Traveling in the Russian countryside on a trip home after many years abroad, a young expatriate finds himself lost one night in a small town.  He stumbles into an underground casino, to discover a winning streak he never knew he had.  His life changes forever—overnight.  But it’s not the kind of “golden jackpot” story you might expect… or ever hope for yourself.

 

Compared by some readers to the chilling narratives of fellow Czech-born Franz Kafka, “Bakaly” reads unforgiving and raw, just like the hard, cutting vodka its two main characters drink during the fateful game of roulette they play on that dark, dark night.

 

 

“No one would remember me here, for no one had seen me, except for the two empty souls I had passed at the bottom of the hill.  I remembered briefly carving my name into the dry wood of a signpost up on the hill...  If no other living thing ever laid eyes on that post for all the remnants of eternity, I would at the least die knowing my name had survived me.  I wanted no more gold—the sight of it made me ill.  Cured permanently of my Wall Street greed, I wanted to buy my youth back, at whatever price...  But how barbaric, all of its logic notwithstanding, was this entire train of thought.”