Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“Didn’t I repair a pair of your pants just last week?”

“I was spying with Nina again,” he explained. “From the balcony of the ballroom.”

The seamstress looked at the Count with one eye expressing consternation and the other disbelief.

“If you’re going to clamber about with a nine-year-old girl, then why do you insist upon wearing pants like those?”

The Count was a little taken aback by the seamstress’s tone.

“When I dressed this morning, it was not my plan to go clambering about. But either way, I’ll have you know that these pants were custom-made on Savile Row.”

“Yes. Custom-made for sitting in a sitting room, or drawing in a drawing room.”

“But I have never drawn in a drawing room.”

“Which is just as well, since you probably would have spilled the ink.”

As Marina seemed neither particularly shy nor delightful that day, the Count offered her the bow of one who would now be on his way.

“Oh, enough of that,” she said. “Behind the screen and off with your pants.”

Without another word the Count went behind the dressing screen, stripped to his shorts, and handed Marina his pants. From the ensuing silence, he could tell that she had found her spool, licked her thread, and was carefully directing it through the eye of the needle.

“Well,” she said, “you might as well tell me what you were doing up in the balcony.”

So, as Marina began stitching the Count’s pants—the laying of locomotive tracks writ small, if you will—he described the Assembly and all his various impressions. Then, almost wistfully, he noted that even as he was seeing the intractability of social conventions and the human tendency to take itself too seriously, Nina was becoming enthralled by the Assembly’s energy and its sense of purpose.

“And what is wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” admitted the Count. “It’s just that only a few weeks ago, she was inviting me to tea in order to ask about the rules of being a princess. . . .”

Handing the Count’s pants back over the screen, Marina shook her head like one who must now deliver a hard truth to an innocent of mind.

“All little girls outgrow their interest in princesses,” she said. “In fact, they outgrow their interest in princesses faster than little boys outgrow their interest in clambering about.”

When the Count left Marina’s office with a thanks, a wave, and the seat of his pants intact, he practically fell over one of the bellhops, who happened to be standing outside the door.

“Excuse me, Count Rostov!”

“That’s quite all right, Petya. No need to apologize. It was my fault, I’m sure.”

The poor lad, who looked positively wide-eyed, hadn’t even noticed that he’d lost his cap. So, picking it up from the floor and placing it back on the bellhop’s head, the Count wished him God’s speed in his business and turned to go.

“But my business is with you .”

“With me?”

“It is Mr. Halecki. He wishes to have a word. In his office.”

No wonder the lad was wide-eyed. Not only had the Count never been summoned by Mr. Halecki, in the four years that he had been in residence in the Metropol he had not seen the manager on more than five occasions.

For Jozef Halecki was one of those rare executives who had mastered the secret of delegation—that is, having assigned the oversight of the hotel’s various functions to capable lieutenants, he made himself scarce. Arriving at the hotel at half past eight, he would head straight to his office with a harried expression, as if he were already late for a meeting. Along the way, he would return greetings with an abbreviated nod, and when he passed his secretary he would inform her (while still in motion) that he was not to be disturbed. Then he would disappear behind his door.

And what happened once he was inside his office?

It was hard to tell, since so few had ever seen it. (Although, those who had caught a glimpse reported that his desk was impressively free of papers, his telephone rarely rang, and along the wall was a burgundy chaise with cushions that were deeply impressed. . . .)

When the manager’s lieutenants had no choice but to knock—due to a fire in the kitchen or a dispute about a bill—the manager would open his door with an expression of such fatigue, such disappointment, such moral defeat that the interrupters would inevitably feel a surge of sympathy, assure him that they could see to the matter themselves, then apologetically back out the door. As a result, the Metropol ran as flawlessly as any hotel in Europe.

Needless to say, the Count was both anxious and intrigued by the manager’s sudden desire to see him. Without further ado, Petya led him down the hall, through the hotel’s back offices, and finally to the manager’s door, which predictably was closed. Expecting Petya to formally announce him, the Count paused a few feet short of the office, but the bellhop made a sheepish gesture toward the door and then vanished. With no clear alternative, the Count knocked. There followed a brief rustling, a moment of silence, and a beleaguered call to come in.

When the Count opened the door, he found Mr. Halecki seated at his desk with a pen firmly in hand, but without a piece of paper in sight. And though the Count was not one to draw conclusions, he did note that the manager’s hair was matted on one side of his head and his reading glasses were crooked on his nose.

“You wished to see me?”

“Ah. Count Rostov. Please. Come in.”

As the Count approached one of the two empty chairs that faced the desk, he noted that hanging above the burgundy chaise was a lovely series of hand-tinted engravings depicting hunting scenes in the English style.

“Those are excellent specimens,” said the Count as he took his seat.

“What’s that? Oh, yes. The prints. Quite excellent. Yes.”

But having said this, the manager removed his glasses and ran a hand over his eyes. Then he shook his head and sighed. And as he did so, the Count felt a welling of that famed sympathy. “How can I be of service to you?” asked the Count, on the edge of his seat.

The manager gave a nod of familiarity, having presumably heard this question a thousand times before, then put both hands on his desk.

“Count Rostov,” he began. “You have been a guest of this hotel for many years. In fact, I gather your first visit here dates back to the days of my predecessor. . . .”

“That’s right,” the Count confirmed with a smile. “It was in August 1913.”

“Quite so.”

“Room 215, I believe.”

“Ah. A delightful room.”

The two men were silent.

“It has been brought to my attention,” the manager continued, if somewhat haltingly, “that various members of the staff when speaking to you . . . have continued to make use of certain . . . honorifics.”

“Honorifics?”

“Yes. More precisely, I gather they have been addressing you as Your Excellency . . . .”

The Count considered the manager’s assertion for a moment.

“Well, yes. I suppose that some of your staff address me in that fashion.”

The manager nodded his head then smiled a little sadly.

“I’m sure you can see the position that this puts me in.”

In point of fact, the Count could not see the position that this put the manager in. But given the Count’s unmitigated feelings of sympathy, he decidedly did not want to put him in any position. So, he listened attentively as Mr. Halecki went on:

“If it were up to me, of course, it goes without saying. But what with . . .”

Here, just when the manager might have pinpointed the most specific of causes, he instead gave an indefinite twirl of the hand and let his voice drift off. Then he cleared his throat.