Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Andrey carved the bird, served the vegetables, and poured the Château Margaux all in a single motion of the hands. Then he wished the diners “ Bon appétit ” as he backed out the door.

While the two enjoyed Emile’s latest creation, the Count recalled for Sofia in some detail the commotion he had found on the fourth floor that morning in 1946—including the army-issue briefs that Richard Vanderwhile had saluted. And this somehow led to a retelling of the time that Anna Urbanova threw all her clothes out the window, only to gather them back up in the middle of the night. Which is to say, they shared those humorous little stories of which family lore is made.

Perhaps some will find this surprising, having supposed that the Count would reserve this particular dinner for an offering of Polonial advice or expressions of heartache. But the Count had quite intentionally chosen to see to all of that the night before, after their discussion of what was to be done.

Showing a sense of personal restraint that was almost out of character, the Count had restricted himself to two succinct pieces of parental advice. The first was that if one did not master one’s circumstances, one was bound to be mastered by them; and the second was Montaigne’s maxim that the surest sign of wisdom is constant cheerfulness. But when it came to expressing admissions of heartache, the Count had not held back. He told her exactly how sad he would be in her absence, and yet, how joyful he would feel at the slightest thought of her grand adventure.

Why was the Count so careful to ensure that all of this was covered on the night before Sofia’s journey? Because well he knew that when one is traveling abroad for the first time, one does not wish to look back on laborsome instructions, weighty advice, or tearful sentiments. Like the memory of the simple soup, when one is homesick what one will find most comforting to recall are those lighthearted little stories that have been told a thousand times before.

That said, when their plates were finally empty, the Count attempted to broach a new subject that had clearly weighed on his mind.

“I was thinking . . . ,” he began rather haltingly. “Or rather, it occurred to me, that you might like . . . Or at some point, perhaps . . .”

Amused to see her father so uncharacteristically flummoxed, Sofia laughed.

“What is it, Papa? What might I like?”

Reaching into his jacket, the Count sheepishly removed the photograph that Mishka had tucked into the pages of his project.

“I know how you treasure the photograph of your parents, so I thought . . . you might like a picture of me, as well.” Blushing for the first time in over forty years, he handed her the picture, adding: “It’s the only one I have.”

Genuinely moved, Sofia accepted the photograph with every intention of expressing her deepest gratitude; but getting a look at the picture, she clapped a hand over her mouth and began to laugh.

“Your moustaches!” she blurted.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Although, believe it or not, at one time, they were the envy of the Jockey Club. . . .”

Sofia laughed aloud again.

“All right,” said the Count, holding out his hand. “If you don’t want it, I understand.”

But she gripped the picture to her chest.

“I wouldn’t part with it for the world.” Smiling, she took another peek at his moustaches then looked up at her father in wonder. “Whatever happened to them?”

“What happened to them, indeed . . .”

Taking a considerable drink of his wine, the Count told Sofia of the afternoon in 1922 when one of his moustaches had been clipped so unceremoniously by a heavyset fellow in the hotel’s barbershop.

“What a brute.”

“Yes,” agreed the Count, “and a glimpse of things to come. But, in a way, I have that fellow to thank for my life with you.”

“How do you mean?”

The Count explained how a few days after the incident in the barbershop, her mother had popped up at his table in the Piazza to ask, in essence, the very same question that Sofia had just asked: Where did they go? And with that simple inquiry, their friendship had commenced.

Now it was Sofia who took a drink from her wine.

“Do you ever regret coming back to Russia?” she asked after a moment. “I mean after the Revolution.”

The Count studied his daughter. If when Sofia had stepped out of Anna’s room in her blue dress, the Count had felt she was crossing the threshold into adulthood, then here was a perfect confirmation. For in both tone and intent, when Sofia posed this question she did not do so as a child asks a parent, but as one adult asks another about the choices he has made. So the Count gave the question its due consideration. Then he told her the truth:

“Looking back, it seems to me that there are people who play an essential role at every turn. And I don’t just mean the Napoleons who influence the course of history; I mean men and women who routinely appear at critical junctures in the progress of art, or commerce, or the evolution of ideas—as if Life itself has summoned them once again to help fulfill its purpose. Well, since the day I was born, Sofia, there was only one time when Life needed me to be in a particular place at a particular time, and that was when your mother brought you to the lobby of the Metropol. And I would not accept the Tsarship of all the Russias in exchange for being in this hotel at that hour.”

Sofia rose from the table to give her father a kiss on the cheek. Then returning to her chair, she leaned back, squinted, and said: “Famous threesomes.”

“Ha-ha!” exclaimed the Count.

Thus, as the candles were consumed by their flames and the bottle of Margaux was drunk to its lees, reference was made to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; Purgatory, Heaven, and Hell; the three rings of Moscow; the three Magi; the three Fates; the Three Musketeers; the gray ladies from Macbeth ; the riddle of the Sphinx; the heads of Cerberus; the Pythagorean theorem; forks, spoons, and knives; reading, writing, and arithmetic; faith, hope, and love (with the greatest of these being love).

“Past, present, future.”

“Beginning, middle, end.”

“Morning, noon, and night.”

“The sun, the moon, the stars.”

And with this particular category, perhaps the game could have gone on all night long, but for the fact that the Count tipped over his own king with a bow of the head when Sofia said:

“Andrey, Emile, and Alexander.”

At ten o’clock, when the Count and Sofia snuffed the candles and returned to their bedroom, there was a delicate knock at the door. The two looked at each other with the wistful smiles of those who know the hour has come.

“Enter,” said the Count.

It was Marina, in her hat and coat.

“I’m sorry if I’m late.”

“No, no. You’re right on time.”

As Sofia took a jacket from the closet, the Count picked up her suitcase and knapsack from the bed. Then the three of them headed down the belfry to the fifth floor, where they exited, crossed the hallway, and continued their descent on the main staircase.

Earlier that day, Sofia had already said her good-byes to Arkady and Vasily; nonetheless, they came out from behind their desks to see her off, and they were joined a moment later by Andrey in his tuxedo and Emile in his apron. Even Audrius appeared from behind the bar of the Shalyapin, leaving his customers unattended for a change. This little assembly gathered around Sofia in a circle of well-wishing, while feeling that touch of envy which is perfectly acceptable among family and friends, from one generation to the next.

“You’ll be the belle of Paris,” one of them said.

“We can’t wait to hear all about it.”