Free Into the Lion's Den by Tionne Rogers Page B

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,