today. He remembered when the bell in the clock tower above the building rang for three o’clock. It was Sunday, Switzerland was closed.
*
‘Thirty-five minutes shore to shore. 227,000 tons of bateau powered by twin diesel motors below decks. Champagne and fondue Thursday evenings, weather permitting.’
So read the tourist pamphlet Harper received with his ticket. He was trying to read the damn thing and drink at the same time. Wasn’t easy. Bit of a rough crossing with 2-metre swells. On a bloody lake. Better than the ride over. That was like drifting near the end of the world. Come out of the fog into a patch of nowhere. Grey water, grey sky, thin grey line on the horizon marking the place you fell off and never came back. He set the pamphlet on the next seat, took a swig of Coca-Cola. His diet so far today: three aspirin, packet of crisps, one Chinese lunch, three Chinese beers, one Coke.
He looked off the stern. His eyes hijacked by the Swiss flag hooked to the rail, flapping in the wind like waving goodbye to France. He looked about the cabin. A few working stiffs from Évian crossing to Lausanne for some extra odd-job cash on the night shift. Harper thought he fit right in. Another odd-jobber entering Switzerland through the tradesmen’s entrance. He pulled the file from his mackintosh, sifted through it.
The gospel of Yuriev’s life according to Google.
Poor orphan boy from a village outside Arkhangelsk. Gets a pair of ice skates from a kindly old priest passing through the village. The boy has talent. He doesn’t skate over the ice, he flies. Grows up winning every race he enters. Breaks every world record standing on his way to seven gold medals at Innsbruck. Hero of the Soviet Union at nineteen years old. Glasnost comes to Mother Russia, country falls apart. Yuriev goes pro-hockey in North America, makes a bloody fortune. Plays with the Maple Leafs in Toronto. Garners the nickname ‘Slapshot Sasha’ for his aggressive style of play. Copies of his number 9 jersey worn by every schoolkid in Canada. His face smiles from boxes of breakfast cereal. Leads his club to three successive Stanley Cups. Scores hat-tricks in all three. Rumours. Slapshot Sasha likes to drink. More rumours. Canadian tabloids suggest Slapshot is missing shots in season four to settle gambling debts. Then gambling chits with his signature turn up, courtesy of a mobster on his way to the prison, looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card.
The press smells blood, hammers away for more.
Hockey Commissioner under pressure, suspends Yuriev for the rest of the season. End of endorsements. Yuriev hits the bottle for real. Begins the long fall from hero to drunken clown. Press can’t get enough of the flameout. He’s chased by tabloids and TV crews. Yuriev shows up pissed at a championship match, jumps out on the ice, demands to play. Punches out a referee, sends him skidding into the net like a hockey puck. And the crowd goes wild.
End of career.
Starts gambling big, loses bigger.
Word is he owes bags of money to the wrong people. Then comes the car wreck. Lets a hooker drive his SUV. She’s whacked on crystal meth, Yuriev’s blind drunk. SUV crosses the median at two hundred klicks per hour, smashes head-on into a Volkswagen Golf. The woman and her three kids in the Golf crushed to death. Eight-year-old boy next to Mommy wearing Yuriev’s number 9 jersey.
Spends the last of his fortune on a high-priced lawyer.
Lawyer gets him off with six months’ probation.
Not enough for the Canadian press, they want Yuriev crucified.
Heads back to Russia. Selected as coach to the Russian national Olympic hockey team. Holy row in the press one more time. USA gets in on the act and threatens to pull out of next winter games citing ‘our moral imperative to protect family values’. The Doctor bans Yuriev from any contact with the Olympic movement. He drops out of sight for twenty years, then turns up in Switzerland. A matter of life and death,
*
‘Thirty-five minutes shore to shore. 227,000 tons of bateau powered by twin diesel motors below decks. Champagne and fondue Thursday evenings, weather permitting.’
So read the tourist pamphlet Harper received with his ticket. He was trying to read the damn thing and drink at the same time. Wasn’t easy. Bit of a rough crossing with 2-metre swells. On a bloody lake. Better than the ride over. That was like drifting near the end of the world. Come out of the fog into a patch of nowhere. Grey water, grey sky, thin grey line on the horizon marking the place you fell off and never came back. He set the pamphlet on the next seat, took a swig of Coca-Cola. His diet so far today: three aspirin, packet of crisps, one Chinese lunch, three Chinese beers, one Coke.
He looked off the stern. His eyes hijacked by the Swiss flag hooked to the rail, flapping in the wind like waving goodbye to France. He looked about the cabin. A few working stiffs from Évian crossing to Lausanne for some extra odd-job cash on the night shift. Harper thought he fit right in. Another odd-jobber entering Switzerland through the tradesmen’s entrance. He pulled the file from his mackintosh, sifted through it.
The gospel of Yuriev’s life according to Google.
Poor orphan boy from a village outside Arkhangelsk. Gets a pair of ice skates from a kindly old priest passing through the village. The boy has talent. He doesn’t skate over the ice, he flies. Grows up winning every race he enters. Breaks every world record standing on his way to seven gold medals at Innsbruck. Hero of the Soviet Union at nineteen years old. Glasnost comes to Mother Russia, country falls apart. Yuriev goes pro-hockey in North America, makes a bloody fortune. Plays with the Maple Leafs in Toronto. Garners the nickname ‘Slapshot Sasha’ for his aggressive style of play. Copies of his number 9 jersey worn by every schoolkid in Canada. His face smiles from boxes of breakfast cereal. Leads his club to three successive Stanley Cups. Scores hat-tricks in all three. Rumours. Slapshot Sasha likes to drink. More rumours. Canadian tabloids suggest Slapshot is missing shots in season four to settle gambling debts. Then gambling chits with his signature turn up, courtesy of a mobster on his way to the prison, looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card.
The press smells blood, hammers away for more.
Hockey Commissioner under pressure, suspends Yuriev for the rest of the season. End of endorsements. Yuriev hits the bottle for real. Begins the long fall from hero to drunken clown. Press can’t get enough of the flameout. He’s chased by tabloids and TV crews. Yuriev shows up pissed at a championship match, jumps out on the ice, demands to play. Punches out a referee, sends him skidding into the net like a hockey puck. And the crowd goes wild.
End of career.
Starts gambling big, loses bigger.
Word is he owes bags of money to the wrong people. Then comes the car wreck. Lets a hooker drive his SUV. She’s whacked on crystal meth, Yuriev’s blind drunk. SUV crosses the median at two hundred klicks per hour, smashes head-on into a Volkswagen Golf. The woman and her three kids in the Golf crushed to death. Eight-year-old boy next to Mommy wearing Yuriev’s number 9 jersey.
Spends the last of his fortune on a high-priced lawyer.
Lawyer gets him off with six months’ probation.
Not enough for the Canadian press, they want Yuriev crucified.
Heads back to Russia. Selected as coach to the Russian national Olympic hockey team. Holy row in the press one more time. USA gets in on the act and threatens to pull out of next winter games citing ‘our moral imperative to protect family values’. The Doctor bans Yuriev from any contact with the Olympic movement. He drops out of sight for twenty years, then turns up in Switzerland. A matter of life and death,
Similar Books
