True or false, right or wrong, the thing inside me said that it would go better to stay with it—or rather, if I did the sensible thing, walk away and leave it to others, it would go worse, far worse.

There I was, where I’d taken myself, back of the beyond—stuck in a fucking metaphor that included crevasses and avalanches—and the only advice that seemed pertinent was from an old friend killed on a bicycle ride, “Never take off your skis in the mountains.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

GOD IN THE NIGHT—LECH

“Buyers would struggle to find a more exclusive resort than Lech in the Vorarlberg province of Austria…reliable snow, vast network of pistes, stunning scenery and impeccable style.”

FINANCIAL TIMES

WE ARE SITTING OUTSIDE IN the night. Just the two of us, God and I.

When you think about it, being one-on-one with this God, Grigor God Voloshin, was infinitely more unique than being with the traditional God, the one called Jehovah, Yahweh, King of Kings, Lord of Hosts, Elohim, the Supreme Being. Everyone does that, praying to Him—“Please cancel the test I didn’t study for”—“Don’t let the Customs Man search my bags”—“Let me meet that special her”—“Tell me I didn’t catch an STD from the angel you helped me meet”—“Find me a parking space”—and bargaining with Him—“I’ll pray a lot,” “go to church,” “tithe,” “never do it again,” “be really, really good,” and “never ask for another thing, ever.” A fair number of people will even hear Him—or an important representative, Jesus, Mary, one of the saints—talking back.

There are only ninety-six Russian billionaires. According to Wikipedia, which, like the U.S. government, got their list from Forbes. They travel to exclusive places, stay in special residences, have entourages around them, intermediaries and security to block access, they’re much harder to get to.

We are in God’s hot tub. Behind God’s chalet. A chalet sitting splendidly alone on a hill above Lech.