Prodigal

Stephanie Pilon was our password before she was my girlfriend. She was the most beautiful girl in our Russian class. Claude and I would joke about dating her. 

I would say, “The site should run on JavaScript.”  

Claude would say, “I should have ten million dollars.” 

I would say, “Stephanie Pilon should be my girlfriend.” 

Then the time came to make a password for our bitcoin account. We needed a word of more than eight characters that we would both remember. That was Steph’s first official role in the business. 

Then, one day in September, our Russian teacher Galima failed to show up for class. I asked Stephanie to see Sahara, the new Matthew McConaughey movie. Maybe she felt vulnerable as an American in Kazakhstan, maybe she was going through a slump in her life, maybe she actually liked me. Whatever it was, I punched above my weight that day. 

She sits beside me on the flight now as we return to Almaty ten years older. Still beautiful, still my girlfriend. I’d ask her to marry me but what would she say? Who wants to marry an ex-con struggling to hold down work as a dishwasher? I can’t afford the ring, forget the wedding. I didn’t even pay for these airplane tickets, Steph did. 

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Let me begin at the beginning. Fifteen years ago, my business associate Claude Vinci and I started an internet company, ProDigAll. You could use the ProDigAll website to buy and sell anything anonymously: used bicycles, software, houses. Also, it soon emerged: drugs and weapons. Kidneys. Murderers for hire. 

Claude and I never did or endorsed any of that stuff but neither did we find a way of stopping it. No, to be honest with you, we never even slowed or discouraged that stuff. After all, the non-authorised commerce was a meaningful revenue stream. 

In the early days, ProDigAll was perfectly legitimate; in fact, in the early early days, we were subsidized by the federal government. When our activity became more regulated, more scrutinized, we moved our operations to Kazakhstan, which was more laissez-faire about this kind of stuff. But then the drugs and kidneys and hitjob orders began in earnest. Every day, every hour. We were doing a lucrative trade. 

After a couple years, the Kazakhstani government also pressured, and then prohibited, ProDigAll. I agreed to extradition to the US where I served seven years in federal prison for the crimes committed (allegedly) by my customers. 

Back in Almaty, Claude operated ProDigAll for another eight months until the Kazakhstanis finally shut the whole thing down. No, Claude never pled out. This meant he could not set foot in the US, remaining in Kazakhstan in exile de facto. He started a new company  - basically ProDigAll without the non-authorised commerce - which promptly failed. He then tried to be a fixer, setting up western businesses in Almaty, helping out American expats. This also failed. 

Meanwhile, the US prosecutors seized all ProDigAll’s assets - by which I mean our various bank accounts in different countries and quasi-countries like Guernsey. We didn’t really have any physical assets, although to impress the newspapers the federal prosecutors made a nice show of carting away our laptops and our server. 

Altogether, the prosecutors came up with forty million dollars. These moneys were supposed to be used to restitute the victims of our crimes but most of it just went on lawyer fees. 

Now I know what you’re thinking. Forty million: not bad for some poor schmuck from Cleveland! I guess I should be ashamed of myself but you have to be pretty smart to earn forty million bucks. The part where it was all taken away from me and I went to jail for seven years? Less smart, I give you that. 

Anyways, the prosecutors always claimed that (a) at our margins (b) with the traffic we did (c) for the time we did it, forty million was not enough. There must be a hidden stash somewhere. 

To this I say: ProDigAll was reasonably successful but we weren’t Amazon or anything. We were just a humble, inefficient internet bazaar with two years of good operations. 

The other thing I say is: where is this money? If there was any money stashed anywhere, only two guys would know about it. 

One is me and I am transparently, ostentatiously broke. I have been out of prison for three years now. I wash dishes at a Cracker Barrel and I drive a 2005 Hyundai to get there. I’ve been evicted from my apartment. When my father died, the state had to pay for his funeral. I can’t even afford to buy my girlfriend a wedding ring. 

The other guy is Claude and Claude is dead. 

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Claude’s death is the animating purpose of our trip back to Almaty.

Steph and I land and get a “taxi” to our studio. We’re not staying in the western hotels but rather in a local place. It turns out to be just a beat-up old apartment but it’s walking distance to the lawyer. It’s fine. 

I take a little nap and Steph takes a walk. She comes back with fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, a little bread and chechil, the salty cheese that I love. We eat a small feast on the cheap blue table. We sit on metal cafeteria chairs. 

We walk over to the lawyer’s office. It’s sad to be in the city again. I was a king when I lived here, wealthy and ambitious. By nature, I’m an introvert through-and-through but running a business is a social activity. When I lived in Almaty, I had a whole community: colleagues, employees, drivers, officials, agents, friends. It was the most popular I have ever been in my entire life. The happiest too. But now there is not a single person I could call for a drink. Almaty is a ghost town for me.  

We arrive at the office. The lawyer’s name is Askar Khadirov. It’s his own name on the brass name plate. We’re buzzed in and made to wait for a little while in a room with a grey sofa and a matching armchair. On the table is an assortment of local magazines and a few recent Newsweeks. 

Askar comes out and asks “Mr and Mrs Tansey?” Steph tells him we’re not married. He has a nice manner: smiling, untidy hair and thick glasses. He angles his head to look at you, as if he can only see through his glasses if he holds his head just so. 

We shuffle over to his office, which is filled with pictures of a big Kazakh family. They’re in the mountains cooking shashlyk, at the theater with the grandparents, on vacation in Paris. 

“I want to thank you for coming, Mr Tansey,” Askar says. “No one else from Claude’s old life is coming. Not even his family - not even his own parents.”

I shrug. Claude was close to his mother but she passed away suddenly a few years ago. Him and his Dad were hot and cold. I guess they must have ended things on a cold note. Otherwise, Claude hadn’t lived outside of Kazakhstan in ten years. There was nobody for him in the US, just me and Steph. 

“But Claude must have people here in Almaty?” I say. “Colleagues, friends?” 

Askar furrows his brow. “Now, I never met Claude in life - I was only appointed to arrange his affairs after he died.” He takes a sip of tea. 

“However, I did know him a little by reputation. The business that you were involved in - ProDigAll as you called it - that was one thing. But Claude’s later business interests… well, he was not a very reliable person, especially at the end. I am afraid I am not receiving many offers to help.”

He opens a drawer and takes out an envelope. He slides it across the table to me. 

“This is a key to Claude’s apartment here in Almaty. I have visited but I have not taken anything.” Here, just for a moment, Askar makes a very slight face of repugnance. “If you would like to take anything, you are welcome. In my view, there is nothing of value there but perhaps you can find some item that will be valuable to you, some memento.

“When you are finished, please call Gulnara. Her  number is on the paper inside the envelope. She will clean the apartment and dispose of all the remaining items. The cost has already been addressed. She doesn’t speak English but her daughter will help.

“Finally, I would like to invite you to a small memorial service. I will be there. I have shared the invitation with several people but, as I say, I have not received many commitments. I do hope you will join us. I think it is right to honour the dead in some way.” He looks out the window and pauses. “Everyone deserves that much at least.”

With that he rises, and in the same graceful manner, leads us out of the office. 

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We walk over to Claude’s house on Tole Bi. When we were in funds, Claude had a luxurious pad on Abai opposite the Hotel Dostyk. Tole Bi is still a respectable neighbourhood but luxurious it is not. 

I remind myself to run a search of Claude’s computer when we get to his apartment. Maybe I will find our old bitcoin wallet, maybe there is a little money left over that the prosecutors missed. I still know the password unless he changed it - the password is walking right beside me. What’s more, bitcoin has surged over the past years, so even a few bucks then would be serious money now. 

Walking into Claude’s ground level flat, I am filled with pity for my old friend. There is an over-powering smell. It smells like animal urine. Claude was always a cat lover. But, when I knew him, he was fastidious about cleaning up. 

The kitchen is filthy and the refrigerator tells you the whole story: moldy deli meat, cheap cheeses, microwave burritos, cheap beer. The only vegetables are frozen peas and carrots, stuck together in one ice-block in the freezer. 

In the bathroom, Claude’s toothbrush is encrusted with white scum. There is a massive bottle of off-brand shower gel. I use this to wash my hands. I dry them on my pants. 

Steph can’t take the smell and goes to wait outside. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for. There are no secret bitcoin files here. There aren’t even any computers here. I step out to join Steph in the sunshine. 

We look at the apartment building and I try to imagine Claude’s last days. Claude died at age 41 of a heart attack. We stayed in touch while I was in prison but then the emails slowed down. Over the last few years, he seemed to fall into a depression. The last email he sent to me ended with these words: 

Honestly, Rich, I’m pretty lonely here. I’m thinking of going back to the US and take the plea deal. At least in prison I wouldn’t have to worry so much. Maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely. 

He died three months later. 

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The next morning, Steph and I arrive at the funeral. It is in a little government office out in Samal-3. We are indeed the only mourners, as Askar predicted. There is a young guy sitting at the side but he’s just an employee. 

The casket is closed but a photo of Claude rests on the table. Steph and I sit in a middle row and I cast my mind back to the happy times - starting the business, coding sessions, the move to Kazakhstan. I begin to weep silently. 

After twenty minutes, Askar enters and sits respectfully at the back. 

I stop crying and want to leave. I turn to Steph and she nods. Askar follows us out of the room. He hands me another envelope. 

“This came in the mail for you today,” he says. “It’s a letter from Claude.”

I look at the letter, which is addressed “To Richard Tansey, in the event of the death of Claude Vinci.”

“He must have asked someone to send this, I don’t know who,” Askar says. “You will forgive me but I have opened and read the letter. If the letter contained money, it would have to be sent to the prosecutors.”

I nod and shake his hand. I watch as he walks away.   

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Steph and I sit in a cafe. This is what the letter says:

Dear Rich, 

I write to you now from the hospital on Ulmangazy. The man next to me has not moved in four hours. The flies are landing on his face. I am a goner too. I had a heart attack on Tuesday and the doctors don’t think I will live for another week in my state. It could be tomorrow. It could be tonight. 

Do you remember the tea room on the second floor of the bazaar? That peacefulness within the chaos. That is what I feel now. It is okay to die.

My gift to you is this matrushka that we bought together at the Hotel Dostyk. Look within the doll to retrieve all that was taken from you. 

Goodbye my friend. Be kind to Steph. Don’t go too crazy about money. 

Your friend, 

Claude

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I lift the little dolls and remove one from the other until I hold the smallest in my palm. It is a porcelain babushka the size of my thumb. 

Although it’s true that the Hotel Dostyk sold pieces of tourist junk like this, Claude and I never went there together. He would joke about taking me there. It was full of US oil guys but we made a point of never going there ourselves. 

I raise my hand and smash it on the table. Sure enough, the little matrushka breaks open. I dust off an old-school USB key, the kind that swivels open. I don’t need to plug it in to know what it is - it’s our old bitcoin wallet. I will wait until I am back in the apartment to open it up. 

Following that, I guess I have a ring to shop for.