The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  Biryuza approached and invited Stanley to follow him.

  He explained that this place had been one of the residences of the first president of the USSR, but after things went badly for him, he had to sell it to a charitable foundation, headed by Gagarin. For a paltry $20 million.

  “The boss calls this place his ‘backup aerodrome,’” said Anton. “But I call it ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”

  “Oh? And why is that?” asked Stanley.

  Biryuza paused for a moment, looking at Stanley as if seeing him for the first time. He said that he had his reasons, several, in fact, but it was an open question whether their American guest would figure those reasons out.

  After hearing these vague explanations, McKnight decided that the secretary was just trying to mess with his head and resolved not to take it seriously. He was well aware of how Russians liked to make mountains out of molehills and to blow smoke.

  They went through a long procession of rooms decorated with cheap-looking, tacky furniture. These rooms were obviously not used often.

  “We’ll stop in the dressing room first.” Seeing his guest’s confusion, Biryuza explained, “You see, as Viktor told you, his wife Mila is hosting a society party here tonight. She calls these events ‘freak parties.’ Why freak? I’ll explain. Mila has a weakness for unusual, strange, and exotic personalities. If you ask me, they are all foolish, untalented, and egocentric psychopaths. The boss can’t stand them. But he must. Those are the rules of our public life. If you don’t want to stand out in this motley crowd, I’d recommend changing into something a little more frivolous. In that suit and tie, you’re likely to be mistaken for security.”

  Stanley couldn’t tell whether Biryuza was being serious or not. It was abundantly clear, however, that Biryuza’s attitude toward him had suddenly soured, and that the secretary was now paying particular attention to him, intentionally noticeable attention. But when their talk turned to business, all his irony and sarcasm disappeared instantly. It took Stanley a bit longer to notice that Biryuza only allowed himself these liberties in the absence of Lagrange or Gagarin. Not that the secretary’s behavior bothered him so much or caused him any inconvenience. He had just become accustomed to the strict observance of hierarchies in his (admittedly not lengthy, but still serious) career as a private banker. And while Lagrange, his own boss, was responsible for determining the level of distance between them, which was clear to them both, with Biryuza, there should have been no room for any individual, or personal, emotions between them. He realized, however, that it would be simpler just to ignore the attitude.

  “I have two questions,” McKnight said.

  “I’m listening, my dear,” Biryuza replied.

  “How soon can I see my boss, Monsieur Lagrange? I have to tell him something, and it is, unfortunately, somewhat urgent. And mobile service is blocked here, I see.”

  Stanley had zero urgent news. But he was very uninspired by the prospect of participating in some sort of Russian clown show. He was also pretty confident that there was no need to get dressed in carnival gear, either, and that Biryuza was trying to play a prank on him.

  Anton glanced at his watch.

  “The main show starts in half an hour. I’m sure that your boss won’t be late,” he said, switching into his official tone again. “Will your urgent news keep for half an hour?”

  “Or do you need to tell him over the radio?” a high-pitched voice asked over Stanley’s shoulder. “I have a walkie-talkie.”

  McKnight and Biryuza turned at the same time, nearly banging heads.

  There was a young man right behind them, bent toward the ground in a ballet dancer’s reverence. Stanley couldn’t hold back a smile. Who was this joker, with his heavy makeup, shiny skin-tight suit à la 1970s Freddie Mercury, and the mannered speech of a capricious child? At the same time, the stranger’s expression was perfectly serious; his suggestion was clearly meant to be helpful.

  “Michel!” Anton said in a scolding tone. “You’re sneaking up on me again like a ninja. Just you wait: some jumpy special forces veteran is going to shoot you one of these days. This is Mr. McKnight. McKnight, this is Monsieur Gauthier. He is our head conductor and the director of all our adventures and events. Which you can take part in, if you wish.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have been asked to escort you, Monsieur McKnight. Come along. I’ll show you everything and tell you all about it.”

  The three of them walked on. While Michel enthusiastically recounted what show business celebrities would be participating in the entertainment that evening, and how much money he had saved in negotiations with their agents, Biryuza quietly told Stanley about Gauthier himself. As it turned out, the Swiss man had originally worked as a doorman in a hotel that Gagarin owned. There was nothing particularly noticeable about him, except that Gagarin happened to strike up a conversation with him the day of his return from an exceptionally successful business trip to Switzerland. That coincidence was enough to spark their acquaintance, and Gauthier turned out to be full of pleasant surprises. He spoke excellent Russian and knew everything, or almost everything, about the Moscow club scene where, thanks to his sociable nature and charm, he knew everyone worth knowing.

  Anton began to list all of the doorman’s famous friends, but Stanley stopped him.

  “I’m afraid it’s wasted on me. I’m not going to know any of the names.” He paused, adding, “Nor do I want to. In America, stars like yours play dances at roadside bars.”

  “Oh, and now you’ll tell us you don’t know the prima donna?” Biryuza asked, offended.

  Michel heard that question, and he stopped, interested in McKnight’s reply. What would this arrogant man have to say?

  “She’s still alive?” asked Stanley, his tone surprised.

  Biryuza and Gauthier exchanged glances. They couldn’t tell whether McKnight was making a bad joke, or whether he was hopelessly ignorant about Russian life.

  Stanley’s question was intentionally provocative. He knew that the aging singer who rose to fame in the USSR, whom all the Russians called the ‘prima donna,’ was still alive. That she even had a young husband, with whom she had some children, no less. He was just plain tired of listening to Biryuza’s pointless bragging.

  The ensuing awkward pause was broken by the arrival of a dwarf, who appeared from out of nowhere. He was wearing a vest and shorts of red leather, decorated all over with an abundance of rivets and spikes. Steel chains shone around his head and neck, fastened with more rivets and bolts. The metal didn’t end there: his ears, nose, and eyebrows were adorned with numerous pins, crosses, and bells. Even his shoes appeared to be made out of some kind of foil, with spurs. Despite his militant outfit, the dwarf turned out to be quite a cheerful guy.

  “Michel! Just the man I’m looking for,” he said to Gauthier. “We’re starting soon, and no one can explain to me how I’m supposed to serve cocaine to the guests. I can’t get it separated into little packages for everyone in this crowd—we have about a hundred people on the guest list, and then there’s another thirty or forty artists. And the girls from the escort service, I can’t even count them. So what am I supposed to do?

  “Not a problem!” Gauthier pulled a pack of cards from his pocket. He found the one he needed, and Stanley saw that they were electronic key cards. He handed it over to the dwarf: “This is to the basement. There are porcelain bowls on the rack, painted with dragons. Get five; the waiters will help you. You didn’t see the pyrotechnics guys arrive, did you?”

  “They’re in the garden, getting their cannons ready,” said the dwarf, and left.

  Stanley and his companions continued on.

  They came to an interior courtyard, and stepped into a human whirlpool. Gauthier excused himself to go prepare for the show, and Biryuza led McKnight over to a small fountain. Guests wandered around with glasses of champagne, many of whom Stanley recognize
d: Russian oligarchs, members of parliament, and several ministers. And here was Lagrange in a group of bank clients, Durand, and several women. Even from a distance, you could tell he was perfectly at ease in this atmosphere.

  He paused and raised his glass, about to make a toast, it seemed, and all heads turned in his direction. Just then, Pierre noticed Stanley and gestured him over with a nod.

  While McKnight maneuvered through the crowd toward Lagrange, he had time to observe that only the performers and the models were in circus costumes. All the other guests were dressed in clothes appropriate for this type of gathering; the men were in tuxedos or suits, and the women wore evening gowns. So why had Biryuza tried to get him to change into a circus outfit? Was he upset about the attention Gagarin, his boss, had paid McKnight? Work jealousy? Ridiculous. It should have been clear that Stanley was just a promising specialist in a private bank. Tomorrow he would return to Switzerland, and this might be the last time he saw these Russian businessmen in his entire life.

  A familiar face flashed in the crowd and was gone just as quickly. Anastasia? What was she doing here! Actually, why wouldn’t she be? But then Pierre threw an arm around his shoulder.

  “Where have you been, Stanley?” Lagrange waved a waiter over and grabbed a champagne flute from his tray. “I’ve already solved the problem of the yacht for our dear friend Gagarin. He, of course, shares a name with the first cosmonaut, but we’ll fly higher. You’ll be in charge of the deal. So tonight, you have more than enough reason to get blind drunk.”

  Stanley shrugged. It was odd; in considering this problem, he had prepared himself for lengthy, involved discussions, multiple clarifications and revisions of fees and interest rates, the involvement of outside experts on all types of technical issues—and all of a sudden the decision was made, in no more than half an hour. Maybe this was the Russian way, to get things done with a handshake behind the scenes, and let the assistants figure out the rest. He started to express his concerns to Pierre about this manner of handling serious matters, but the sky above grew dark, and the guests shouted and clapped.

  “Maybe I should try and talk to him? There are several key points that I’d like to resolve in a private conversation.” McKnight had to shout over the din so Lagrange could hear him.

  “Assume that the answer to all of your questions is yes,” Pierre said, closing his eyes firmly. “And anyway, he’s gone. Somebody important called. From the Kremlin, I believe. The minister of extremely important and extremely urgent affairs. So he said. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he simply didn’t want to waste his time on all this nonsense. Ah, it’s starting.”

  Chapter 9

  Stanley looked around. Gigantic figures stalked about the courtyard, stilts peeking through their long robes. Their convulsive motions made them resemble mannequins come to life. They wore hoods over their heads, with slits for eyes and painted mouths, and their robes were covered in crudely drawn circles and broken lines. Someone in a chicken costume was leading this procession. Every few steps, people in multicolored tights would approach the chicken, carrying an egg. The chicken would leap onto the egg, clucking loudly. Each time, the egg split open, and doves came flying out, accompanied by the shouting of the crowd nearby. The performers on stilts added to the cacophony, frightening the birds with their whooping and whistling.

  “These performances in the French manner are all the rage here in Russia,” Lagrange explained to McKnight. “They’re considered a very sophisticated kind of entertainment. This guy on stilts in the chicken costume has managed to convince his rich friends that they get a glimpse of high culture with these intricate and expensive shows. These poor Russians, so lacking in culture,” he sneered.

  The dove-filled eggs ran out, and the chicken began to mime an attempt at flight, surrounded by the figures on stilts.

  Enormous inflatable red hammers and sickles flew down from the roof onto them. New performers descended on trapezes among the balloons, dressed as characters from the Soviet period—miners, steelworkers, milkmaids, sailors, and other members of the working class, as if the statues in the Moscow metro had come to life. When the first of them had reached the ground, the Russian anthem began to play, and pairs of singers, women and men, emerged onto the balconies overlooking the courtyard to join in. They were also dressed in costumes; Stanley’s best guess was that these were the national costumes of the former Soviet republics.

  When they had finished the second verse of the anthem, another singer came out of the fountain, dressed as a diver. The song’s melody switched to a lively disco rhythm. To Stanley’s amazement, most of the Russians around him started to sing along, as they had not been doing when the anthem was playing. Or at least, not that he’d noticed.

  The performers who’d come down from the roof split into several groups and began to dance, fanning out between the guests and coming back to the fountain. Light from spotlights raced around the courtyard, and confetti in the shape of red stars rained down from above, followed by streamers. A new, slower song came on; from what Stanley could make out, it was about intoxicating Russian evenings. The lead singer was now an exceedingly tall, curly-haired man with white wings spreading out behind his back.

  While he sang, waiters began to wheel carts carrying appetizers and drinks onto the lawn. The guests, along with the crowd of performers, continued to sing along and dance as they began to eat and drink.

  The wild scene left Stanley a bit stunned.

  “I guess I’m behind the times,” he told Lagrange. “But it’s over my head, I have to say.”

  “That means your head is in good order,” Pierre answered impassively, lighting up a Cuban cigar.

  They walked over to one of the bars set up under a balcony. It was so noisy that there was no point in trying to talk.

  At that moment, someone fired the cannons on the roof. They looked quite real, but were loaded with some sort of fluorescent powder. This, it turned out, was a prearranged signal. The singer with the angel wings passed the microphone to the chicken.

  “Comrades! Dear comrades!” he pronounced enthusiastically. His voice trembled with nerves and soared into the evening sky, multiplied by the many speaker columns around him into an electronic echo.

  “We are gathered here today to celebrate Independence Day. Our great Russian independence.” He paused and continued louder, “Independence from the rest of the world.”

  “Down with sanctions! Down with America!” the crowd shouted, and McKnight caught Lagrange watching him with laughing eyes.

  “The world isn’t always fair to us,” continued the chicken. “Although the only thing we bring into this world is love.” He lowered his voice to murmur. “Well, and a little oil and gas.”

  This was met with friendly laughter.

  “And after you have a little refreshment, you’ll have as much independence from everything in the world as you can handle.”

  He waved his hands, and the cannons on the roof fired once more into the sky.

  A drum roll began, and the dwarf appeared in the spotlight, carrying cups. Four waiters walked ceremoniously behind him, carrying the same cups.

  Stanley had been prepared for anything, he thought, but not this.

  “Pierre!” He turned to Lagrange. “Is that what I think it is?”

  But it was Biryuza who answered him, approaching from behind.

  “You thought, right, my dear! It’s coke. High-quality cocaine. The people love it.”

  Lagrange laughed slyly and slapped Stanley on the back.

  “I warned you, my friend. Russia is a country of big surprises. Don’t worry about your reputation; everything that happens here is strictly confidential. No photos, no blackmail. It’s a celebration of independence, just like they said.”

  “If you don’t like it, you can go up to the second floor,” said Biryuza. “For your enjoyment, we have a cigar room, bar
, billiards room, private rooms with women. Private rooms with men.” Biryuza paused, looking at McKnight with interest for the first time that day.

  “Really? Stanley, my dear, looks like there’s a good time waiting for you!” Lagrange exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled broadly.

  Stanley just shook his head, but Biryuza went on.

  “I’m afraid that you won’t be able to leave the grounds until midnight. Security rules. Shall I take you anywhere?”

  “Thanks, no need,” Stanley replied. “I’ll manage on my own somehow.”

  Biryuza left.

  “Ok, Stanley, I’m not your babysitter, either,” said Lagrange. “There’s nothing a young man needs as much as the company of a beautiful women. And don’t play the virgin. Moscow is sin city! You never know when you’ll get the next chance to really let go. Especially in that damn village they call Zurich. The business part of our schedule is concluded. Now we celebrate independence!” At that, he clapped loudly and beckoned a waitress over.

  McKnight circled the perimeter of the courtyard, keeping to the shadow of the balconies. The spotlight roved over the crowd, highlighting scenes of revelry here and there. The dwarf appeared in each scene, as if scripted, with his cup full of cocaine, which he now carried on a tray, along with everything necessary for a quick mood booster. Stanley watched a man approach, grab a straw, and place one end at the line already set for him and the other end in his nose. He inhaled, and his head jerked back sharply—another traveler off on the night’s journey.

  A trio of well-dressed men rolled up hundred-dollar bills, took the cocaine from the dwarf, and stood on the edge of the fountain. One of the girls with them waved her hand, and they followed her command, sniffing once, twice, and then loudly shouted at the same time “Hui!” before toppling face up into the water. The girl dove in after them, and several more guests followed their example.