Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“Naturally, I have little choice but to insist that my staff refrain from using such terms when addressing you. After all, I think we can agree without exaggeration or fear of contradiction that the times have changed.”

In concluding thus, the manager looked to the Count so hopefully, that the Count took immediate pains to reassure him.

“It is the business of the times to change, Mr. Halecki. And it is the business of gentlemen to change with them.”

The manager looked to the Count with an expression of profound gratitude—that someone should understand what he had said so perfectly no further explication was required.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal Arkady, the hotel’s desk captain. The manager’s shoulders slumped at the sight of him. He gestured toward the Count.

“As you can see, Arkady, I am in the midst of a conversation with one of our guests.”

“My apologies, Mr. Halecki, Count Rostov.”

Arkady bowed to both men, but did not retreat.

“All right then,” said the manager. “What is it?”

Arkady gave a slight gesture of the head to suggest that what he had to relate might best be related in private.

“Very well.”

Pushing himself up with both hands, the manager shuffled past his desk, out into the hall, and closed the door, such that the Count found himself alone.

Your Excellency , the Count reflected philosophically. Your Eminence, Your Holiness, Your Highness . Once upon a time, the use of such terms was a reliable indication that one was in a civilized country. But now, what with . . .

Here, the Count gave an indefinite twirl of the hand.

“Well. It is probably for the best,” he said.

Then rising from his chair, he approached the engravings, which upon closer inspection depicted three phases of a foxhunt: “The Scent,” “Tallyho,” and “The Chase.” In the second print, a young man in stiff black boots and a bright red jacket was blowing on a brass horn that turned a full 360 degrees from its mouthpiece to its bell. Without a doubt, the horn was a carefully crafted object expressive of beauty and tradition, but was it essential to the modern world? For that matter, did we really need a crew of nattily dressed men, purebred horses, and well-trained dogs to corner a fox in a hole? Without exaggeration or fear of contradiction, the Count could answer his own question in the negative.

For the times do, in fact, change. They change relentlessly. Inevitably. Inventively. And as they change, they set into bright relief not only outmoded honorifics and hunting horns, but silver summoners and mother-of-pearl opera glasses and all manner of carefully crafted things that have outlived their usefulness.

Carefully crafted things that have outlived their usefulness, thought the Count. I wonder . . .

Moving quietly across the room, the Count put an ear to the door, where he could hear the voices of the manager, Arkady, and a third party talking outside. Though muted, their tones suggested they were still a few steps from resolution. Quickly, the Count returned to the wall with the etchings and counted two panels beyond the depiction of “The Chase.” Placing his hand in the center of the panel, he gave a firm push. The panel depressed slightly. When a click sounded, the Count pulled back his fingers and the panel popped open, revealing a hidden cabinet. Inside, just as the Grand Duke had described, was an inlaid box with brass fittings. Reaching into the cabinet, the Count gently lifted the lid of the box and there they were, perfectly crafted and peacefully at rest.

“Marvelous,” he said. “Simply marvelous.”

Archeologies

Pick a card,” the Count was saying to the smallest of the three ballerinas.

When he had entered the Shalyapin for his reinstated nightly aperitif, the Count had discovered them standing in a row, their delicate fingers resting on the bar as if they intended to plié. But for a solitary drinker hunched over his consolation, the young ladies were alone in the bar; so it seemed only appropriate that the Count should join them in a bit of conversation.

In an instant, he could tell that they were new to Moscow—three of the doves that Gorsky recruited from the provinces every September to join the corps de ballet . Their short torsos and long limbs were of the classical style preferred by the director, but their expressions had yet to acquire the aloofness of his more seasoned ballerinas. And the very fact that they were drinking at the Metropol unaccompanied hinted at a youthful naïveté. For while the proximity of the hotel to the Bolshoi made it a natural choice for young ballerinas who wished to slip away at the end of rehearsal, the same proximity also made it a favored spot of Gorsky’s whenever he wished to discuss matters of art with his prima ballerina. And should these doves be discovered by the director sipping muscat, they would soon be doing the pas de deux in Petropavlosk.

With that in mind, perhaps the Count should have warned them.

But freedom of the will has been a well-established tenet of moral philosophy since the time of the Greeks. And though the Count’s days of romancing were behind him, it goes against the nature of even the well-meaning gentleman to recommend that lovely young ladies leave his company on the basis of hypotheses.

So, instead, the Count remarked on the young ladies’ beauty, inquired what brought them to Moscow, congratulated them on their achievements, insisted upon paying for their wine, chatted with them about their hometowns, and eventually offered to perform a sleight of hand.

A deck of cards with the Metropol’s insignia was produced by the ever-attentive Audrius.

“It has been years since I have done this trick,” the Count admitted, “so you must bear with me.”

As he began to shuffle the pack, the three ballerinas watched him closely; but like demigods of ancient myth, they watched in three different ways: the first through the eyes of the innocent, the second through the eyes of the romantic, and the third through the eyes of the skeptic. It was the dove with the innocent eyes whom the Count had asked to pick a card.

As the ballerina was making her selection, the Count became aware of someone standing behind his shoulder, but this was to be expected. In the setting of a bar, a sleight of hand will inevitably attract a curious onlooker or two. But when he turned to his left to offer a wink, he found not a curious onlooker, but unflappable Arkady—looking unusually flapped.

“Pardon me, Count Rostov. I am sorry to interrupt. But may I have a moment?”

“Certainly, Arkady.”

Smiling apologetically to the ballerinas, the desk captain led the Count a few paces away, then let the facts of the evening speak for themselves: At half past six, a gentleman had knocked at the suite of Secretary Tarakovsky. When the esteemed Secretary opened the door, this gentleman demanded to know who he was and what he was doing there! Taken aback, comrade Tarakovsky explained that he was the current resident of the suite and that was what he was doing there. Unconvinced by this logic, the gentleman insisted he be admitted at once. When comrade Tarakovsky refused, the gentleman brushed him aside, crossed the threshold, and commenced searching the rooms one by one, including, ahem, the salle de bain —where Mrs. Tarakovsky was seeing to her nightly toilette .

This was the point at which Arkady had arrived on the scene, having been summoned urgently by phone. In an agitated state, comrade Tarakovsky waved his cane and demanded “as a regular guest of the Metropol and senior member of the Party” to see the manager at once.