Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

It is the mark of a fine chess player to tip over his own king when he sees that defeat is inevitable, no matter how many moves remain in the game. Thus, the Count inquired:

“How was your hors d’oeuvre?”

“Splendid.”

The accordion player now began to play a jaunty little melody reminiscent of an English carol. Taking this as his signal, the Count indicated that he would like to make a toast.

“It is a sad but unavoidable fact of life,” he began, “that as we age our social circles grow smaller. Whether from increased habit or diminished vigor, we suddenly find ourselves in the company of just a few familiar faces. So I view it as an incredible stroke of good fortune at this stage in my life to have found such a fine new friend.”

With that, the Count reached into his pocket and presented Nina with a gift.

“Here is a little something that I made great use of when I was your age. May it tide you over until you travel incognito .”

Nina smiled in a manner that suggested (rather unconvincingly) that he absolutely shouldn’t have. Then she unwrapped the paper to reveal the Countess Rostov’s hexagonal opera glasses.

“They were my grandmother’s,” said the Count.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Nina was struck dumb. She turned the little binoculars in her hands, admiring the mother-of-pearl scopes and delicate brass fittings. Then she held them to her eyes so she could slowly scan the room.

“You know me better than anyone,” she said after a moment. “I shall treasure them to my dying day.”

That she had not thought to bring a present for the Count struck him as perfectly understandable. After all, she was only a child; and the days of unwrapping surprises were decidedly behind him.

“It’s getting late,” said the Count. “I wouldn’t want you to keep your father waiting.”

“Yes,” she admitted regretfully. “It is time for me to go.”

Then looking back toward the captain’s station, she raised a hand as one who signals for the check. But when the captain approached the table, he did not have the check. Instead, he had a large yellow box tied with dark green ribbon.

“Here,” Nina said, “is a little something for you. But you must promise that you will not open it until the stroke of midnight.”

When Nina left the Piazza to join her father, the Count’s intention had been to settle the check, proceed to the Boyarsky (for an herb-encrusted lamb chop), and then retire to his study with a glass of port to await the chime of twelve. But as the accordion player launched into a second carol, the Count found himself turning his attention to the neighboring table, where a young man seemed to be in the earliest stages of romantic discovery.

In some lecture hall, this lad with a hint of a moustache had presumably admired his fellow student for the sharpness of her intellect and the seriousness of her mien. Eventually, he had worked up the nerve to invite her out, perhaps under the pretense of discussing some matter of ideological interest. And now here she was, sitting before him in the Piazza looking about the room without a smile on her face or a word on her lips.

Attempting to break the silence, the lad remarked on the upcoming conference to unify the Soviet republics—a reasonable gambit given her apparent intensity. Sure enough, the young lady had views on the subject; but as she voiced her opinion on the Transcaucas question, the tenor of the conversation turned decidedly technical. What’s more, the young man, having adopted an expression as serious as hers, was clearly out of his depth. Were he to venture his own opinion now, he would almost certainly be revealed as a poseur, as one who was inadequately informed on the crucial issues of the day. From there, the evening could only get worse, and he would end up dragging his hopes behind him in the manner of the chastened child who drags his stuffed bear thumping up the stairs.

But just as the young lady was inviting him to share his thoughts on the matter, the accordion player began a little number with a Spanish flair. It must have struck a chord, because she interrupted herself in order to look at the musician and wonder aloud where that melody was from.

“It is from the The Nutcracker ,” the young man responded without a thought.

“ The Nutcracker . . . , ” she repeated.

Given the prevailing sobriety of her expression, it was unclear what she thought of this music from another era. As such, many a veteran would have counseled the young man to proceed with caution—to wait and hear what associations the music held for her. Instead, he acted; and he acted boldly.

“When I was a boy, my grandmother took me every year.”

The young lady turned back from the musician to face her companion.

“I suppose some think the music sentimental,” he continued, “but I never fail to attend the ballet when it is performed in December, even if it means attending alone.”

Well done, lad.

The expression on the girl’s face softened noticeably and her eyes displayed a hint of interest, that here was an unexpected aspect of her new acquaintance, something pure and heartfelt and unapologetic. Her lips parted as she prepared to ask a question—

“Are you ready to order?”

It was the Bishop leaning over their table.

Of course they are not ready to order, the Count wished to shout. As any fool can see!

If the young man were wise, he would send the Bishop packing and ask the young lady to go on with her question. Instead, he dutifully picked up the menu. Perhaps he imagined that the perfect dish would leap off the page and identify itself by name. But for a hopeful young man trying to impress a serious young woman, the menu of the Piazza was as perilous as the Straits of Messina. On the left was a Scylla of lower-priced dishes that could suggest a penny-pinching lack of flair; and on the right was a Charybdis of delicacies that could empty one’s pockets while painting one pretentious. The young man’s gaze drifted back and forth between these opposing hazards. But in a stroke of genius, he ordered the Latvian stew.

While this traditional dish of pork, onions, and apricots was reasonably priced, it was also reasonably exotic; and it somehow harkened back to that world of grandmothers and holidays and sentimental melodies that they had been about to discuss when so rudely interrupted.

“I’ll have the same,” said our serious young lady.

The same!

And then she glanced at her hopeful young acquaintance with a touch of that tenderness that Natasha had shown Pierre in War and Peace at the end of Volume Two.

“And would you like some wine to go with your stew?” asked the Bishop.

The young man hesitated and then picked up the wine list with uncertain hands. It may well have been the first time in his life that he had ordered a bottle of wine. Never mind that he didn’t grasp the merits of the 1900 versus the 1901, he didn’t know a Burgundy from a Bordeaux.

Giving the young man no more than a minute to consider his options, the Bishop leaned forward and poked the list with a condescending smile.

“Perhaps the Rioja.”

The Rioja? Now there was a wine that would clash with the stew as Achilles clashed with Hector. It would slay the dish with a blow to the head and drag it behind its chariot until it tested the fortitude of every man in Troy. Besides, it plainly cost three times what the young man could afford.

With a shake of the head, the Count reflected that there was simply no substitute for experience. Here had been an ideal opportunity for a waiter to fulfill his purpose. By recommending a suitable wine, he could have put a young man at ease, perfected a meal, and furthered the cause of romance, all in a stroke. But whether from a lack of subtlety or a lack of sense, the Bishop had not only failed in his purpose, he had put his customer in a corner. And the young man, clearly unsure of what to do and beginning to feel as if the whole restaurant were watching, was on the verge of accepting the Bishop’s suggestion.