headache again, Guntram?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you.”

“Then, why the aspirin? Do you have a heart condition?” Constantin joked.

“No, just some pain in the left wrist,” Guntram answered puzzled at the question but remembering that the man had studied Chemistry.

“The same that the doctor told you to keep immobilized for two weeks and you use for carrying the tray?”

Guntram blushed when he answered that it was the same but today he would not use it as the staff was larger during the week and he could stay behind the counter.

“Drying glasses and rotating it? Zakharov what would you think if I have a pure blood horse with a sprained ankle and I put it on a mill so he rests from the horse-tracks fatigues?”

“That you're a fool, sir.”

“Indeed. We have the same problem with this young man. He has just been offered a scholarship for painting, but he insists on working for less than $1,000 in a restaurant where he already sprained his left hand.”

“That's very daft in my opinion. He will stress the right hand more just to replace the other and why is he not wearing a rigid plastic splint?”

“I don't know. Perhaps the local doctors have found a new healing method that we're not aware of,”

Constantin pondered in a very sarcastic way. “Guntram, call your work and said that you're not going today. A doctor will see it in the afternoon.”

“I can't do that!”

“Are there not labour laws in this country? Labour injuries are a real problem if you're an employer,” the old man lectured the youth.

“Don't tell me about it, Zakharov,” Constantin sighed.

“I have to work to make a living!” Guntram protested.

“Finish your breakfast. The chauffeur will take you to your house to pick up some clothes if you want. You're staying here, till your hand gets better.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Repin, you're not my father and you can't order me around,” Guntram said, truly pissed off with the man.

“I'm aware that I'm not your father nor intend to be. It's criminal how you're wasting your talent and a good opportunity. Finish that portrait, if you can, between today and tomorrow, here. You have the materials and can use the terrace. It's sunny and warm. I want to see if you're able to do it or is it that you know you can't?”

“I have nothing to prove to you, sir,” Guntram said seriously and Zakharov couldn't help to admire the youth's guts to oppose to Constantin so openly.

“I see. Perhaps I overestimated your abilities.”

“Most probably, sir. I'm no artist at all or intend to be one.”

“My mistake. Go to work, Guntram,” Constantin said in a false light tone, one that Zakharov knew that forbade nothing good for the boy.

“Good-bye, Mr. Repin. I wish you a safe journey home.”

“Thank you. Good-bye,” Repin dismissed him.

Guntram arrived just in time to get a good scolding from Martin for leaving yesterday after eight.

“You said till 8 p.m. and I left at 8:20. I don't see the problem,” Guntram's retort surprised the man as the boy was like a small mouse, doing his work quietly and without complaints. A real loser.

“You go home when I say so.”

“Really? You're forcing me to work when another worker dropped a full beer crate on my hand and the doctor clearly told me to take a leave for five working days.”

“Are you a trade unionist now? I have no place for such people!”

“No, but I'll present the papers to the insurance company by myself and they will force you to give me my leave.”

“Of course I'll give you a leave. A permanent one. If you work here, it's because the owner is good friends with that woman, not because you're good at it. Now, get out of here and do something useful for a change!”

“I leave at 4 p.m. today, when my shift ends.”

“You leave when I tell so. If you leave at 4 p.m. don't bother to come tomorrow.”

“We'll see.”

At 4:30 Guntram finished to charge the last table he had been serving and folded his apron and placed it under the counter.”

“Where are you going?” Martin barked seeing the boy putting his jacket on.

“Home. I'm finished for today.”

“You're forever finished if you cross that door.”

“Is it not somewhat extreme? Are you going to work tomorrow in my place or are you going to ask Verónica to finally move her ass somewhere else besides that sorry cellar you always take her?”

“You're fired!” Martin shouted and several customers turned their heads at them.

“Good, send me the telegram and have the money ready for tomorrow,” Guntram said without loosing his cold demeanour. “Let me remind you, the money for the lay off is double because I'm injured while working and I'll denounce you to the Labour Ministry. I'm sick of people like you, pushing those who are weaker.”

Guntram walked the five blocks to his home totally furious that he had finally discussed with Martin and lost his job. Tomorrow he would start to look for another one and it would be hard as Martin would certainly not write a recommendation letter for him. He passed by George's shop, where he was working with a customer and Guntram only waved his hand.

“Wait Guti!” George shouted, almost running out of his shop.

“Hi, George. I'm going home.”

“You look like shit, dear. Everything fine with the Russian?”

“What? No, yes. It's not with him. I was just fired from my job for fighting with my boss.”

“Come in and tell everything.”

“You are with a customer.”

“Who? Hilda? She's a friend more than a customer. In with you!”

“I want to go home. It's been a long weekend. I need to relax and finish something for the Siberian asshole.”

Guntram excused himself, decided to make the Russian eat his own words. He could make a portrait with his own pastels in less than two days, and he needed to work to ease the tension down or he would shoot the next Czar.

“OK, if you prefer that way, but I'm having dinner with you tonight. You disappeared for two nights with the Doctor Zhivago. I have to hear the whole story.”

“I did nothing! Just slept at his house. He's not interested in me. Look George, come for dinner, if you want, but don't expect too much.”

Guntram had finished the first sketch of what was going to be the portrait of a woman in her mid twenties, with the heavy wedding dress changed into something more ethereal and in a pale colour as he was fascinated by her dark hairs and soulful black eyes. 'She looks like I've always imagined the girl from Eugene Onegin, Tatiana.'

He stood up and went to look for his pastels and a large light blue paper that he was saving for a grand occasion and decided to drop the University for the day. He had a very clear image of what he wanted to paint.

The annoying bell chiming took him back to earth and he softly cursed as he was almost finished with the last details around the two roses he had draw partly hidden on the back. “Coming!” He shouted, leaving his work over the table.

“I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're truly crazy, Guntram,” Federico exploded. “Martin called my mother to tell her that you insulted him and he had to fire you!”

“Yes, we had a disagreement.”

“Disagreement? He fired you and you threatened him with going to the Labour Ministry! How could you do it after he accepted you for this job?”

“Thank you for your support, Federico. If you want, I'll write an apology letter to your mother. You see, I had enough of working my ass for free. He never offered to pay for a bloody box of painkillers.”

“Guntram, you can't lose a job! What are you going to do?”

“Live on what I get for my lay off and look for another job. Simple as that.”

“It doesn't work like this. Do you know how difficult is to get anything here?”

“I know. I'll ask around. Patricio's father was the CEO of a bank. He offered me a job a few months ago as a clerk. I can ask him if there's still something available. Waiting tables is not the dream of my life, you know?”

“Guntram, are you all right? First you hang around a well known rich gay, and don't deny it because I saw it and I know him. Saw him at several parties. He's very discreet, but always goes home with a good looking model or something like that. Now, you fight with your boss and get fired and what are you doing exactly now? Painting!”

“Constantin is not interested in me. He told me so. And I took a day off… for painting. Is that so strange? All of you fuck around, do nothing, study nothing, work nothing and its perfectly fine. The day the nice and stupid Guntram decides to take a break, it's a fucking disaster!”

“You're into something bad, Guntram. I can smell it. My mother tells that this guy is filthy rich! He's the figurehead of a rich Russian owning one of the largest conglomerates of oil, mining and transport in the former Soviet Union. Oblomov has billions and the fucking secretary commands everything!”

“Tell mommy dear that she should be nicer to the secretary because he has a lot of influence and dislikes your mother very much.”

“Whatever! This is not good for you. Forget what he has told you because he only wants a good fuck and that will be all.”

“I'm not fucking with him,” Guntram protested.

“It's a matter of time. How dumb can you be? You'd probably sleep by his house and share his bed because it was too late to come home and he has no other place to put you”, Federico said ironically.

“Fefo, if you're not going to be helpful, let me finish my work, OK?”

“Are you throwing me out?”

“Yes, good night.”

“Asshole!” Federico yelled, yanking the door open just to bump into George, his dog and a huge steaming pot in his hands. “You fucking pervert! Happy now? You have convinced him to whore himself to a Russian!” he roared.

'You would have preferred that it would have been you instead of Dr. Zhivago.' George thought but said nothing, only moving aside so the furious boy could leave the place. “Your friend certainly has a temper. Now, tell me about the last part, the whoring around, Guntram. That sounds promising.”

Guntram sighed as he knew that shaking George off would be more difficult than throwing his former room mate out.

Guntram was doubtful, a state of mind that was becoming more and more usual during the past days, as he stood in the park in front of the Kavanagh building. He had the painting carefully folded and tied with a ribbon and only wanted to leave it, avoiding Constantin and his more than foreseeable fury when he would find out that he had done exactly what the Russian had told him to do, after he had nearly sent him to hell. With any luck, Constantin would be busy as it was a Tuesday morning and he had many businesses to run.

He waited for the lights to change in front of the crosswalk, watching how many pedestrians simply risked their lives just to cross a few seconds before the cars would stop. 'We like to live on the edge, no doubt about it.'

Guntram thought nervously. He crossed the street, and with an outward decided face, he walked toward the door man standing at the entrance.

“Good morning, I wanted to leave something for the penthouse in the fourteenth floor. Can you take it?”

The man just looked at him incredulously. “It's a painting for Mr. Ivan Oblomov. He works with the owner, Mr. Constantin Repin,” Guntram said very sheepishly, locking his gaze on the marble floor.

“Wait a minute, I'll ask,” the doorman said, but a man in a dark suit, a foreigner by his aspect, stopped him with one gesture.

“I work for Mr. Oblomov,” he said in perfect English. “Are you Guntram de Lisle by any chance?”

“I am. Could you give this to Mr. Oblomov? It's a portrait I promised him.”

“He's waiting for you upstairs, sir. Follow me, please.”

“It's not really necessary to inconvenience him.”

“Please,” the man abruptly cut all Guntram's protests, showing him with the nod of his head, the way to one of the private lifts.

Guntram was left in the living room with the Tamayo painting he had admired so much. Not willing to sit, as he had not been invited to do so, he stood by the closed terrace overlooking the city.

“Please, excuse me for my delay,” Oblomov said jovially, offering his hand. “Three local bankers. Is there any local tradition to make people go away?”

“Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Oblomov,” Guntram shook the hand, choking a laugh.

“No, I'm afraid you don't shake off a banker very easily. You might try to put a broomstick behind the door. It keeps the witches away,” Guntram smiled.

“Call me Ivan and probably the banker would ask me if I want stocks from cleaning company, but I'll keep it in mind; if it helps against witches might do the same for bankers,” he chuckled. “Constantin Ivanovich is busy now with some politicians, but I'm sure he would like to see you later.”