Chapter 7

"Mr. Danee is here," Eliza said, placing a cup of tea on Kurt's desk. Kurt looked up and noticed Eliza's rosy cheeks and bright eyes, which made her appear happy.

"Thank you, Eliza. Please ask him to wait in the living room. I'll be right down," Kurt responded as he looked at the papers spread out on his desk. He sighed for the umpteenth time, realizing that he couldn't concentrate on work. Though, he didn't mind Philip's company. In fact, he found it quite pleasant.

As Kurt entered the living room, he noticed Philip sitting in the armchair, with a very thoughtful face. Kurt sensed that Philip's visit was dictated by something more serious than small talk.

"Good afternoon, Philip! Glad to see you!" Kurt greeted, sitting down on the armchair nearby.

"Good day," Philip replied absently. "I hope my visit isn't inconvenient?"

"No, of course not," Kurt said genially. They were silent for a while. Eliza filled their tea cups, but Philip didn't even touch his. He looked depressed, and Kurt's instinct told him that Philip wanted to share his unrest, but for some reason, he couldn't, so Kurt didn't insist.

"Maybe you want to play chess, for example?" Kurt suggested, wanting to cheer his guest up somehow.

"Why not?" responded Philip. Obviously, he was glad to have a distraction.

Kurt took out a chessboard, and they started the game.

"I haven't played for a long time," Philip said, smiling. "But I remember well how I played with my father. Actually, he was the only one I played with. Father didn't like chess and played with me only under coercion," Philip paused, smiling sadly. "Once, father was given a chessboard. It was amazingly beautiful and expensive with carved figures - just a work of art. I couldn't persuade him to play with me more than once a month. The board stood with the figures set in place as if waiting for players. Once, I saw one white pawn was not in its place, as if someone had made a move. Out of curiosity, I made a move too. The next day I noticed that white again had made a move. Overall, I lost that game," Philip smiled and put a pawn ahead. "And then, the game started again and lasted for almost ten years, until my father's death. I don't know who I was playing with. Maybe it was father or one of the servants, but for me, for the child - I was eight years old back then - it seemed interesting like I had an invisible friend. Silly, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Kurt said thoughtfully. "In childhood, there is always a place for a miracle. After all, you still keep that memory, it's dear to you, and this is definitely not silly." Kurt made his move.

Philip smiled. "I've never even tried to find out who played with me. I wanted it to remain a secret even for me. But judging by the fact that after father's death everything stopped, this friend was him."

"You and your father had a good relationship?" Kurt asked.

"Yes, I think so. He was often busy, and sometimes he was glum, but in a good mood, he always spent time with family. He taught me everything he knew. I liked to talk with my father, even though he and I were very different. Sometimes it hurt him, that I was more interested in the affairs of mother's gallery than in his business."

"Was he close with John?"

Philip sighed and pursed his lips. "He tried. But throughout his life, John has borne some burning resentment toward our father. I think it was the source of his antics. He constantly made father hopping mad and enjoyed it. John was not afraid of being flogged and endured his punishment as if he were a hero in the enemy's rear. No kindness of my mother, nor her care softened John's heart. But, I think, the most difficult thing for father was that John was remarkably like him. And in spite of this similarity, John hated him with all his heart, and father suffered from it unbearably. I think that this suffering eventually brought him to the grave. This is a sad story, Kurt..."

"I understand that remembering this is difficult for you."

Philip nodded.

"I was planning to have lunch at the Ellington restaurant. Would you like to join me?" Kurt asked when they finished the game. Eliza entered the room and carefully placed empty cups on the tray.

"Unfortunately, I can't," Philip said, shaking his head. "Today we have a reception in honor of my engagement."

Kurt heard the clatter of glass. On the floor at the threshold lay a shattered cup; it had flown off the tray. Looking at Eliza's pale face and the light that was fading from her eyes with every second, Kurt became increasingly convinced that it was the clatter of breaking hopes...

"Excuse me," Eliza gasped, struggling to hold the tray steady in her trembling hands. Kurt remained silent, glancing over at Philip. The other man was looking at Eliza with sympathy. Kurt began to realize that this was the true cause of Philip's depressed mood, but he had no time to think it through.

"May I help you, Miss Eliza?" Philip inquired solicitously, and Kurt realized that now Eliza's feelings would gush over the edge and run down her pale cheeks.

"Eliza, take the tray away. You can clean the splinters later," he ordered quietly. Eliza nodded, pursing her lips, and hurried to the kitchen.

In Kurt's head, the elegant lady in a rich dress turned into a poor girl who wept over the silver medallion.

***

Kurt preferred to visit Danee's gallery when there were not many visitors, but right now he wanted peace, tranquility, and warmth. Such a rich set of emotions he could find only in one place. There he could immerse himself in his thoughts, live them and feel them.

Alas, today there were surprisingly large numbers of people in the gallery, and they filled all the corridors. There was pandemonium at each picture. Kurt moved to the next room, but it was no better. Disappointed, he wanted to leave, but suddenly he noticed John Fenrir maneuvering among the people, heading to the far corner of the gallery. Kurt followed him, keeping his distance, but luckily Kurt didn't have to worry that John might suddenly disappear.

Stopping at the end of the gallery, John looked at the picture in front of him. Kurt didn't have time to figure out which picture it was when John suddenly tore the canvas from the wall, threw it to the floor, and pounced on it like a wild beast. Before the other visitors noticed what he was doing and tried to stop him, John had managed to tear the picture into strips. Security guards grabbed John and led him from the gallery under the perturbed buzz of the visitors. Kurt hurried to the scene. The torn portrait of John Fenrir, painted by Philip, lay mutilated on the floor.

"Oh, God!" Catherine's voice sounded upon Kurt's ear. As he looked at her saddened face, she nodded to two workers beside her, and they took away what was left of the picture.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for what happened," Catherine said politely and hurried after the workers. Kurt followed her. He needed to talk to her, but he realized that he would not succeed now.

The security guards brought John to Catherine's office on the second floor, where other visitors were not allowed. Catherine went in there, and Kurt stopped at the stairs. Not that he was listening, but he was sorry that he could not be there during this conversation.

Going out into the lobby, Kurt sat on the couch. In his mental gallery, John's portrait hung again, somehow fused together in a broken frame. Kurt looked at the portrait's features.

"Why did he do it? His act was foolish, but out of desperation or arrogance - that is the question."

Someone approached John's portrait in Kurt's gallery.

"He did it in front of everyone, and he didn't have any despair on his face. He wanted to do it, and the intentions he had were frankly evil." This was spoken by the second Kurt, engaging in the conversation with the first one.

"Those who do something out of desperation do not always have it written on their faces," said first Kurt.

"Oh, really?" The second Kurt factitiously threw up his hands. "Are you sure that it's not written? And here I thought we read faces..."

"That's not what I mean. Desperation may take a different form, such as anger or bitter resentment. The essence is pain, and it's so strong that you can't deal with it. You want to express it in any way."

"And why is John in such pain?"

"A feeling of guilt, perhaps..."

"John? Ha ha ha!"

"I'm just guessing. Guilt, self-hatred, pain. He destroys his own portrait, and he knows that he won't get away with it. He does it openly, in front of all the visitors, and he doesn't try to escape. He wanted to be punished. This is what others do when guilt eats them away, but they don't realize it and instinctively look for how they can be punished to ease their pain."

"It sounds as logical as it is far-fetched." The second Kurt yawned drearily and turned to the portrait. The first Kurt also peered into the tears that, like scars, covered John's face. And it seemed to Kurt that this was his true face.

Half an hour later, Catherine reappeared in the gallery. Kurt walked over to her. "Mrs. Danee, I'm sorry about what happened."

Catherine looked at him, a polite smile touching her lips. "I can expect anything from John. Although," she paused, thinking, "no, I didn't expect that from him."

"Would it be rude if I ask you, has John always been like that?"

"I don't mind your question, Mr. Rhein," Catherine smiled. "Yes, John has always been like that, as far as I remember. I became his stepmother when he was seven years old. His mother had been dead for two years back then, but when she was alive, she was not concerned about John's upbringing. My late husband didn't talk about this subject much. All I know is that John had been by himself since childhood. Sullivan worked very hard. John didn't have enough attention and care. I couldn't blame John for his vagaries when he was a child, but now he's a grown man and such antics... After Sullivan's death, John became unmanageable, so we moved to another house. But obviously, this was not enough for him."

"Do you think he is taking revenge on you?"

"What else can it be, Mr. Rhein? But not me. On Philip. He can't accept the fact that the relationship between him and Sullivan was much better than John's. But who's to blame? Instead of squandering the inheritance of his father, Philip is doing something." Notes of clear perturbation sounded in Catherine's voice. Kurt smiled slightly. It didn't ruin Catherine's noble image; on the contrary, her emotions and a sincere desire to protect her son made her seem alive, genuine.

"Excuse me, Mr. Rhein. I need some fresh air." She nodded politely and left.

Kurt sank back into his thoughts. Sullivan had not been involved in John's upbringing, and after his wife's death, he had remarried and had a son who was much more loyal than John. According to Philip, Sullivan loved to spend time with his family. Why John had grown up to be so cruel and why he had sought vengeance on Sullivan? And why did no one know anything about John's mother?