Mila asserted that the epitome of male beauty was and forever would be the French actor Maurice Ronet, because that was what her mother and grandmother had believed before her. Stanley didn’t recognize the name—film wasn’t really his subject, and he readily admitted to both facts.
The blonde with the sharp chin, Yulia, who turned out to be Krapiva’s daughter from his first marriage, tapped away at her tablet with a manicured nail and handed it to Stanley. The man on the screen had piercing blue eyes and a wary smile.
Polina, meanwhile, was certain that Alain Delon was the handsomest man. This actor, at least, was a familiar name to Stanley. In fact, he’d seen him in person once, at restaurant in London, but couldn’t remember a single one of his films.
“Yes, he’s handsome,” agreed Stanley. “Interesting that they’re both blue-eyed.”
“Just like you, Mr. McKnight,” said Polina with a crooked smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you could practically be his twin brother? Delon, I mean. Only you look a bit rougher. Did you serve in the army? The marines?”
“The marines?” Out of the corner of his eye, Stanley saw Gagarin get up and approach their group, listening intently. “No, I never did. I went to college.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive,” replied Polina. “You could serve first, then enroll. But anyway, Delon is sexier than Ronet, and you’re sexier than Delon. You’ve never heard that before, either?”
“I’m a private banker,” said Stanley with a smile. “In my business, sexiness is probably more of a minus than a plus.”
“Sexy, indeed,” agreed Gagarin. “That can be a real help sometimes.”
“Let’s ask Biryuza,” suggested Mila. “He clearly knows more than Stanley about film and men.”
Everyone laughed. Biryuza snorted, wiped the coke off his nose, and came over as well.
“Anton, tell me, who do you like better? Delon or Ronet? And which film of theirs?”
“Well, then we have to consider the movies they were both in. They were competitors, in life and film, and—”
Biryuza spoke in affected tone, imitating the style of a film critic being interviewed.
“Get to the point, Biryuza,” Gagarin said.
“Okay, okay, the best are Purple Noon and Swimming Pool. Even Stanley’s probably seen the first—well, it’s remake, anyway, The Talented Mr. Ripley, made much later than the first, based on the novel by Patricia Highsmith. You Americans always co-opt everything you can. Matt Damon plays in the remake and—”
“Leave our Stanley alone,” said Gagarin. “Go on!”
“All right, fine, so Ronet is better in Purple Noon, but Delon steals the show in Swimming Pool. I would happily sleep with either or both of them,” Biryuza ended unexpectedly.
“Ugh, Biryuza!” objected Gagarin.
“It’s not the time for your confessions, Anton,” Mila said. “But we would sleep with them too. Right, girls? Except Alain is an old man now, and Ronet died some time ago. I’m not a necrophiliac. How about you, honey?” she asked the model.
“Me neither,” said the latter.
“Neither what?”
“I’m not a necrophiliac. That’s disgusting. Anyway, I don’t know those singers. I’m into Alex Turner—he’s so cute!”
“Hear that, Durand?” Gagarin shouted over. “That’s who you have to live up to.”
“Oh, Robert! You don’t have to live up to anyone. You’re sweet just the way you are!”
“Well, then you have a fondness for monkeys,” said Biryuza, and everyone laughed.
Stanley laughed along with everyone else, although he had no idea who Alex Turner was or what monkeys had to do with anything. He could feel that something wasn’t quite right, that this conversation about sexiness, with himself as the prime example, had been brought up intentionally, and that it could lead to very unfortunate consequences. An awkward pause was broken by the appearance of a drowsy Lagrange, who, he recounted, had intended to lie down for just a minute, but ended up falling into a deep sleep.
“And here I am! What a lovely group! What are you all up to?” asked Lagrange.
“Like usual,” Gagarin answered. “Figuring out who has the biggest dick.”
“Viktor! Don’t be nasty!” said Mila.
“Come on, dear. That’s what all conversations really boil down to,” Gagarin replied.
“Exactly!” Polina agreed. “I’m with Viktor. Pierre, you have to agree that whatever men are talking about, advanced calculus or opera, they’re all, in the end—”
“Comparing the size of their wieners!” Krapiva finished, to general laughter.
“Papa!” cried the blonde. “Shame on you!”
“Can’t argue with that,” replied Lagrange. “So, who won?”
“Stanley!” Gagarin suddenly pointed at him. “It’s Stanley!”
After an instant of confusion, everyone laughed again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Stanley began, starting to rise. He wasn’t quite as amused as the others, and was getting ready to tell them to knock it off. But Gagarin came over and threw an arm across his shoulders.
“We’re just kidding, Stanley. We’re all friends here. Don’t be offended! If you want, we can test everyone.” His voice dropped to a loud whisper. “But I’m afraid that if we include Shamil, you’re going to lose your top spot. So just enjoy your victory and don’t tell anyone about it!”
“No one will ever find out, anyway!” retorted Polina, and the burst of laughter ended their discussion of French actors and male sexuality.
The evening ended with a light dinner, at which Gagarin poured Stanley another glass of vodka, and insisted he follow it with herring and onion on black bread, and then called for strong tea.
“You know that’s not good for you, Viktor,” Mila said.
“Shut up!” Gagarin hissed and went off to the kitchen to instruct the chef how to properly steep the tea.
Stanley, trying to stay out of the conversation, wandered around the room. When he approached the fire, Shamil opened his eyes, looked at Stanley blearily, nodded, and went back to sleep. At some point in his perambulation, he looked up to find Yulia’s eyes on him. She gave him an inviting look, eyes half closed, and ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of her lower lip. Stanley turned away and poured himself a shot of vodka. As he was putting a sandwich together, Biryuza appeared beside him.
“Can I give you some advice, Stanley?” he said very quietly.
“Go ahead,” Stanley nodded.
“Lock your door tight tonight, and don’t open it for anyone. Unless it’s Shamil about an emergency evacuation.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“That Yulia has her eye on you. She goes after all the men and then makes scenes. And her father deals with the men after that. Be careful. She’s also a liar and a gossip. Don’t give her any material to work with. You get me?”
“Got it. Thank you.” And Stanley tossed back the shot of vodka.
He did, in fact, hear someone knocking and scratching at his door almost right after he locked it that evening. But if there were any other attempts to get in his room after that, Stanley knew nothing about them—he fell onto his soft bed and passed out with all his clothes on.
Chapter 19
The next morning, Stanley gingerly made his way downstairs tormented by a hangover. Everyone was already seated at a single, long table, and waiters were passing out dishes.
“Ah, I have a feeling someone isn’t too happy with us this morning!” Gagarin said in greeting.
Stanley said hello to everyone, with the unhappy premonition that yesterday’s jokes were going to continue this morning. The waiter leaned over to take his order.
“Juice, coffee, toast, and strawberry jam,” said Stanley, “and Alka-Seltzer, please.”
The waiter p
oured him a tall glass of orange juice, and set a steaming cup of aromatic coffee in front of him. Stanley looked up to find Mila and Julia sitting across from him.
“So Stanley, are you going to give us a hard time?” said Gagarin.
“It depends,” Stanley replied, accepting a glass of water with a fizzing Alka-Seltzer tablet from the waiter. “About some things, maybe.”
“The thing is, we’ve got a strange group here,” said Gagarin, gesturing at his assembled guests with an ironic smile. “They all want to sit inside, smoke weed, and drink champagne. I promised them that anyone who didn’t provide me with documented proof that they’d gone down one, at least one, slope today wouldn’t get any dinner. These people immediately chose the smallest, easiest trails so they could get back here sooner to start getting wasted. So then I raised the stakes to two descents, then three.”
“Do I need to choose a trail?” Stanley asked, spreading jam over his hot toast. “I’d be happy to! But I don’t have any equipment.”
“What are you on about, Stanley? Where do you think you are?” Gagarin lit up one of his smelly Rodina cigarettes. “Why am I paying for this fucking chalet, huh? They’ll give you any gear you want, Porsche skis, goggles—but who cares about the brand? You’ll get the best! You don’t have to choose a trail, either. You and me are going together. Finish your coffee, and we’re off.”
Stanley bit into his toast, trying not to look at Mila, and met Julia’s gaze. She gave him a malicious, vindictive little smile. Apparently, they’d already heard about his solo outing with Gagarin, and it didn’t bode well for Stanley.
As soon as Stanley finished his coffee, Gagarin rose from the table and left the dining room, gesturing for Stanley to follow him. A ski instructor was already waiting for them in a special equipment room.
“We’re going to fly, Stanley!” Gagarin announced. “We’ll fly up to the top of the mountain, and go down pristine, untouched snow from there, risking our lives. Do you like risk? I love it! Do you know how much it cost me to get permission to heli ski?”
“Permission to what?” asked Stanley.
“To ski using a helicopter instead of a ski lift! It’s banned in Austria, but money, as you well know, works wonders. They made an exception for us. Have you ever skied on virgin snow?”
“I never have,” admitted Stanley. “Couldn’t we do without that? If you want, I’ll go down four trails? How about five?”
“Just one descent, Stanley! But we’re getting there by helicopter, and then we’re skiing down. Chased by an avalanche. Kidding!”
Gagarin was in a state of high excitement. His equipment was already prepared, and he bothered the instructor with advice while he chose gear for Stanley. This took much longer than Stanley would have thought. Stanley tried to catch everything the instructor was saying, and to ignore Gagarin’s chatter. His clothing was selected for its membrane structure, and then he was given thermal underwear, a helmet, goggles, and gloves. The instructor spent a particularly long time on the skis, boots, and bindings. They then proceeded into a different room, where a safety instructor gave Stanley an avalanche airbag backpack with a first-aid kit, beeper, probe, and shovel as well as a Swiss army knife, and explained how to use it all.
Stanley felt a strange indifference settle on him. He realized that there was no way out of this, that Gagarin had chosen him as a victim. He either suspected, or knew, what had been going on with Stanley and Mila.
Stanley knew that this might be the last day of his life, and of Gagarin’s as well, for that matter. Once he hit upon the thought that this was Gagarin’s way of going out in style, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
They left the chalet and walked to the helipad. The helicopter looked small to Stanley, not like a serious aircraft at all. There was just one pilot, and only space for four passengers.
He forgot to breathe for a moment when the helicopter made a sharp ascent. As it circled over Oberlech, Stanley saw the largest peaks of the Alps in the distance, and then they flew off in a northeasterly direction before landing on a level area high up in the mountains. He could no longer see Oberlech from here, or any other human dwelling.
The steep slope before them was covered in virgin snow and flanked by gray-brown cliffs on either side, with tall spruce trees sticking out of the snow here and there.
“Do you remember everything I told you?” asked the instructor, shouting over the noise of the rotors. “Just don’t make too much noise—chances of an avalanche are low, but better safe than sorry.”
Stanley nodded.
“I’ll go first. Try to follow in my tracks, or as close to them as you can get.”
“No!” shouted Gagarin. “We’re going down together. Side by side! You wait down below, there, in that valley.” He pointed somewhere further down the slope.
“Herr Gagarin, my instructions are…”
“Back to the helicopter, Herr instructor. Go on!” Gagarin was in a rage, so much so that he added in German, “Get the hell away from me!”
“But you can’t—”
“Hey!” Stanley shouted at the instructor. “You heard the man! Everything’s paid for, no? So wait down there!”
The instructor shrugged, threw his skis and poles back into the helicopter, and told the pilot to take off. Stanley and Gagarin squatted down while the helicopter took off, showering them with snow, then stood up on their skis, took their poles, and pushed off toward the edge of the slope. The helicopter was gone, and the world was completely silent.
“I thought you’d get scared,” Gagarin said with a laugh.
“And I thought you would,” answered Stanley.
Gagarin slowly took off his gloves and, squinting in the sun, looked around.
“A beautiful day. A beautiful day, but too quiet, don’t you think, Yankee?”
“Who’s going first?” asked Stanley, lowering the ski mask over his eyes.
Gagarin silently unbuttoned his jacket and pulled a 9 mm Smith & Wesson out of his inside pocket.
He pulled back the bolt, took out the clip, and then snapped it back in place before Stanley’s astonished eyes.
So he does know about Mila and has decided to leave me here. Not a bad plan, actually. I wonder what he’ll tell the others? Stanley fell into a ravine? Poor guy, I really liked him. Lagrange, who’s going to be my private banker now?
“‘The moon comes out across the land, with a sharp knife in his hand,’” Gagarin began reciting a Russian nursery rhyme. “‘Come to cut you, come to beat you, come to guide you through the land.’”
The gun was pointed right at Stanley.
Unable to speak, Stanley watched the barrel of the gun, spellbound. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, the gun moved to the side and began to turn toward the mountain.
“It’s too quiet here,” Gagarin said. Then he aimed at the sun and fired the gun three times. “I’ll go first.”
And then he was off, down the hill.
“Catch me if you can!”
Stanley pushed off after him, without preparation or hesitation; he knew that falling behind was simply not an option.
The slope down which they both flew seemed to come to life under their skis. It was as if Gagarin had challenged the mountain to give them an avalanche with his shots, and the slope turned into a game of life or death with each new curve.
Gagarin, clearly the more experienced skier, instigated small avalanches and sped away with skillful maneuvers—Stanley raced after him, imitating his turns.
They came down from a jump onto a small area of springy snow, and Gagarin made a sharp turn, sending an avalanche down in front of him, and after that they chased the avalanche downhill, with other avalanches coming after them from above.
But then the small avalanches began to come together, forming into one powerful, menacing movement of snow. It was catchi
ng up on them. Stanley glanced back: a high white wall followed them, emitting a low, heavy roar.
Gagarin took a turn to the right. Stanley did the same. Then Gagarin took a sharp left turn. Stanley followed him. The avalanche hit a large black rock, split in two, froze for a moment, and then roared downhill again, gaining speed. Gagarin veered further left and then quickly turned right, sliding through a gap between the cliff and a spruce tree growing on the very edge of the ravine.
When Stanley had slipped between cliff and tree after Gagarin, he saw another cliff ahead of him, from which he could see a smooth descent down to where the helicopter should be waiting. But Gagarin wasn’t on that slope. It was as if he’d fallen through the snow.
Stanley managed to brake at the very edge of the cliff. A bit to the right, he saw a crevice that one could ski down as well without having to jump off the cliff. To get into it, you’d have to ski between two spruce trees standing close together. Gagarin had almost done it, but had hit one of the trees. The binding had come loose, and he’d lost his right ski.
Gagarin was down on one knee in front of the crevice, looking at Stanley; looking at what was happening behind him. The wall was coming toward them.
Stanley didn’t bother looking back. He knew what was happening. He sped over, threw his arm around Gagarin, gripping him tightly, and for a moment they were at the edge of the crevice, and then they were flying down into it, away from the wall of snow, now caught between the cliffs. He’d done it. Straining with all his strength, he was dragging Gagarin by the collar of his jacket while the other man balanced on one ski.
They approached another small jump, and at last, the slope began to flatten out, while the snow grew thicker and denser. Stanley pulled Gagarin down, forcing him to bend his knees, and squatted lower himself. They flew over the jump, landed on a large, even surface, and came to a stop.
The helicopter circled overhead.
“I owe you one,” said Gagarin, taking off his glasses.
“It’s my job,” said Stanley, unclenching his fingers and releasing the collar of Gagarin’s jacket. “The welfare of my clients is everything to me.”
The Banker Who Died Page 17