Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

When her father had made this claim, it had seemed so outlandish, so overblown that it had not assuaged Sofia’s distress in the least. But turning in place on the Place de la Concorde, seeing the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower, and the Tuileries, and the cars and Vespas zipping around the great obelisk, Sofia had an inkling of what her father had been trying to say.

“Was it like this all night?”

Richard Vanderwhile, who was standing in his apartment in the embassy, had just noticed the angle of his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. It was at a slant of twenty-five degrees.

“Your tie is always like that, my dear.”

Richard turned to his wife in shock.

“Always! Why on earth haven’t you ever said anything?”

“Because I think it makes you look rakish.”

Giving the nod of one who could make do with “rakish,” Richard took another look in the mirror, then pulled the tie loose, hung his tuxedo jacket on the back of his chair, and was about to suggest a nightcap when there was a knock at the door. It was Richard’s attaché.

“What is it, Billy?”

“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, sir. But there is a young man asking for you.”

“A young man?”

“Yes. Apparently, he is seeking asylum. . . .”

Richard raised his eyebrows.

“Asylum from what?”

“I’m not certain, sir. But he isn’t wearing any shoes.”

Mr. and Mrs. Vanderwhile exchanged looks.

“Well then, I guess you had better show him in.”

The attaché returned a minute later with a young man in a newsboy’s cap who was, in fact, barefoot. In the manner of the polite but anxious, the young man took off his cap and held it at his waist in both hands.

“Billy,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile, “this is not a young man.”

The attaché’s eyes widened.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Richard. “Sofia Rostov.”

Sofia smiled with an expression of relief: “Mr. Vanderwhile.”

Richard told his attaché he could go, then he approached Sofia with a grin and took her by the elbows.

“Let me get a good look at you.” Without letting go of Sofia, Richard turned to his wife. “Didn’t I tell you she was a beauty?”

“You certainly did,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile with a smile.

Although from Sofia’s perspective, it was Mrs. Vanderwhile who was the beauty.

“What a terrific turn of events,” said Richard.

“You weren’t . . . expecting me?” asked Sofia tentatively.

“Of course we were! But your father has grown quite fond of all this cloak-and-dagger business. He assured me that you were coming, but he wouldn’t let me know when, where, or how. And he certainly didn’t tell me you’d be arriving as a barefoot boy.” Richard pointed to Sofia’s knapsack. “Is that all you brought with you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Are you hungry?” asked Mrs. Vanderwhile.

Before Sofia could respond, Richard chimed in: “Of course she’s hungry. I’m hungry and I’ve just returned from a dinner. I’ll tell you what, my dear: Why don’t you see if you can scare up some clothes for Sofia, while she and I have a chat. Then we can all rendezvous in the kitchen.”

While Mrs. Vanderwhile went in search of clothes, Richard led Sofia into his study and sat on the edge of his desk.

“I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you in house, Sofia. And I do so hate putting business before pleasure. But once we sit down to eat, I suspect we’ll be swept away with stories of your adventures. So, before we go to the kitchen, your father mentioned that you might have something for me. . . .”

Sofia looked shy and hesitant.

“My father said that you might have something for me first. . . .”

Richard laughed and slapped his hands together.

“Right you are! I’d forgotten all about it.”

Richard crossed the room to one of the bookcases. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached to the uppermost shelf and removed what looked like a large book—but which turned out to be a package wrapped in brown paper. Richard set it down on his desk with a thud.

In turn, Sofia began to reach into her knapsack.

“Before giving anything to me,” Richard cautioned, “you should probably make sure that this is what it’s supposed to be. . . .”

“Oh, yes. I see.”

“Besides,” he added, “I’ve been dying of curiosity.”

Joining Richard at his desk, Sofia untied the strings and pulled back the folds of paper. Inside was an old edition of Montaigne’s Essays .

“Well,” said Richard a little bemused, “you’ve got to give that old Frenchman credit. He’s substantially heavier than Adam Smith or Plato. I really had no idea.”

But then Sofia opened the book, revealing a rectangular cavity cut into the pages, in which there were eight small stacks of gold coins.

“Naturally,” said Richard.

Sofia closed the book and retied the strings. Then taking off her knapsack, she emptied its contents onto a chair and handed the empty bag to Richard.

“Father said you should cut the seam at the top of the straps.”

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Vanderwhile poked in her head.

“I’ve got some clothes to show you, Sofia. Are you ready?”

“Perfect timing,” said Richard while giving a nod to Sofia. “I’ll follow you in a minute.”

Left alone, Richard took a penknife from his pocket. He switched out the blade and carefully cut the seam that had been expertly sewn along the top of the shoulder straps. In the narrow gap that ran behind the length of one of the straps had been slipped a tightly rolled piece of paper.

Easing the roll from its hiding place, Richard sat down and spread it across his desk. On the top side there was a diagram entitled “Combined Dinner of Council of Ministers and Presidium, June 11, 1954.” The diagram itself depicted a long U with forty-six names inscribed around its periphery. Under the name of each person was their title and a summation of their personality in three words. On the verso was a detailed description of the evening in question.

Certainly, the Count described the announcement concerning the Obninsk nuclear power plant and the theatric display of its connection to the Moscow grid. But what he emphasized in the course of his report were the evening’s social nuances.

First, the Count observed that when the guests appeared at the dinner, virtually all were surprised by the venue. They had obviously arrived at the hotel expecting they would be dining in one of the Boyarsky’s formal rooms, only to be directed instead to suite 417. The one exception was Khrushchev—who entered the room with the cool satisfaction of one who not only knew where the dinner would be held, but was pleased to see that everything was perfectly in order. The General Secretary erased any doubt as to his personal involvement in the planning of the evening when, having been unusually quiet, he stood at ten minutes to eleven to make a toast that referenced the history of the suite two floors below.

But for the Count, the genius of the evening was in Khrushchev’s casual display of his alignment with Malyshev. In recent months, Malenkov had made no secret of his disagreement with Khrushchev regarding nuclear armament. Malenkov foresaw that a nuclear arms race with the West could only have devastating results, referring to it as an “apocalyptic policy.” But with this little event of political theater, Khrushchev had performed the perfect sleight of hand—switching out the threat of nuclear Armageddon for the uplifting sight of a city sparkling with nuclear power. In a stroke, the conservative hawk had cast himself as a man of the future and his progressive opponent as a reactionary.

Sure enough, with the lights of the city shining brightly and freshly chilled bottles of vodka on the table, Malyshev crossed the room to confer with the General Secretary. As most of the others were still milling about with smiles on their faces, Malyshev quite naturally took the empty chair at Khrushchev’s side. So, when everyone began to resume their places, Malenkov found himself stranded behind Khrushchev and Malyshev; and as the Premier of the Communist Party waited awkwardly for them to finish their conversation so that he could reclaim his seat, no one at the table even batted an eye.