The Mountain Shadow

Waiters established a wide perimeter. They were ready to pounce if the shouting turned to fighting, but no-one wanted to be the first pouncer, punched away by the big, angry Russian.

‘Come on, little man. Come here.’

‘Certainly,’ Didier replied equably. ‘When I have finished my cigarette.’

Oh, shit, I thought, and knew that I wasn’t the only one in Leopold’s thinking it. Didier puffed contentedly, gently easing an urn of ash into his glass ashtray.

In the silence, the Russian companion moved quickly to stand beside me. He held his hands open in front of him, gesturing toward the chair next to mine.

It was a good idea. When he’d moved, I’d leaned back in my chair, put my right arm behind me and closed my hand around one of my knives.

‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked sociably. ‘It might take your friend a minute to finish his cigarette, and I’d rather sit, if it’s okay with you.’

‘It’s a free country, Oleg,’ I said. ‘That’s why I live here.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, sitting next to me comfortably. ‘Hey, don’t take it personally, but isn’t it a bit of a stereotype? I’m Russian, so my name has to be Oleg?’

He was right. And when a man’s right, he’s right, even if you’re thinking about stabbing him in the thigh.

‘My name’s Lin,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if I’m pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘Oleg.’

‘Are you fucking with me?’

I still had my hand on the knife.

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It really is my name. Oleg. And your gay Jewish friend is about to get his ass kicked.’

We both looked at Didier, who was examining his cigarette forensically.

‘My money’s on the Jew,’ I said.

‘It is?’

‘My money’s always on the Jew.’

‘How much money?’ he asked, a wide smile lighting his eyes with mischief.

‘Everything I’ve got.’

‘How much is everything?’

‘Everything will buy you three thousand,’ I said.

‘American?’

‘I don’t deal in roubles, Oleg. The cigarette is running out. Are you in?’

‘Done,’ he said, offering his hand.

I let go the knife, shook his hand, and put my hand back on the knife again. Oleg waved to a waiter. Didier was almost finished his cigarette. The waiter looked past Oleg to me, mystified.

He was worried. The big man was still waiting for Didier in the open space between vacated tables. Service had ceased. The waiter, named Sayed, didn’t know what was going on. I nodded my head and he came running, his eyes on the big Russian.

‘I would like a chilled beer, please,’ Oleg said. ‘And a plate of your home-made fries.’

Sayed blinked a few times, and looked at me.

‘It’s okay, Sayed,’ I said. ‘I have no idea what’s going on, either.’

‘Oh,’ Sayed said, relieved. ‘I’ll get the beer and fries, right away.’

He trotted away, wagging his hands and his head.

‘It’s okay,’ he said in Hindi. ‘Nobody knows what’s going on.’

The waiters relaxed, watching the last seconds of Didier’s cigarette.

‘I hope your friend wins, by the way,’ Oleg said. ‘Although I doubt it, unfortunately.’

Didier stubbed his cigarette out.

‘You hope my guy wins?’

‘Chert, da,’ Oleg said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means Hell, yeah, in Russian.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Chert, da. I’d have paid three thousand bucks to have this idiot’s bigoted ass beaten senseless, if I was that kind of guy.’

‘But you’re not that kind of guy.’

‘Look, you just met him. I’ve been working with this asshole for weeks. But I can’t bring myself to have someone beaten. Not even him. I’ve been on the other end a few times, and I didn’t like it.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘This way, if your guy wins, it’s like I paid for it, but I’m free of the karmic debt.’

Didier stood slowly, and stepped away from his table.

‘After you pay up,’ I said, ‘we should talk, Oleg.’

Didier brushed flakes of ash from his rumpled black velvet jacket, and turned up the collar. With his hands pressed deep in the pockets of his jacket, he walked toward the big Russian.

The big Russian was waving his fists in front of him, fists as big as the skulls they frequently hit, and he was weaving back and forth, slowly.

My hand was on my knife. If Oleg got involved, I was sure I could tag him before he left the table. But Oleg put his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and watched the show.

Didier walked to one and a half steps from the big man, and then leapt into a high, balletic pirouette, his arms tucked into his pockets. He flung his arms wide at the peak of the leap, and descended in an arc that put his knees on the Russian’s chest, and his pistol on the top of the big man’s head.

Didier danced free, his hands back in his jacket pockets, standing away from the big man. The Russian fell from the knees first, as the brain temporarily disengaged, but his arms still flailed until he hit the floor with his face, nose first.

‘Pay up, Oleg,’ I said, as Didier went to the main counter to make things right with the management.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That big guy’s a bare-knuckle, no-rules fighter in Russia.’

‘Your bare-knuckle fighter just got his ass kicked by ballet and a well-made gun. Pay up.’