Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“Not comrade Leplevsky . . .”

“The very same, sir. It appears that he discovered the plan of the girl’s defection and was on his way to inform the KGB when Rostov overcame him and forced him into the storeroom at gunpoint.”

“At gunpoint!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did Rostov get a firearm?”

“It appears that he had a pair of antique dueling pistols—and the will to use them. In fact, it has been confirmed that he shot a portrait of Stalin in the manager’s office.”

“Shot a portrait of Stalin. Well. He does sound like a rather ruthless fellow. . . .”

“Yes, sir. And, if I may say so, wily. For it appears that two nights ago a Finnish passport and Finnish currency were stolen from one of the hotel’s Finnish guests. Then last night, a raincoat and hat were stolen from an American journalist. This afternoon, investigators were sent to Leningradsky Railway Station, where confirmation was obtained that a man wearing the hat and coat in question was seen boarding the overnight train to Helsinki. The hat and coat were discovered in a washroom at the Russian terminus in Vyborg, along with a travel guide for Finland from which the maps had been removed. Given the tightness of security at the railway crossing into Finland, it is presumed that Rostov disembarked in Vyborg in order to cross the border on foot. Local security has been alerted, but he may already have slipped through their fingers.”

“I see . . . ,” said the Chief Administrator again, accepting the file from his lieutenant and putting it on his desk. “But tell me, how did we make the connection between Rostov and the Finnish passport in the first place?”

“Comrade Leplevsky, sir.”

“How so?”

“When comrade Leplevsky was led to the basement, he witnessed Rostov taking the Finnish guide from a collection of abandoned books. With that piece of information in hand, the connection was quickly made to the theft of the passport, and officers were dispatched to the station.”

“Excellent work all around,” said the Chief Administrator.

“Yes, sir. Though it does make one wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Why Rostov didn’t shoot Leplevsky when he had the chance.”

“Obviously,” said the Chief Administrator, “he didn’t shoot Leplevsky, because Leplevsky isn’t an aristocrat.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, never mind.”

As the Chief Administrator tapped the new folder with his fingers, the lieutenant lingered in the doorway.

“Yes? Is there something else?”

“No, sir. There is nothing else. But how shall we proceed?”

The Chief Administrator considered this question for a moment and then, leaning back in his chair with the barest hint of a smile, replied:

“Round up the usual suspects.”

It was Viktor Stepanovich, of course, who left the damning evidence in the Vyborg terminal washroom.

An hour after bidding the Count good-bye, he boarded the Helsinki-bound train wearing the journalist’s hat and coat with the Baedeker in his pocket. When he disembarked in Vyborg, he tore out the maps and left the guide with the other items on a counter in the station’s washroom. Then he traveled back on the next train bound for Moscow empty-handed.

It was almost a year later when Viktor finally had the opportunity to watch Casablanca . Naturally, when the scene shifted to Rick’s Café and the police began closing in on Ugarte, his interest was piqued, because he remembered his conversation with the Count in the railway station café. So with utmost attention, he watched as Rick disregarded Ugarte’s pleas for help; he saw the saloonkeeper’s expression remain cool and aloof when the police dragged Ugarte from his lapels; but then, as Rick began making his way through the disconcerted crowd toward the piano player, something caught Viktor’s eye. Just the slightest detail, not more than a few frames of film: In the midst of this short journey, as Rick passes a customer’s table, without breaking stride or interrupting his assurances to the crowd, he sets upright a cocktail glass that had been knocked over during the skirmish.

Yes, thought Viktor, that’s it, exactly.

For here was Casablanca, a far-flung outpost in a time of war. And here at the heart of the city, right under the sweep of the searchlights, was Rick’s Café Américain, where the beleaguered could assemble for the moment to gamble and drink and listen to music; to conspire, console, and most importantly, hope. And at the center of this oasis was Rick. As the Count’s friend had observed, the saloonkeeper’s cool response to Ugarte’s arrest and his instruction for the band to play on could suggest a certain indifference to the fates of men. But in setting upright the cocktail glass in the aftermath of the commotion, didn’t he also exhibit an essential faith that by the smallest of one’s actions one can restore some sense of order to the world?

And Anon

On one of the first afternoons of summer in 1954, a tall man in his sixties stood in the high grass among some ragged apple trees somewhere in the Nizhny Novgorod Province. The beginnings of a beard on his chin, the dirt on his boots, and the rucksack on his back all contributed to the impression that the man had been hiking for several days, though he didn’t look weary from the effort.

Pausing among the trees, the traveler looked a few paces ahead to where he could just make out the suggestion of a road that had become overgrown long ago. As the man turned onto this old road with a smile at once wistful and serene, a voice came down from the heavens to ask: Where are you going?

Stopping in his tracks, the man looked up as—with a rustle of branches—a boy of ten dropped to the ground from an apple tree.

The eyes of the old man widened.

“You’re as silent as a mouse, young man.”

With a look of self-assurance, the boy took the man’s remark very much as a compliment.

“I am too,” said a timid voice from among the leaves.

The traveler looked up to discover a girl of seven or eight perched on a branch.

“Indeed, you are! Would you like a hand coming down?”

“I don’t need one,” said the girl. But she angled herself to drop into the traveler’s arms, just the same.

Once the girl was on the ground beside the boy, the traveler could see that the two were siblings.

“We’re pirates,” the boy said matter-of-factly, while looking off toward the horizon.

“I could tell,” said the man.

“Are you going to the mansion?” the little girl asked with curiosity.

“Most no one goes there,” cautioned the boy.

“Where is it?” the man asked, having seen no sign of it through the trees.

“We’ll show you.”

The boy and girl led the man along the old, overgrown road, which turned in a long, lazy arc. After they had walked about ten minutes, the mystery of the mansion’s invisibility was solved: for having been burned to the ground decades before, it consisted now of two tilting chimneys at either end of a clearing still dusted here and there with ash.

If one has been absent for decades from a place that one once held dear, the wise would generally counsel that one should never return there again.

History abounds with sobering examples: After decades of wandering the seas and overcoming all manner of deadly hazards, Odysseus finally returned to Ithaca, only to leave it again a few years later. Robinson Crusoe, having made it back to England after years of isolation, shortly thereafter set sail for that very same island from which he had so fervently prayed for deliverance.

Why after so many years of longing for home did these sojourners abandon it so shortly upon their return? It is hard to say. But perhaps for those returning after a long absence, the combination of heartfelt sentiments and the ruthless influence of time can only spawn disappointments. The landscape is not as beautiful as one remembered it. The local cider is not as sweet. Quaint buildings have been restored beyond recognition, while fine old traditions have lapsed to make way for mystifying new entertainments. And having imagined at one time that one resided at the very center of this little universe, one is barely recognized, if recognized at all. Thus do the wise counsel that one should steer far and wide of the old homestead.