Into the Lion's Den (8 page)

“I only wanted to leave you this, Ivan Ivanovich,” Guntram said extending the tin tube.

Oblomov gasped in admiration at the portrait of his wife, looking exactly as he remembered her from her wedding day, so many years and troubles ago. The paint showed a woman of a serene and composed beauty with eyes that swallowed people's soul. “It's her, no doubt. The first time I saw my wife, when I was a young graduate travelling to Paris for the first time, I thought that if you saw yourself reflected in those eyes, you couldn't help to fall in love with her, and I did.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“Like it? I don't know if I will give it to her or keep it for me. It's her. How could you do it? You have never seen her in your life.”

“It's how you spoke about her, the pictures you had from her and the videos too. Everything was there.”

“We don't see each other much. She lives in Paris with our son and I'm mostly in St. Petersburg or Moscow.

Our relationship is strained at the moment,” he confessed.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, it's not your fault. Thank you very much. I know you want no money for this, but I would like to give you something in exchange.”

“You owe me nothing, sir. Really. I have to go now.”

“Stay for lunch, please. You don't work there any longer.”

“How do you know?”

“That boy, the one who worked with you, told Zakharov when he had his interview yesterday evening. He will start as the office boy. He was very happy with his new salary. Constantin is glad that you saw reason finally. If you would see a doctor now, that would be the final proof that you're sane.”

“No, thank you. I had a disagreement with my manager and it was coming all the way.”

“I won five hundred Euros to Constantin. He said you wouldn't be able to do the portrait because you were so afraid of it. Do we share boy?”

“No thank you, it's your capital.”

“Speaking of which you should take my offer Guntram. I paid good money to that woman. You're jobless now, take $3,000 for this.”

“It's a gift, Ivan.”

“What If I give you a commission? Make one of my wife and my son when he was seven. He's an ugly teenager nowadays so it's not worth painting him.”

“That's a lot of money, I will be robbing you.”

“Nonsense. My tailor robs me. Come on boy, take it and make a good job. I could use it to mend my relations with my mother-in-law. Terrible woman.”

“I don't want to abuse you.”

“If you get my mother-in-law off of my neck for a month or two, then this will be the best money ever spent in my whole life. If she doesn't like it, I'll give her your phone number and my revenge will be legendary,” he chuckled, sensing that he had won the battle. 'Yes, gentle moves and he goes wherever you want. Boss should know it by now.'

“Can I return the money if she doesn't like it?” Guntram joked lightly.

“No, you endure her, all by yourself and take the heat away from me. A good investment too. Stay for lunch boy. You can work at the terrace with the pencils you forgot. We eat at 1:00,” he ordered mildly, but leaving no room for further discussions and left the room.

Guntram stood there, undecided because he had to go get his check from Martin, then to the University and start to print his CV to hand over to different employment agencies. A woman, elegantly dressed like a secretary lightly coughed at his side, holding a well known wooden box and a leather portfolio. “Good morning, Mr. de Lisle.

My name is María Cristina Achaval and I'm the personal assistant for Mr. Oblomov in Argentina. He asked me to give you this and show you the terrace,” She said, obviously obfuscated that she had to address a simple waiter when the butler or one of the maids would have been more than sufficient.

“Thank you, madam,” Guntram answered meekly as his escape route had been blocked by a very tall blonde, reminding him of his best friend's mother.

“Follow me, please.”

“Give me a good reason for not killing you, Ivan.”

“You love me more than you dare to admit and envy my intelligence secretly. Look, only a ten minute talk and he's sitting peacefully, drawing and has accepted a commission and money from me. Ordering will not help with this one. I suspect he can be quite a stubborn mule… and you still owe me five hundred Euros, boss.”

“You're too ugly to be lovable, Ivan Ivanovich,” he chortled, getting the money out of his wallet. “I hope you have paid him more than this.”

“Three thousand dollars, boss. This one from my wife is very nice indeed.”

“Are you starting to appreciate art?”

“No way, I said it looks really good. Tatiana will be pleased and leave me alone for some months.”

“So he stays for lunch?”

“It seems so. I think he got a tea and is working with the pencils you gave him and a pad. According to one of the men, he looked at it in awe for almost twenty minutes. Your finances can be glad if he's like that.”

“Not if he wants a Tamayo for his birthday.”

Contrary to his expectations, the lunch was not only for Constantin—who greeted him briefly—and Oblomov, but two State Secretaries, a very well known banker and two industrials, desperately seeking cash from Constantin…

and a lot of cash in Guntram's opinion. He kept his gaze fixed on his dish, almost not touching the food or drinking the wine, so embarrassed he felt to be there. Oblomov tried to engage him in a conversation but he couldn't utter more than five words in a sentence, so he soon lost interest and dedicated all his attention to the politicians and a mining project in Patagonia.

Guntram thought that he could escape when the lunch finished at 2:00, but it was a short lived hope as Oblomov told him to wait for him in his office.

He was surprised to see Constantin coming instead of Oblomov and he stood up very nervously.

“Hello Guntram, I'm glad you followed my advice.”

“Please Mr. Repin, I don't want to discuss this with you.”

“Why?”

“My reasons are mine.”

“Why are you so formal? Did you not quit your work and finish the portrait? I was not expecting you could finish it and I must admit that it's good. Oblomov is satisfied too. Now, would you drop the rebel teenager act and discuss business with me?”

“We have no business to discuss, sir. I only brought the painting.”

“Why don't you accept a scholarship from my foundation? We have more than one thousand five hundred applications each year and we grant two hundred only and most of them will turn into mediocre artists. I think you show a lot of potential but for some reason you're afraid of painting. Why is that?”

“I have to make a living. I don't have much space to play the artist. I can't afford to lose money or time.”

“Why? Going to Europe now would only cost you a month or two in your life. If we consider a life expectancy of seventy-five, then is less than 0.2% of your life. Not much to decide if you would like to do it or not. I can't understand why you prefer the grey life of an accountant or the parish prude when you could be a good artist. If you're looking for security in your life, study Art History and become an expert and live from that. Do you have any idea how much an art commissar in London or an arts dealer makes? Much more than a poor clerk in a bank. However I don't think that money is the issue here. It's something much deeper.”

“I truly don't want to speak about it.”

“That's not very reasonable, Guntram. Satisfy my curiosity and I'll leave you alone.”

“Painting is the problem,” Guntram mumbled.

“I was under the impression that you liked it.”

“Too much… I fall into it and everything ceases to exist… The last time my father was in Argentina, I was seven years old and he had brought me a pencil case. I was with him at his flat and we were together. He was speaking very upset over the phone with someone, I don't know who, in French and he asked me to sit and draw something to carry with him. I did it and I lost track. I never knew when he left the house to take his plane back to Paris. The nanny told me he had kissed me and took my drawings with him, but I didn't realise. He was dead one week after and I couldn't say good-bye to him.”

“How did he die?”

“Suicide, jumped out of a window.”

“Perhaps he didn't want to say good-bye to you and wanted that his last image of you would have been his son doing what he loved most. It's not your fault what he did. He might have serious reasons to do it.”

“Yes it was. My mother died in childbirth and I think he blamed me for it. He never said a thing, but he missed my mother a lot and was always speaking about her. He was convinced that I was going to be an artist as I was always crying to get pencils or paper and drawing everywhere, if you get my meaning.”

“This is why you're so afraid to paint?”

“Don't you get it? I missed the chance to kiss my father good-bye!”

“Have you never considered that his last memory of you was one of a happy child, doing what he loved best?

That's no reason to deny yourself to do what you love best. Why do you punish yourself for this? You didn't force him to do it.”

“I know,” Guntram said absently and sad at the same time.

“Take my offer and come to Europe just for a month. Come with me tomorrow if you want. We're going back to London. There's enough room in the plane.”

“I can't do that. I can't just go away!”

“Why? You're jobless and to wait for a month to start to look for another job, if you come back, or work with Zakharov is not much.”

“I have to finish this term at school! I have a house!”

“All right, when do you finish your tests?”

“Mid-December.” Guntram said not truly believing that he had more or less given his accord to the trip and perhaps to accept a total stranger's support, based on who knows what. 'Is not that you have much more to choose from, Guntram'

“Then, come from mid-December onwards. Maria Ulanovna will arrange the details. I'll send her over, now.”

“I…”

“Good day to you Guntram,” Constantin finished the conversation, leaving the room back to his office.

'What do I do now?' was all what Guntram could think about.

“Well Sir, you have to complete and sign these forms for you scholarship application. I assume it would be valid from November onwards and the payments will be initially done in the account you provided us,” the middle aged secretary explained a still dazed Guntram once more

“Should I not give you a copy of my school records?”

“It would be nice if you could send them by mail to me. In regard of the capability tests, the Lara Arseniev Trustee Fund uses, Mr. Repin says that is enough with the material at his disposal.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Repin asks if you want to accompany him this afternoon to the new Latin American Arts Museum. He has an appointment with the General Director and the owner,
Mme.
Achaval will go also.”

“I know the owner. His third son was one class ahead of mine. I’m not sure if he remembers me. I was several times at his birthday parties.”

“Well, in that case it shouldn't be a problem for you to come. If you want to go home and change into cocktail attire you should hurry. Mr. Repin leaves at 6:15 p.m.”

“Thank you, but I should go to the university, really.”

“Not everyday you get to meet the Director of one of the most important museums in Latin America, it's a very good opportunity and if you allow me to say it, Art is not ten percent inspiration and ninety percent work. Art is ten percent inspiration, forty percent public relations and fifty percent work.” The old lady smiled.

“I'll be back at 6:15 just because I don't want to insult Mr. Repin.”

The banker's office was on the top floor of the Museum overlooking the blue flowered trees. After insistently looking at Guntram, Bronstein laughed when he heard his name, finally remembering the shy boy who used to come to his middle son's birthday parties with a lawyer or a teacher from the school; that young noble French, the Vicomte of somewhere.

“I remember you clearly. You're Mariano's friend from the school, Guntram. Do you know, Mr. Repin that I paid unbeknownst—the first stages of his artistic career?”

“How so? Guntram says he never planned to study arts.”

“Mariano, my son, was in the same class and they became friends at school when they were ten or twelve. At some point, my wife tells me that my son wants good quality temperas, oils, watercolours and papers when he was only interested in football and girls. “Buy it,” I told her, not caring at all. Then, my son brought his grades home and he had a nine in Arts when the most he was making was a six and I know that my son can't draw even if you put him in front of a firing squad. It was very strange, but I said nothing. Next semester, he comes home with a ten and I say,

“Mariana, this is impossible,” and I asked for his Art portfolio and all the works were accurately done so I asked my son “who has done it?” “Nobody,” after pressing a lot, I found out that those two had an arrangement. Guntram was making his homework—and for several more in the class—in exchange for drawing materials and the teachers never found it out! I forbid my son to do it again, but I think this young man changed his style and continued with this over the years. The teachers never caught him.”

“I'm sorry for the delusion, Mr. Bronstein. I didn't realise at the time it was wrong to do it.”

“No, it's all right. I was also doing such trades in school, like everybody else,” he chuckled.

“We all start like this,” Repin chuckled. “I hope he starts to sign his own work now and doesn't make the other students homework. We should count his pencils when he comes home to see what he has been doing.”

“That's a good idea, trust me,” Bronstein mirrored the Russian’s laughter to immediately switch back to seriousness and continue with the conversation. “Regarding of your proposal, we have studied the list of artworks you're willing to lend us and it's most impressive, but the cost is too high. We can't cover them with the sales tickets.

Just the insurance is around one percent of their value.”

“Then, I'll take them to Europe and Russia. After all, some of them were on loan in your collection.”