Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Yes, the Count had gone to the little window at the back of the lobby to ask for his mail, but had he been to the sorting room where the incoming envelopes were spilled on a table at ten and at two—including those that were stamped in red with the unambiguous instruction For Immediate Delivery ?

And yes, he had visited Fatima’s in the days when it was open, but had he been inside the cutting room? Through a narrow door at the back of her shop was that niche with a light green counter where stems had been snipped and roses dethorned, where even now one could find scattered across the floor the dried petals of ten perennials essential to the making of potions.

Of course, exclaimed the Count to himself. Within the Metropol there were rooms behind rooms and doors behind doors. The linen closets. The laundries. The pantries. The switchboard!

It was like sailing on a steamship. Having enjoyed an afternoon shooting clay pigeons off the starboard bow, a passenger dresses for dinner, dines at the captain’s table, outplays the cocky French fellow at baccarat, and then strolls under the stars on the arm of a new acquaintance—all the while congratulating himself that he has made the most of a journey at sea. But in point of fact, he has only exposed himself to a glimpse of life on the ship—having utterly ignored those lower levels that teem with life and make the passage possible.

Nina had not contented herself with the views from the upper decks. She had gone below. Behind. Around. About. In the time that Nina had been in the hotel, the walls had not grown inward, they had grown outward, expanding in scope and intricacy. In her first weeks, the building had grown to encompass the life of two city blocks. In her first months, it had grown to encompass half of Moscow. If she lived in the hotel long enough, it would encompass all of Russia.

To initiate the Count’s course of study, Nina quite sensibly began at the bottom—the basement and its network of corridors and cul-de-sacs. Tugging open a heavy steel door, she led him first into the boiler room, where billows of steam escaped from a concertina of valves. With the aid of the Count’s handkerchief, she gingerly opened a small cast-iron door in the furnace to reveal the fire that burned day and night, and which happened to be the best place in the hotel to destroy secret messages and illicit love letters.

“You do receive illicit love letters, Count?”

“Most certainly.”

Next was the electrical room, where Nina’s admonition that the Count touch nothing was quite unnecessary, since the metallic buzzing and sulfurous smell would have counseled caution to the most reckless of adventurers. There, on the back wall amidst a confusion of wires, Nina showed him the very lever that, when pulled, could throw the ballroom into darkness, providing perfect cover for the snatching of pearls.

After a turn to the left and two to the right, they came to a small cluttered room—a sort of cabinet of curiosities—showcasing all the items that the hotel’s guests had left behind, such as umbrellas, Baedekers , and the weighty novels they had yet to finish but could no longer bear to lug about. While tucked away in the corner, looking no worse for wear, were two small oriental rugs, a standing lamp, and the small satinwood bookcase that the Count had abandoned in his old suite.

At the far end of the basement, as the Count and Nina approached the narrow back stair, they passed a bright blue door.

“What do we have here?” asked the Count.

Nina looked uncharacteristically flummoxed.

“I don’t think I’ve been inside.”

The Count tried the knob.

“Ah, well. I’m afraid that it’s locked.”

But Nina looked left and looked right.

The Count followed suit.

Then she raised her hands under her hair and unhooked the delicate chain that she wore around her neck. Dangling at the bottom of the golden parabola was the pendant the Count had first observed at the Piazza, but it was neither a lucky charm nor locket. It was a passkey for the hotel!

Nina slid the key from its chain and handed it to the Count so that he could do the honors. Slipping it through the skull-shaped hole in the escutcheon, the Count turned gently and listened as the tumblers fell into place with a satisfying click. Then he opened the door and Nina gasped, for inside there was a treasure trove.

Quite literally.

On shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling was the hotel’s silver service, shimmering as if it had been polished that very morning.

“What is it all for?” she asked in amazement.

“For banquets,” replied the Count.

Alongside the stacks of Sèvres plates bearing the hotel’s insignia were samovars that stood two feet tall and soup tureens that looked like the goblets of the gods. There were coffeepots and gravy boats. There was an assortment of utensils, each of which had been designed with the greatest care to serve a single culinary purpose. From among them, Nina picked up what looked like a delicate spade with a plunger and an ivory handle. Depressing the lever, Nina watched as the two opposing blades opened and shut, then she looked to the Count in wonder.

“An asparagus server,” he explained.

“Does a banquet really need an asparagus server?”

“Does an orchestra need a bassoon?”

As Nina returned it gently to the shelf, the Count wondered how many times he had been served by that implement? How many times had he eaten off these plates? The bicentennial of St. Petersburg had been celebrated in the Metropol’s ballroom, as had the centennial of Pushkin’s birth and the annual dinner of the Backgammon Club. And then there were the more intimate gatherings that took place in the two private dining rooms adjacent to the Boyarsky: the Yellow and Red Rooms. In their heyday, these retreats were so conducive to frank expressions of sentiment that if one were to eavesdrop at their tables for a month, one would be able to anticipate all of the bankruptcies, weddings, and wars of the year to come.

The Count let his eyes wander over the shelves, then shook his head to express a sense of mystification.

“Surely, the Bolsheviks have discovered this windfall. I wonder why it wasn’t carted off?”

Nina responded with the unclouded judgment of a child.

“Perhaps they need it here.”

Yes, thought the Count. That is it precisely .

For however decisive the Bolsheviks’ victory had been over the privileged classes on behalf of the Proletariat, they would be having banquets soon enough. Perhaps there would not be as many as there had been under the Romanovs—no autumn dances or diamond jubilees—but they were bound to celebrate something, whether the centennial of Das Kapital or the silver anniversary of Lenin’s beard. Guest lists would be drawn up and shortened. Invitations would be engraved and delivered. Then, having gathered around a grand circle of tables, the new statesmen would nod their heads in order to indicate to a waiter (without interrupting the long-winded fellow on his feet) that, yes, they would have a few more spears of asparagus.

For pomp is a tenacious force. And a wily one too.

How humbly it bows its head as the emperor is dragged down the steps and tossed in the street. But then, having quietly bided its time, while helping the newly appointed leader on with his jacket, it compliments his appearance and suggests the wearing of a medal or two. Or, having served him at a formal dinner, it wonders aloud if a taller chair might not have been more fitting for a man with such responsibilities. The soldiers of the common man may toss the banners of the old regime on the victory pyre, but soon enough trumpets will blare and pomp will take its place at the side of the throne, having once again secured its dominion over history and kings.