The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “Where?”

  “The stern. A friend was supposed to fly in…ah, forget him! We love our Stanley, don’t we? We’ll figure it out, Milochka!”

  “You do that, my sea wolf!” and Stanley heard a loud kiss.

  Gagarin’s guests dispersed; some, like Komarikhin, to sleep. Others went off to swim in one of the pools, while Mamonov called for a jet ski and took off into the sea, shrinking rapidly into a small dot against the horizon, where the sun was already beginning its descent.

  McKnight walked back to his cabin. When he was safe inside, he locked the door and fell onto the bed. He’d already known that he’d gotten himself into a bad situation. Now he saw that he’d have to pay a very, very high price to extricate himself from this trap. He felt misery well up inside of him. He had never planned on becoming a millionaire, much less this way. But now he had no way out. He’d have to do the dirty work to get rich so he could stick his wealth in other people’s faces. It was too late for him to just walk away.

  Stanley pulled out his mobile and dialed Christine’s number. When she answered, Stanley heard street noise and distant music in the background.

  “Is something wrong, Stanley?”

  “No, everything’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  “That’s nice! It’s been a long time since I’ve heard something like that from you.”

  “Then who have you heard it from?”

  “From my boss, mostly. She’s been working from home lately, and she…”

  “I’m sorry, Christine, just feeling a bit jealous.”

  “That’s nice to hear as well. But you sound quite sad.”

  “There’s not much to laugh at right now.”

  “You have a lot of work?” he heard the London accent of the waiter on her end saying, “Here you are, ma’am!”

  “You’re in London?” Stanley asked.

  “Yes, for three days. Our museum…well, long story short, I’ve finished my work here, but my boss bought me a nonrefundable ticket, so I’m killing time before my return flight.”

  “Excellent! I’ll send you a ticket for tomorrow, a morning flight to Split—it’s in Croatia, a beautiful place. Forget about your nonrefundable ticket. We’ll find a scenic spot on the islands, and then…”

  “Stanley, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow in Split!”

  Stanley nodded off. His dream was vivid, disturbing; he tossed and turned, waking up and falling back to sleep several times, until he woke up for good bathed in sweat. He heard piercing screams coming from the upper deck. Stanley took a shower, got dressed, and walked up the gangway.

  What he found shocked him. The upper deck was full of absolutely drunken people. Even Mamonov was drunk, but drunk like a professional spy—he moved with confidence and spoke clearly. But then he suddenly dropped to the deck as if his legs had just folded up under him. He lay there for a little while, then got up again, and walked with the stride of a sober man over to the bar, where he had another shot.

  Komarikhin was dancing, his huge foot stomping heavily. Even Zlatoust, who had found a red Russian peasant shirt somewhere, was shouting at a deafening volume and trying to get down into a squat for a traditional dance.

  It was the gypsies who were to blame for all of this; Stanley had no idea when or how they’d appeared on the yacht. Real gypsies with guitars—the women in long, colorful skirts and tambourines, the men with hoops in their ears, pleated pants, and accordions. They sang and danced, accompanied by an actual, live bear that stood on its hind legs and, to the delight of its audience, would seek out a person holding a full glass.

  “Isn’t this great?” Mila said, zooming over to Stanley.

  “What is all this? Where did they come from?”

  “Viktor sent his plane to Moscow for them. Don’t they sing beautifully?”

  Mila was drunk again.

  “They do,” nodded Stanley, smiling at her. His main fear was that she would forget herself and throw her arms around him. But it was actually Father Vsevolod who did that, not Mila. He grabbed Stanley and embraced him so tightly that the priest’s cross left a scratch on his face.

  “They told me you were one of us!” Father Vsevolod shouted. “One of us! Our blood in your veins! And the sound of familiar Russian voices threading through yours! Let me kiss you! Come! You’re a nobleman! Barin! A real noble, aren’t you? Tell me!”

  “I don’t know what you mean. What do you mean by barin?”

  “A nobleman!” Father Vsevolod tried to kiss him again, but Stanley turned away and the priest’s wet lips met the warm Adriatic Sea air instead.

  Everyone got sick of the gypsies pretty quickly after that. McKnight had noted before that his Russian clients often acted like small children—they’d fall in love with some toy, use it mercilessly, and then, a very short while later, they wouldn’t even want to look at it. So it was this time. As if on cue, they all sobered up at the same time. Even Mamonov the spy, the folding man. They all started passing around headache pills and water with lemon juice, and then it was onto the next entertainment.

  Gagarin, striking a picturesque pose against the setting sun, clapped his hands together and invited everyone to board the small boats tied to the yacht—dinner was waiting for them at a restaurant called Zori on the island of St. Clement, the largest of the Pakleni archipelago.

  McKnight walked to the ladder. The guests passed by him, in a state of unnecessary nerves about descending from the steady deck of a giant yacht onto a boat in calm waters. The gypsies were not invited, and the drunken Father Vsevolod remained behind as well, blessing the rest of the group as they went.

  “Don’t sin, my children,” he trumpeted. “Don’t sin on land or on water…”

  “Don’t sin in the air!” said Stanley, picking up the refrain, and the priest shouted happily:

  “You speak the truth, my son! The truth!” and made the sign of the cross over Stanley.

  “Is it a long trip to this island?” Stanley asked the sailor who was helping the guests down into the boats.

  “It’s right over there, sir,” the sailor replied, nodding toward the west, where the sun was already dipping below the horizon. “They’re sometimes called Hell’s Islands, but they’re just the opposite; even though the word pakao in Croatian means ‘hell,’ the name actually comes from the word paklina, ‘tar.’ They used to tar ships there, and the sky over the islands would be covered in smoke.”

  “You sound more like a tour guide than just a simple sailor,” said Stanley.

  “They stuff some information into them before they set sail,” said Mamonov, inserting himself into the conversation as he passed by. “So they’ll have something to spout off in case someone asks. Isn’t that right, Egor?”

  “My name is Maxim, thank you,” said the sailor.

  “Well, well!” Mamonov raised his hands. “Maxim? You’re Egor! Got it?”

  “As you wish,” said Maxim.

  The small fast boats delivered them to the island in a matter of minutes. The disembarking was also accompanied by the squeals of the Magnificent Five’s wives and girlfriends, all in high, spike heels and covered in jewels, who cursing fluently at both their own and others’ clumsiness. The night that had fallen over the island was suddenly filled to the seams with pandemonium.

  This continued in the restaurant as well. Some members of their party would study the menu meticulously, tormenting the waiters with detailed questions on each dish, and then their companions would get annoyed and start to hurry them along. Others just poked at the first thing on the menu. All this was going on under the general clanging and clatter of bottles—the table was suddenly laden with vodka and wine, and buckets of champagne appeared beside it.

  Mila had consumed a fair bit of vodka since Stanley had seen her on the yacht, and was now drinking champ
agne. Stanley was afraid to even imagine how that would end up. Mamonov was being openly rude, this time to the waiter. Komarikhin was the first to order, and he was greedily sucking down oyster after oyster, an enormous napkin tucked into his collar. His companion drank herbal tea, her pinky finger pretentiously extended, and informed everyone loudly that she never ate after seven in the evening. She was, however, eventually tempted by the lobster and squirted everyone around her with the juice as she ate.

  General Zlatoust and his pretty wife were tearing into a swordfish, Zaikin was digging into some shell with his fork and cursing through his teeth, and Potyagaylo, while stroking his girlfriend’s leg, was busy explaining to a clearly uninterested Komarikhin why the future belonged to them, the Magnificent Five.

  Gagarin was drinking vodka, as usual. He had a plate of mullet in front of him, and he glumly picked up one little fish after another, devouring them so thoroughly that only their brittle tails remained.

  Stanley had somehow ended up next to Gagarin and across from Mila, Polina, and Yulia, to whom Gauthier occasionally offered cocaine, but Gagarin gave him scolding glances from across the table: What if the Croatian antinarcotics task force were to come bursting into the restaurant?

  When Gagarin lost interest in observing Mila and her friends, he poured himself another shot, drank it down with a wheezing breath, and threw his arm over Stanley’s shoulders.

  “Not bad, huh?” asked Gagarin.

  “It’s wonderful, Viktor, just fabulous,” answered Stanley. “Your friends seem really great.”

  “Ah, knock it off!”

  “What’s that?” Stanley asked, not understanding the Russian word Viktor had used.

  “Ah, you don’t know that one? It means, don’t talk about what you don’t understand. Don’t make stuff up!”

  Gagarin spoke quietly, almost directly into Stanley’s ear. Stanley felt his hot breath and flecks of spit hit his neck and cheek, but suppressed his disgust and didn’t move away.

  “These friends of mine are ready at any moment—at any moment, you understand? To sell me out, turn me in, and trample me underfoot. They couldn’t care less about me. They don’t even care about my money. I’m rich, okay, but they’re a hundred times, a million times richer than I am.”

  “Is that even possible, Viktor?” Stanley pretended to lean down for a spoonful of seafood mousse and covertly wiped Gagarin’s spittle off his face.

  “Oh it is, it is, when everything belongs to them. Well, almost everything. What do you know about them? A minister, another minister, a general…they’ve got all of Russia like this!” Gagarin raised his clenched fist in front of Stanley’s nose. “And their money goes through me…”

  And through me, thought Stanley. And that could come to light. And then those years in prison that Dillon was threating me with will look like a weekend vacation.

  “But I don’t care about anything anymore,” Gagarin went on. “You helped me—no, don’t argue—you helped me, and now we’ve got a whole system working, but I would give all of my money to see my mother just once more. I miss my mom so much.”

  Gagarin began to cry, but got control of it, blowing his nose into a cloth napkin and tossing it onto the floor. A waiter was there in a moment to offer him a fresh one.

  “She died several years ago. I was very busy. Very. She didn’t complain, but I could tell something was off. But I didn’t insist that she go to the doctor. And when she did finally go, it was too late. She was gone in months. Terminal cancer.”

  Gagarin began to cry again.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Viktor,” Stanley said sincerely. “I lost my mother recently too.”

  “Viktor!” Mila shouted across the table. “What are you sniveling about? Chin up!”

  “I’ll show you sniveling, you bitch!” Gagarin tried to leap out of his chair, but Stanley held him back, so Gagarin threw a half-empty shot glass at Mila, and hit Gauthier square in the forehead.

  After dinner, they all got back in the boats. Stanley was secretly hoping that they would return to the yacht, but they passed by it, heading out into the bay. It seemed that the wives of the Magnificent Five wanted to dance in a club called Carpe Diem.

  Stanley hadn’t been in a club for a long time. He was struck by the roar of the music and conversation, but the other patrons at the club were in for a bigger shock when this pack of men and women dressed to the nines walked in. Most of the other visitors worked on yachts or sailed their own, and were all wearing comfortable clothes, shorts and T-shirts, the women dressed modestly. And suddenly, all these people appeared, women glinting with gold and the men’s snow-white dress shirts flashing in the dim interior.

  Stanley didn’t plan on dancing. He snuck off to the bar unnoticed—or so he thought—to order a tequila. He could see the entire dance floor from his vantage point there, but the lighting was such that the people at the bar were nearly hidden from sight. He was on his second shot of tequila when the driving beat was replaced by the song “Slave to Love.” Stanley had always been a fan of Bryan Ferry, his elegant style and genuine English charm. But just as Ferry sang, “How the strong get weak and the rich get poor,” he felt a strong grip on his elbow. When he turned, Mila was there, in a short, sparkly dress, a rope of large pearls around her neck.

  She literally dragged Stanley away from the bar, pressing up against him, and Stanley had no choice but to submit.

  They were moving together on the nearly empty dance floor, in full view of everyone. Mila pressed up against him, closer and closer, and, when Stanley’s back shielded her from the group of Gagarin’s guests and the oligarch himself, reached up to kiss him quickly on the lips.

  “Salty!” she said, jerking back before anyone saw them. “Have you been sweating again? I love the taste!”

  “It’s salt,” said Stanley. “I was drinking tequila.”

  “Sweaty, but boring!” Mila stomped her foot petulantly. “You’re a bore, but a good fuck. You’re full of contradictions, but the fact that you’re good in bed is the most important.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Stanley, praying for the song to end, but Ferry kept drawing it out: “Slave to love, no I can’t escape, I’m a slave to love…”

  The music finally came to end. Stanley took a half step back, and bowed formally. Mila curtsied in reply.

  Stanley went downstairs to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face. When he straightened up, he saw a hand extending a towel to him in the mirror.

  “You’re an idiot!” snapped Biryuza. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “What do you mean, Anton? What happened?”

  “Are you already fucking her? You can tell me the truth. I won’t say anything.”

  “What truth? There’s nothing to tell?” Stanley turned away and spit into the sink. “We were just dancing?”

  “I’m gay, not blind, Stanley. You and her…anyway, fine, my business is business. You do what you want. But he’ll cut off your head.”

  “My head? That’s not so bad! He can have the head.”

  “You’re an idiot! A fucking idiot!”

  But neither Gagarin nor his guests were as observant as Biryuza.

  Gagarin was sitting the whole time at the end of a leather sofa. He had gone so heavy on the vodka, in fact, that he had to be carried out of the club at dawn. The fresh sea breeze sobered him up a little.

  On the boat, heading back to the yacht at last, he stood in the prow, threw his arms wide, and began reciting a poem:

  Are you still living, oh mother of mine?

  I’m here, I’m here, I greet you from afar!

  Let the light of evening flow, sublime

  In the fading sky above your home.

  They write me that your aching worry

  Drives you, restless, from the house at night

  To pace in sorrow on your own
,

  In your old-fashioned threadbare dress.

  Night after night in that blue darkness

  You see a vision of me clear before you –

  In the middle of a tavern brawl,

  A stranger slips his knife between my ribs.

  Gagarin’s bald head was shining in the early-morning light. Shamil approached his boss several times, trying to pull him away from his dangerous position, but Gagarin just continued to shout westward into the receding darkness.

  It’s nothing, Mama, please don’t fret.

  Your mind is playing tricks, that’s all.

  I’m not such a hopeless drunkard,

  To die before we meet again.

  So set aside your restless worry,

  And let your helpless sorrow go.

  Don’t walk out from your house at night

  In that old-fashioned threadbare dress.

  The sea was choppy, and when a wave rocked the boat, Gagarin flew overboard. Shamil was the first into the water, followed by Gauthier, who couldn’t swim. Stanley also moved toward the railing, preparing to save the oligarch again, but Mila stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  Stanley looked at her, stunned to see the absolute hatred in her eyes as she stared into the waves, and the depth of her disappointment when Shamil rose to the surface with Gagarin under his arm.

  Stanley grabbed the exhausted Gauthier’s hand and dragged him back on board.

  “You saved me. You saved me too,” whimpered Gauthier.

  Several people helped Gagarin back on the boat, and Shamil climbed up after him, shouting hoarsely to the sailor to hurry it up—he didn’t want their boss to catch cold, did he?

  The gypsies and Father Vsevolod were waiting on deck to welcome Gagarin back. The gypsies chorused something like “he came back to us, our favorite,” carrying a tray with a large shot of vodka and a poppy seed pastry. But as soon as Gagarin drank the shot and took a bite, the priest started on a lecture about how their benefactor was going to get sick. They needed to undress him, rub him down, get him warm. The priest’s young companion, today in a revealing sailor’s shirt, brought a blanket and wrapped Gagarin up. He demanded another vodka, and they brought that too.