Lyoshka patiently waited for the long shattering teeth of the wrought iron fence to open for him. A large Caucasian shepherd stood in the narrow opening of the gate assessing the stranger. The boy hardly dared to breath for fear of upsetting the frightening dog with any sudden movement. Finally, a tall mustachioed man appeared and called the dog away to him.
“Alex, right?”
“Yes, hello. I came to return my winnings.”
“I see. Come into the house. We shall discuss matters there.”
The guest was seated in a plush leather chair. The friendly gentleman puffed a thick cigar, poured a cup of coffee, and stated in a serious tone, “Your behavior does you credit, but does not honor the spirit of a player. You were, as I understand, making a claim to this title?”
Lyoshka, burning himself on the hot bitter liquid, nodded proudly.
“Good. In that case I will not accept your money.”
“Why not? Here is everything, down to the last cent.”
In the doorway, Sucker appeared in tears.
“You do not understand, boy,” said the mustachioed man, staring down his long nose at Lyoshka. “It is not about the money, but about the concept of duty. Those men who are not able honor it are called fools, and such a label, to any decent man, is a lasting disgrace. I can only rejoice in the fact that that numbskull,” he nodded to Sucker who stood in the door sobbing pitifully, “had the sense not to play any longer. In short, it is not our money, but yours. It is my only wish that it is spent wisely. I heard that your mother is sick. I don’t think the extra money will hurt.”
“My mom doesn’t want the money.”
“I will call her and explain everything.”
“She’s in the hospital,” explained Alexei.
“Then I shall write to her immediately, and to the chief physician. He will prepare a list of the necessary medicines.” Contemplating the subject, the man disappeared into his office, dealing his son a heavy slap upside the head as he passed by.
Shortly after that, Alexei’s mother died, and he was left on his own. His life changed completely. A problem arose – how was he to earn a living? He was forced to leave school and take up odd jobs, but he didn’t always have luck with that. One such day, while attempting to fend off the eternal hunger pangs, Alexei found the list of debtors in his father’s book bag and timidly dialed a number.
“Who is this?”
“Big’s son.”
“A-a-a…,” The line was silent for a while. Don’t rush this Alexei. “Well… what do you want?” The owner of the gravelly voice was clearly nervous.
“I need to meet with the right people. I want to play. Perform this service, and we’ll settle your accounts.”
“With no future claims?”
“Do I sound like I’m bullshitting you?” Remembering the lessons of his father, Alexei turned the tables in his favor.
“Alright then.”
And so he took his first step onto the slippery slope.
Freedom soon gave way to dependency. The next year passed imperceptibly. After becoming accustomed to the drab existence of camp life, Lyoshka accepted the zone as a second home. Over time his desires became realized – the money, the influential friends, and above all else, there was the game. Every conquest spread the name “Lyoshka the Great” further and further to more and more influential ears. Men of reputation and renown specially arranged long-distance visits to see the master and face off against him. Although suffering the loss of their fortunes, they did not truly feel defeat, for the honor of challenging the best was worth more than any material asset.
Alexei had long since ceased to sit at a table with amateurs. In Moscow, his patience had won him a mansion. His second year put a Mercedes 500 under the roof of his garage, begging to be driven. In a discrete, well-established Austrian bank lies one of his larger prizes, which was the result of a rather serious game with a handful of Swiss grifters that had upset more than one casino. The only thing missing from his lifestyle was family.
The fame of the wizard traveled all of the way to the remote areas of the Urals. A frail old man, dragging behind him a suitcase that was a little worse for wear, bought a train ticket, and left to meet with the Great, who had recently become available for a few days.
The best players from all over the commonwealth had come to meet for the games. Foamy champagne surrounded guests under the blast of fireworks and other means of extravagant celebration. In the very midst of this elegant, well dressed crowd, squeezed the wizened old man, asking for an audience with the Great. The authorities were taken aback and made way for the strange man. Alexei threw a momentary glance at the fellow and held his tongue as he passed right by him. A steady voice at his back made a snide comment, causing him to stop in his tracks.
“Sure, the Great is not as disgusting as his painting, but most people see a king where I see a stable hand.”
Time seemed to stand still. Everything else in the room seemed to fade as the man looked with a challenge at the Great. The piercing silence only increased the tension in the room, and everyone was waiting for Lyoshka’s reaction, hoping he would defuse the situation with dignity.
The Great slowly turned around and looked over the old man’s hands, examining his battered jacket with a glance, and finally met the stare of the impolite elder. For the first time in many years, Lyoshka felt uncertain and anxious. He did not recognize the sound of his voice as he spoke.
“Perhaps you would like play me and put your money where your mouth is, old man.”
“What are the stakes? The balance of the treasury?” The old man replied quickly.
“I accept all bets.”
The old man slid briskly over to the Great with a brazen grin.
“For all that you have.”
The crowd buzzed. Someone suggested they simply give the old man a good thrashing for being so stubborn. Others openly questioned his sanity. A voice in the crowd stood out from the others.
“And what do you bring to the table other than your shoes, grandpa?”
Alexei, dissatisfied with the situation raised a hand to stop the fidgety old man, but he was too late. He snapped open the locks of his old-fashioned suitcase, lifted the lid, and with a flourish presented a sea of green US dollars. His dramatic display intrigued the crowd and brought forth the desired response.
“Cards!” Alexei chose.
Soon the best room of the nearest Hilton was packed full with a buzzing crowd of people. The players stipulated the rules, cards were dealt, and the game began. The match lasted six intense hours. Usually, in serious games, all sorts of banter, friendly or otherwise, can be heard – distractions, obscenities, threats. But this time it was different. For six whole hours, neither player uttered a sound.
Finally it came down to the last hand. The old man raised the cards from the table and waited for the word from the Great. Alexei did not rush; he had a complete set of no trump in hand. He slowly reached his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and produced a bright talisman – two dice, cracked and split by time. Calmly glancing from the cards to the dice to the old man, the Great spread his hand on the table and declared, “Full, no trump.”
The old man, without showing his hand, chuckled.
“You lose.”
His cards remained facedown, yet some diabolical force made everyone believe his words. The old man, scratching the back of his neck, coolly suggested, “I will play to let you recover your losses. The dice. Roll higher than me, and win everything back. Lose, and you can never play again. Shall we?”
The stringent terms upset the already unruly crowd. Alexei’s closest friend and partner in the game, Jack, cursed loudly and demanded the old man be thrown out a window immediately. But the Great silently took the dice and rolled. The approval of the crowd seemed to shake the walls.
“Six-five!”
The stranger, anxiously groaning and grunting, lifted the dice. He raised his fist to his lips, whispered a mysterious incantation, and threw the dice with a dramatic flourish.
Alexei stood frozen, he could not believe his fortune. The crowd again began to buzz anxiously.
“Six-six. This devil… Isn’t it enough just to outplay someone?”
Jack reached for a knife, but the Great jumped up from the table and ran to the old man.
“Father, father!” Lyoshka cried out in tears. “How long I have been waiting for you!”
They embraced one another and left the room, oblivious to anyone around them.
***
“Now, this is something entirely new, Valdemar!” After a long pause, Senya scratched his head, and for the first time since these gatherings began, expressed his complete devotion to the only reading of that story. “I say, you should bring it to the publisher of The New Yorker. He’ll take it; he’ll take it and thank you. You brought forth a style which our Anastas here lacks. Surely, our gatherings have influenced your writing, Mr. Salvador Dali.”
“Senya, Dali was a true artist…”
“But I tell you what. You just created a masterpiece the king Dali never could’ve imagined in his lifetime. Simply astounding, my friend!”
After Anastas shot him a stern look, Senya nodded.
“Yes, little Vova is breaking all of the records.”
“Well, you two must have quite the conspiracy between you. Perhaps I can order something stronger for you, so that you hypocrites may go on deluding yourself.”
“Oh come now, it was a harmless joke. No need to get up in arms. I was only speaking of the style.” Senya exuded genuine interest as if discovering a new author for the first time.
“Indeed, the Muse has been unselfishly kind to me over the last few days,” I interjected.
“There now, come along! I suggest a walk to our favorite park. Let us get some fresh air remember in solitude the chiding Americans who, in recent days, have come down as with chains upon us Russian folk…”
That day we no longer returned to creativity. We talked about politics and Russian emigration and basked in the sun, which radiated a welcoming smile to anyone who needed it. Full of endorphins, embracing, each returned to his usual way of life.
All the next week I worked on a new story called “Silver Absolution,” and I couldn’t wait for Tuesday to come around. When I tried to call Senya on Monday evening to confirm our meeting, I found that I couldn’t reach him. My first instinct was alarm, but I didn’t put too much thought into it, and the next day I ran to our café with a particular fervor.
My anxiety flared back up when I reached the front of the café. Senya’s ever present Cadillac was absent. Overcoming my doubts, I ran into the hall, quickly glancing around, but didn’t find the familiar faces of either of my friends. I dialed Senya’s number, but the familiar voice of the operator echoed that he was out of reach. I then flipped through my notebook and sighed with relief when I found Anastas’ number. The voice on the other end sounded hoarse.
“Valdemar, not on the phone. I will arrive and speak to you there.”
I drank several cups of coffee in nervous anticipation before the familiar Greek heralded his presence. Anastas’s face was unreadable and, torn by curiosity, I could no longer sit still.
“What the hell is going on?” I shouted.
“Calm yourself, Valdemar.” The bridge of Anastas’ nose seemed to be a bit shinier due to an increased amount of rubbing from his large thumb. “I can say that we’ll be fine to do a little extracurricular reading without Senya. All I know is that he was forced to go into hiding underground.”
I could think of no words to accurately convey my astonishment, but I’m sure my face reflected those unhappy occupants of the painting “The Last Days of Pompeii.” I have always believed in the honesty and integrity of old thieves, but I can’t see why, for no apparent reason, one such thief who is in his seventies would be forced to lie low. It was beyond my comprehension.
“Don’t get worked up, Vovchik. I came to hear a story, so come now, read. I know I alone cannot provide a complete criticism, but so be it. Let’s read first, then we shall talk, okay?”
“Well brother, this is a story from the category of, how do I put it, “Inevitable Retribution.”
So for the first time, I decided to put my story forth to only Anastas.
Silver absolution
Only a select few of the city’s residents hadn’t heard of Yuri Nikolayevich Bakharev’s wealth and prestige. He was a renowned philanthropist, family man, father of two wonderful daughters – quite simply, a gentleman. His kindness and empathy when solving the city’s issues was astounding. Nobody seemed to know or care when this outstanding gentleman arrived in the city for the first time. He seemed to have lived here for ages, seeing how people quickly become accustomed to generosity.
Almost every week the citizens learned about a new project undertaken by Yuri Nikolayevich. Sure enough, when a church was in want of money for repair and restoration, priests in their robes and collars ran like mad to him. If there was a need to build an orphanage, bureaucrats knocked on the same door. If someone wanted to support gifted young people, wily producers artfully gained an audience and discussed their cause. It was an easy job that required no sacrifice of pride to receive patronage for those who did not overuse his kind-heartedness. All that’s required is finding the most extravagant mansion in the city, ringing at the entry phone, introducing oneself, and explaining the purpose of the visit. After a short pause, the private secretary with her charming voice announces the date and time of the meeting, and all that remains is to arrive punctually and state one’s case. Some bureaucrats appeared in Bakharev’s luxuriously furnished receiving room so often that one could start to take a pride in one’s statesmen for solving so many vital problems!
So then, if a man loves to help his city and facilitate the achievement of many great social causes with undisguised pleasure, wouldn’t it be the height of ingratitude to bite the hand that feeds? Five years ago, one of the city administrators had doubts regarding the great local sponsor’s honesty. Rumor had it that an official enquiry would be made into the source of his incredible wealth. But an outlandish tragedy in the form of a freak car accident soon occurred to the inquisitive administrator. Only an urgent intervention of German surgeons could save the inspector’s life. As always, Yuri Nikolayevich generously helped. After that, there were no volunteers willing to commit the sin of questioning the holy man.
Bakharev was a cofounder of several companies and was quickly named an honorary citizen, thanks to putting all his efforts into solving problems for the community. However, his cornucopia of virtues hid Yuri Nikolayevich from inquisitive glances like a dense wall. The honorary citizen spent most of his time at home drifting from the receiving room to the study and back. On Saturdays, watchful neighbors witnessed a regular departure. The headlights of his Mercedes could be seen emerging from his garage and speeding off into the country. The first idea that occurred to his fellow citizens was that Bakharev of the carefully manicured reputation let off steam by wantonly amusing himself in some other city. Some gossipers said that in the neighboring city a whole restaurant or even an entertainment complex would be reserved for his revelry, and that the money spent on even one of these occasions could easily repair all the dilapidated roads in the city or buy more advanced equipment for the local clinic. The majority of the city scoffed at the wild fantasies of the envious.