“Well, I never did,” Durand said. “Killing poor little animals, somehow…”
“Better to bag the poor two-legged ones,” Lagrange interrupted. “Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or not the human beings themselves, but the fruits of their labors. Say, for example, some ingenious businessman were to create a manufacturing company in Russia…”
“Making, say, devices for cleaning snow off the streets.” Durand picked up his former classmate’s train of thought. “That are operated through a complex computer program.”
“No, better have this ingenious entrepreneur create some sort of IT business. Maybe a Russian version of Facebook. And he’s planning to become a billionaire.”
“Like Gagarin?”
“Oh, much richer than that!”
Stanley listened to their joking dialogue with half an ear. He couldn’t tell anymore when his new French friends were being serious and when they were making up tall tales to scare him for a laugh.
“But you’re advising…” Lagrange slowly cut off a piece of one of the cutlets.
“Gagarin!”
“Exactly! You’re advising Viktor to buy the business of this Russian Zuckerberg. He’ll listen to your advice, ply this poor businessman with promises of milk and honey, and then—”
“I think in Gagarin’s case it wouldn’t get too complicated. Shamil would pay this Zuckerberg a visit, and he would hand his business over to Gagarin for a nominal fee.” Durand said, proposing a toast to his companions’ health.
“Who’s Shamil?” asked Stanley, lifting his glass.
“Oh, you’ll meet him,” Lagrange promised.
“Yes, and no need to rush that,” Durand said. He topped off his glass of vodka and bit down on a lamb chop. “For now, there are two things you need to know.”
“I’m all ears,” said Stanley, chasing the vodka with a sip of the fruit drink.
“First, Shamil is Gagarin’s head of security and loyal down to his bones. But also, one investment banker from J. P. Morgan once called him a Russian bear, and Shamil got offended, saying he was neither Russian nor a bear. He threw that clever joker right out the window.”
“Don’t look so shocked, Stan,” Lagrange said, slapping Stanley on the shoulders. “That’s normal for them. Russian barbarians. And it was only the third floor. The third floor of a five-star hotel. The guy fell into the awning over the entrance and wasn’t hurt at all. Not a bit.”
“Of course, we can’t deny the investment banker got quite a scare falling into that awning,” Durand said, wiping his greasy fingers on a starched, snow-white napkin and gazing attentively at Stanley. “Second, Shamil is gay and closeted. He acts so macho all the time and always talks about how gays are going to burn in hell, that they should be rounded up into special reservations, et cetera. But he also has a friend in a modest neighborhood in southwest Moscow where he goes to relax…”
“After all this throwing of jokers out windows, shooting, and driving 120 miles an hour, and burying people in concrete,” said Lagrange. He’d finished the cutlet and was digging around in his teeth with a toothpick.
“I don’t know where you’re getting such detailed information, but it’s not far from the truth,” put in Durand.
“You guys have got to be kidding!” said Stanley. What he actually wanted to do was get his hands around Lagrange’s neck and shout, “You old son of a bitch! Why the hell didn’t you warn me that I’d be dealing with Russian maniacs!” Good old Goldman Sachs was starting to look like the calmest and safest place on earth. Somewhere to go back to and never leave again.
“That’s an American for you! The slightest bit of trouble, and it’s ‘wait, guys!’” Durand was going after the rabbit now.
For the span of a moment, Stanley felt real fear. Felt it like a little beetle in his stomach was crawling up his esophagus into his throat. He shuddered and downed a glass of vodka straight off. The beetle halted somewhere around his solar plexus, stamped around, and then disappeared, dissolving into its component atoms. It’s probably just the Russian vodka. I drank too much. Or not enough. Yeah, that’s it. Not nearly enough. There’s no reason to worry. I’ve just got the jitters before this new stage in my career. That’s normal. Stanley shook his head, smoothed his hair down, and tried to concentrate on the conversation.
“It’s not so bad, Stanley,” Lagrange said, as if reading his mind. “Russian clients aren’t the most dangerous type for a bank.”
“Compared to who!” Stanley interrupted. “The Italian mob? A Colombian drug lord?”
Lagrange paused, watching Stanley, his lip curling, slowly tapping an unlit cigarette on the table.
“And who told you, my dear, that it was going to be easy? Life loves those who don’t complain.” Lagrange lit his cigarette and let out a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “If you want a million bucks, you have to be prepared to work for it. I’ve met precious few ‘good’ clients over the years. In my experience, most of them are trash. Some of them are monsters. The main thing to keep in mind, if you’re working for monsters, is not to become a monster yourself in the process. I’m constantly fighting the temptation. As for you, we’ll find out soon enough,” Lagrange said with a laugh.
“By the way, Stanley, why did you suddenly pick up and leave sunny California for scuzzy old Europe?” asked Durand. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. But Pierre told me you were in a big hurry.”
Stanley wiped his mouth. So Lagrange had been discussing him with people, with Durand. Well, it would be strange if he didn’t discuss the new employee with his oldest friend. Especially since they’d all be working closely together.
Stanley decided that it was best to speak plainly. “In something of a hurry, yeah. What happened was my mother, Louisa, was killed in a car accident. I believed then, and still do, that my wife was to blame for her death. My current wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married, Stanley,” Lagrange said.
“I haven’t divorced her yet. Both of us had nervous breakdowns after my mother’s death. My wife recovered first and went about trying to convince me that she wasn’t at fault. I might have changed my mind eventually, but she did that every day.”
“I’m so sorry!” Durand said sincerely. “I didn’t know; Pierre didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t know the details, either. All Laville said was that our new employee had recently lost a family member.” Lagrange’s speech had begun to slur from the vodka. “I’m very sorry to hear that as well, Stan!”
“Thank you,” Stanley nodded. “Thanks, guys! Let’s drink!”
The waiter reappeared at this juncture to refill their glasses, and they drank.
“The thing about Russians,” began Durand, turning the conversation from the sad subject, “is that they’ll drink vodka anytime, anywhere, for any reason. The appetizers might be long gone, the main course over, dessert on the table, but somebody will decide they have to drink vodka. He might go ahead and chase it with a piece of cake.”
“Yes,” Lagrange nodded. “That’s what they call a St. Petersburg tea: cold vodka, hot, sweet tea, and a cream cake.”
“But usually,” Durand continued, “they’ll bring out the standard snacks for vodka, like herring, and set them down amid the dessert plates.”
He turned to the waiter.
“Did you hear what I just said?” asked Durand.
“I never listen to our guests’ conversations, sir!”
“Well done! But bring us back our herring.”
“And pickles!” Lagrange shouted after the retreating waiter.
The waiter soon returned with a plate of herring, pickles, and a plump cabbage pie.
“What is this?” asked Stanley.
“We have a new pastry chef. He works wonders. This is a real Russian pie, a classic recipe. You’ll like it. Shall I c
ut you a slice?”
“Go ahead!” Stanley sipped his vodka, feeling pleasantly sated and tipsy. The worries that had been tormenting him just minutes ago had retreated. “Hey, this is hot!”
“Of course, sir! It’s just out of the oven.”
They drank again, and Durand, speaking with his mouth full, told them that Gagarin was planning to buy a new yacht.
“He’s tired of the old one?” Lagrange asked in astonishment. “We financed that purchase just two years ago. It was an ocean liner! With a helipad.”
“Now he’ll have his own submarine built into a yacht. He’s already put in an order with the Lürssen shipyard. Right now, it’s priced at about 400 million euros, but Gagarin might still order some ivory paneling or what have you.”
“The sale of ivory is banned.” Lagrange was trying unsuccessfully to catch a bit of herring on his fork, examining the empty fork each time in surprise.
“Ok, fine. Detailing with the hide from a baboon’s ass. There’s no ban on baboons, is there?”
“No, there’s no ban on baboons.”
“Thank God for small favors! He could come up with anything, and the price will jump upwards of a billion.”
“I get the feeling you’re not just making idle chitchat about Gagarin’s new yacht,” Lagrange said.
“Of course not,” Durand agreed. “I might get asked to finance this yacht as well. Anton Biryuza, the head of his family office, who’s in charge of all Gagarin’s personal expenditures, already asked me about it.”
“You can count us in.” Lagrange at last managed to spear a piece of herring on his fork. “But at that price, you’re going to have to lower your commission.”
“Why is that?” Durand flushed in outrage. “You think I make too much in commission?”
“But you really do make a lot. Robert, please understand, I’m happy to pay it, but Laville has given me more than a couple lectures about your retros. He’s getting stingier and stingier as the years go by. He made us start keeping a record of how much we spend on paper, pens, and pencils. Can you imagine? The owner of a top bank counting rolls of toilet paper!”
“So how much will I have to cut it?”
“What do you think, Stanley?”
Stanley looked at Durand, who winked at him.
“Don’t worry, Stanley. I don’t hold a grudge. Speak your mind.”
“Twenty percent.”
“Go down twenty percent?”
“No, keep twenty percent.”
“But Stanley!” they both cried in unison. Durand went white. But he pulled himself together and nodded to Stanley.
“This one’s going places!” he said to Lagrange.
“Okay.” Durand hit the table. “I’ve invited some people to join us.”
“Who?” asked Lagrange.
“Don’t worry, Pierre. You’ll like them. They should be here any minute now, and while they’re making their way from taxi to table, I’ll tell you about our plans for tomorrow. You have three meetings during the day with some difficult Russian fellows. When you see them, you’ll understand. Second-tier clients. But we’ve been working with them for a long time, and they bring in a stable income. So you’ll need to treat them with respect. And understanding. Don’t pay attention to their exotic upbringing and, if we’re speaking plainly, terrible manners. À la guerre comme à la guerre. In the evening, you’ll go to see Gagarin. That’s serious. I’ve already reached agreement with him on everything. Before you get anxious, Pierre, he’s no problem to work with. I heard today from my experts in the big house.”
“The big house is the Kremlin,” Lagrange explained to Stanley. “I like to call it Ali Baba’s cave.”
“And here are my guests,” Durand pointed toward the stairs, where three girls had just walked into the room.
Chapter 5
“They’ve got the brains of a chicken, but lovely legs that go on for days. They may seem like they can’t add two and two, but there’s nothing wrong with their memories, I assure you. So let’s not indulge in stories about our business triumphs in their presence, all right, gentlemen? We don’t want some bimbo penning a novel about our adventures.”
“Tramps are writing novels in Russia?” asked Stanley in surprise.
“They’re trying! That’s why I advise against getting into their Instagram photos. There will be stories and compliments and…”
“All that song and dance,” Stanley said, smiling.
“Exactly!” Robert got up to meet the girls, blowing them kisses from both hands as they approached.
Lagrange and Stanley also rose as well, giving the waiters space to add chairs for their female companions.
Durand set about introducing his current and new guests.
First, there was a tall blonde named Vera in a short black dress offering a view of her magnificent tanned legs. The second girl, Katya, was a thin brunette with hints of red in her hair, which was twisted into two long, perfectly formed braids. She kept carefully placing them in different positions, now behind her shoulders, now at her front. This process would alternately reveal and conceal the symmetrical tattoos running from her ears to her collarbones—small, interlocking hieroglyphs of some kind. Katya informed them right away that she’d had trouble getting off the set; she had played small roles in various television shows but was waiting for a casting call from Netflix, where they were apparently looking for a classic Russian vamp.
Lagrange told Katya that he could send her portfolio to a producer he knew at Canal+ in France who worked with Luc Besson. Katya, meanwhile, let him know that she couldn’t stand French cinema, wasn’t interested in Besson, and only wanted to work in Hollywood, with Tarantino.
Stanley was about to butt in and explain that Besson actually worked in Hollywood, but refrained just in time. The rest of them seemed not to understand who they were talking about.
The third girl, Anastasia, caught McKnight’s eye right away. With her short haircut, long sharp nose, and dangling half-moon earrings inlaid with tiny tourmalines, she looked like a fairy from a children’s cartoon. Unlike her companions, Anastasia was made in miniature, with a small frame and narrow shoulders. Her loose gray dress, caught at the waist with a colorful scarf, made it difficult to guess at her figure. When asked her occupation, she looked up at the ceiling, smoothed her fingers along her thin eyebrows, and proclaimed, “I do nothing,” She laughed, her hand over her mouth. “And I’m not ashamed.”
Stanley was the only one to hear more details, about how actually Anastasia had a degree as a dog groomer and that she gave haircuts to royal poodles for shows. He wanted to know everything about dog grooming at her salon, which was situated in an exclusive Moscow neighborhood.
The rest of them were busy engaged in what people came to restaurants for—eating, drinking, talking nonsense, and flirting with each other. They topped all this off with light jokes, gastronomic commentary, and appraisals of the fashion choices of the other patrons filling the room.
Stanley, fascinated by his unusual new acquaintance, failed to notice that he was drinking glass after glass of champagne with the girls, on top of the twenty or thirty shots of vodka he had already consumed. That was a strategic mistake. He had little memory of the evening after that, only random snapshots of images here and there.
Here was one with Anastasia and Durand trying to figure out what the stuffing in the poultry was. Or, for that matter, what kind of poultry it was. Anastasia is insisting that they go to her friend the ornithologist, a PhD, who would explain everything. But instead of the ornithologist, they somehow end up traveling to a fashionable bar called Mania Furibunda in the Patriarch’s Ponds neighborhood. Then, another snapshot, Lagrange buying vodka for some Russian soccer players and telling them that the World Cup in Moscow was going to get cancelled because of sanctions. The players are getting ready to beat Pierre’s face in,
but Stanley unexpectedly remembers a great number of Russian words and manages to talk them out of it.
In the next fragment, he and Anastasia are sitting on a bench, still in Patriarch’s Ponds, and she is telling him about some kind of talking cat and a tram cutting off someone’s head. Then, back on the Garden Ring, Durand is refusing to get into an ordinary taxi, because they should have a limousine; then he shatters an empty bottle of Cristal against a passing tram. The police show up, and Lagrange is trying to buy them off. But it’s Vera and Katya who manage to convince them. After some brief negotiations in the police microbus, they are all sent on their merry way.
Sometime later, they all end up on Vosstaniya Square, and Katya is calling three taxis at once, but Durand is again refusing to ride in a taxi, again insisting on a limousine. He soon grows despondent, however, and heads off alone in one of the waiting cabs to parts unknown, explaining on his way out that he knows an underground bar where members of a secret society called “anonymous alcoholics” meets. Lawyers only.
Stanley, Lagrange, and the three girls arrived at the hotel around four AM. Lagrange took Katya and Vera up to the rooftop bar for a nightcap, but Anastasia and Stanley went right to his room. Inside, Stanley found an open bottle of vodka in the pocket of his jacket. He wasn’t sure where it had come from, but he took a swig. A wave of nausea rushed over him. He managed to reach the bathroom, but realized that his path to the toilet was blocked by a door locked from the inside.
The next wave of nausea was so intense that Stanley almost lost consciousness. He went out onto the balcony, where he found salvation in the form of a plastic trash bag that the cleaning lady must have left behind.
Stanley stumbled back into the room on wobbly legs, his shirt dripping with sweat, leaving his stained shoes on the balcony behind him.
The headache came on a few minutes later, but brought with it an awareness of the world around him. Time stopped skipping and slipping, and fell back into its usual rhythm.
The bathroom door opened, and a white rectangle of light reached out to touch his feet.
The Banker Who Died Page 4