Into the Lion's Den (3 page)

“I want it to be with a special girl, not humping one in an alley.”

“Sure,” George shrugged sarcastically.

“I'll sweep your place.”

“Don't worry, Guti. I won't let a foreigner to take you away. My friends, is another matter.”

“Be quiet, will you?” Guntram pleaded as he settled in order the twenty something drawings he had found that were made on good quality paper. The rest of his works had been put together and packed in a large cardboard box, standing by the door. “At least, I made a long overdue cleaning.” The bell rang and Guntram felt more nervous than before, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

The Russian certainly knew how to leave his people's name in style, George thought, feeling an incredible desire to watch “Dr. Zhivago” for the fifteenth time. Repin was tall, proudly standing, casually dressed with corduroy light brown trousers, light blue shirt, a brown tailored jacket—according to George's expert eye—silk scarf and a simple but luxurious raincoat. He stood by the door frame waiting for Guntram to allow him in, but the boy was so nervous that he forgot his manners, something that Constantin found endearing.

“Standing won't do dear,” George interfered, quickly catching the fleeting look of adoration the Russian had given his young friend when he had seen him. 'Someone has really the kicks for somebody
'
, he thought.

“I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Mr. Repin, may I introduce you to Jorge Martínez de los Ríos. He's my neighbour.”

“How do you do?”

“Hello,” George said shaking his hand. “Guntram I have to walk Lola now, the poor animal is about to explode,” he informed in a firm way to the very pale boy. “I'll be back home in twenty minutes, call me if you want to have breakfast with me. Good-bye, sir.”

Guntram looked lost when his friend went away, with the white dog merrily jumping and barking around him.

He gulped and closed the door and softly asked the man to sit at his small table. “Would you like a coffee or something to drink?” he asked, looking really miserable and embarrassed.

“No, thank you. May I see the pictures?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry,” Guntram blurted, and extended the portfolio before sitting in front of his visitor.

Repin was completely silent and absorbed for more than forty-five minutes as he slowly looked at the drawings from people, animals and houses made with pencils, charcoal and watercolours and ink. He separated them into three piles, considering carefully each one of his decisions.

“Did you never study with a real teacher?”

“No, only at the school. I was an intern student and couldn't leave on my own. Painting always relaxed me.”

“Your drawing is completely classical in structure and technique. These children seem to come from Bronzino's hand or even Raphael, but the subjects are modern in their composition. There's certainly an evolution from what I liked first and what you have now. Before, I only saw a fantastic use of the technique, a very good illustrator, but now I'm starting to see something from the artist himself. I don't understand why you don't study Art or even Art History if you're so talented.”

“I like Economics and helping people. Drawing is useless.”

“Drawing is useless? Art is useless?” Repin roared making Guntram flinch.

“Not Art, my things. I would love to see the real ones, not the copies or the books,” he whispered, feeling completely afraid at the fury the man was radiating and the tension in his back, like a panther waiting for the right moment to jump. “I mean, I have no money. All what I make goes to the flat and to pay my schooling. I don't want to touch what is left from the trustee fund my father settled for my education. I can't afford to play the rebel artist. Heck!

I can't pay for the materials as they're imported and very expensive. An oil tube costs exactly as three days food. No way. Besides, I don't understand Modern Art or even like it too much. Can you imagine me when someone comes along with a chair painted in orange with the back glued to the feet and the feet over the seat? I would tell the artist to get a good carpenter to fix it,” Guntram explained, looking very ashamed to confess his own tight economical situation.

“What artists do now is not unalterable. Art reflects a moment and a defined society. It permanently evolves.

What you don't like now, doesn't necessarily mean that your own creation can't be appreciated. I have sponsored many artists from Russia and Europe. I have established several scholarships for students in many prestigious universities, but I have never seen so far anyone who has your expertise and security while drawing. If you can get that a man like Oblomov, who has zero interest in painting, falling into a trance while looking at your work, then it's not a question of a particular man liking it, but that there's something behind it. Those children over there—I'm sure they're little spoiled brats—are almost hypnotic in their beauty, but then you see those studies of hands and you can feel a worker's strength, the roughness and the blood running through those veins.”

“They're from Carlos. He picks up papers and iron to sell. He has 4 children to feed,” Guntram whispered completely inhibited at the praises he had heard. “Damn! Is it 11:00 already?” He remembered his appointment.

“11:15”

“I'm sorry, I have to run. You can stay if you want. I'll be back in a few minutes. Make yourself at home,” he blurted while he picked up the heavy box, grimacing at the effort of using his left hand.

“Wait, let me help you, you can't use your hand,” Repin said.

“Mr. Repin, I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“Constantin. And it's no problem. That's not too heavy. What do you have in there?”

“Trash. I have to give it to Carlos. He must be waiting for me and the police kick him out if he stays for too long in one place,” Guntram said pushing the elevator button.

A horrible idea was forming in Repin's brain. 'It can't be. He wouldn't do that. If he does it, it's to kill him…

No, I couldn't kill my angel, he needs to be taught and led. He's so beautiful, almost ethereal.”

A man in his mid-fifties, dressed like a beggar and carrying a small cart was waiting for Guntram. “Hi Carlos, sorry I'm late.”

“No problem. Is that all the paper you have?”

“Yes, seven kilos, I guess.”

“Great! Thank you. Will you come by later?”

“Sure,” Guntram shrugged to Constantin's horror. Unable to stand it any longer he asked none too gently

“What does this man carry?”

“My drawings, the last ones, but they're done in kraft paper or newspapers. Nothing good really. He can sell it.”

“How much does he get?”

“Around three pesos per kilo.”

“Tell him that I will give him 100 pesos for the box,” Constantin sighed.

“That's a lot of money!”

“Just tell him!” The Russian barked, forcing Guntram to obey him immediately.

Carlos was more than happy to get 100 pesos for the paper and accepted gladly. Out of nowhere, a big and very tall man appeared and took the box from the poor man's hands before he would approach Constantin, who ordered him something in Russian. The man paid the amount and quickly disappeared with the box under his arm.

Guntram was shocked as Constantin pushed him toward the foyer.

“I have lunch with an arts dealer who wants to sell me a collection in the afternoon. Get your coat and come with me,” he simply ordered, his patience finished after the sacrilege he had been forced to witness.

“I can't, I promised to go and help at the parish.”

“If you need to change your clothes, do it now. It's informal,” Constantin said, disregarding what the boy had said, too upset that the boy had just sent all his work to the recycling bin.

“I'm afraid I can't accompany you, sir.”

“It's not open for discussion. Come, it's in my house and you can look at the small collection I have there.

Nothing big, but good for Latin American painters. I wanted to buy some Argentinean painters. Now move, and get your portfolio with all the things you showed me, but keep the piles as I have organized them. Come, now,” he finished the sentence with an imperious gesture.

For a minute, Guntram thought that he should slam the door in the rude bastard's face but the temptation to see real artworks and someone's private collection was too strong. 'I hope Father Patricio understands', he thought while he closed the door and undressed to get his “working interviews outfit”; the grey wool trousers, the light blue jersey, white shirt and striped blue tie. He quickly combed his hair again and put the drawings together. 'At least, it's a free lunch and show.'

The big Mercedes was the same type that many very rich parents used to drive to the school and this one had a chauffeur and another car following it. It was something for embassies. The driver quickly opened the door and took the portfolio from his hands before he could get in. Constantin said something in Russian to the man before entering and waiting for him to close the door behind him.

'He looks absolutely delicious with a little polish, decent clothes and grooming, I will have to kill many to keep them away from him. He's just perfect.' The Russian thought after a quick but thorough examination of Guntram.

The car led them to the main entrance to the Kavanagh building, and the private lift took them to one of the last floors, with a huge living room with great windows and a big terrace overlooking the Plaza San Martín and the railroads.

“It's a magnificent property, sir.”

“Thank you. Would you like to take a look at the paintings? Nacho will come in an hour; we’ll have lunch and go to his gallery. It's not far away.”

But Guntram was not hearing him any longer as he had seen a Frida Kahlo portrait and was almost running to admire it. “The one next to it is a Siqueiros. I got them a few years ago. I'm after one Rivera I saw in New York, but sadly the owner does not want to part with it.”

Guntram could only gape at the colours, his voice lost forever. “That one over there… is a Tamayo?”

“Yes, very well. You said you didn't like Modern Art.”

“This is different. Those are real geniuses. Those paints seemed to be alive and breathe.”

“Then you don't have a problem with Modern Art, only with bad artists. I was imaging so,” Constantin softly said. “One of my favourites is Sargeant, do you know him?”

“Yes, he paints people's souls. I like the one with the three girls and the big vase. The light comes from within them,” Guntram whispered as he noticed the man was standing very close to him.

“You have something in your hair, let me,” Constantin stated, with his eyes deeply locked with Guntram's.

His hand took a small leaf from the light brown hair, the fingers caressing in a slow move the bang they were cleaning and quickly discarding it to the floor. “Perfect, just perfect,” Constantin said in a raspy voice, his eyes intensively focused on the slightly quivering boy. Pleased with the effect he was having on the youth—looking at him in a trance

—he smiled wolfishly and touched with his fingertips the delicate skin before him, enjoying the deep breath the boy took when his hand reached his cheek.

“I have many more. Come, I'll show you where they are and then you can explore at your pleasure, Guntram.

This is your home, now.”

Chapter 3

“Mr. Repin, the people from the mining committee are here, waiting for you at the library,” Oblomov interrupted the long explanation Constantin was giving Guntram about how he had acquired the two huge Antonio Berni that were hanging over one of the main corridor's walls.

“I don't make business on Saturdays, you know that, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“I'm terribly sorry to bother you, Constantin Ivanovich but that Alvear woman is very insistent and she brought along two other CEO's from that small processing plant.”

“Impossible woman!” Constantin cursed, making Guntram smile softly, much more relaxed than before.

“I know. Her son and I are best friends. The Senator can be very imposing,” Guntram mildly defended Oblomov who was looking very contrite at his superior's barely concealed fury.

“All right, if she's the mother of one of your friends, I'll see her. The minute the art dealer is here, you will interrupt us and get rid of her, Ivan.”

“Yes boss, I'll take care of the negotiations.”

Constantin went with long strides toward the library, still crossed that a pleasant moment with his angel, who had proved to be a good listener and fairly educated boy, had been ruined by a witch desperately seeking to get some money out of him. 'If they try again to raise the price, they're dead. I have enough of these good for nothing. Lintorff told me that this country was going to be a good opportunity once they start to revolt? This is impossible. I should remain in Spain or Venezuela, not here. His people should start to hurry if he wants that I put money in here. The only good thing so far is Guntram.”

“So boy, do you like it here?” Oblomov asked after carefully inspecting the boy.

“Mr. Repin has a wonderful collection; worthy of a museum. I've never seen anything like that before.”

“Wait till the guy from today comes. Two banks and a big building company are in real financial troubles.

They want to get some cash and offer to sell their collections. Over fifty pieces at a closed price. Thirteen million dollars for the whole lot. It's a reduction of forty percent. They wanted to sell them to the local museums but they had no money at all and going to an auctioneer was out of the question as everybody would have found out that they're in real trouble. So they come here with several experts, but boss decides if he likes it or not. All Argentinean painters, XIX and XX century and from your good ones.”

“Is he planning to take the works out of the country?” Guntram asked sadly as the pieces would be definitively lost for the people.

“I don't know, perhaps. I think first he wants to distribute around the estates he bought here what he like less and take what he truly likes to Europe. It's not a safe place to have an art collection here. You can't tell how stable the country is.”