Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“If I may,” the Count interjected. “For a serving of Latvian stew, you will find no better choice than a bottle of the Mukuzani.”

Leaning toward their table and mimicking the perfectly parted fingers of Andrey, the Count gestured to the entry on the list. That this wine was a fraction of the cost of the Rioja need not be a matter of a discussion between gentlemen. Instead, the Count simply noted: “The Georgians practically grow their grapes in the hopes that one day they will accompany such a stew.”

The young man exchanged a brief glance with his companion as if to say, Who is this eccentric? But then he turned to the Bishop.

“A bottle of the Mukuzani.”

“Of course,” replied the Bishop.

Minutes later, the wine had been presented and poured, and the young woman was asking her companion what his grandmother was like. While for his part, the Count cast off any thoughts of herb-encrusted lamb at the Boyarsky. Instead, he summoned Petya to take Nina’s present to his room and ordered the Latvian stew and a bottle of the Mukuzani for himself.

And just as he’d suspected, it was the perfect dish for the season. The onions thoroughly caramelized, the pork slowly braised, and the apricots briefly stewed, the three ingredients came together in a sweet and smoky medley that simultaneously suggested the comfort of a snowed-in tavern and the jangle of a Gypsy tambourine.

As the Count took a sip of his wine, the young couple caught his eye and raised their own glasses in a toast of gratitude and kinship. Then they returned to their conversation, which had grown so intimate, it could no longer be heard over the sound of the accordion.

Young love, thought the Count with a smile. There is nothing novaya about it.

“Will there be anything else?”

It was the Bishop addressing the Count. He considered for a moment, then he asked for a single scoop of vanilla ice cream.

As the Count entered the lobby, he noticed four men in evening dress coming through the door with black leather cases in hand, clearly one of the string quartets that occasionally played in the private dining rooms upstairs.

Three of the musicians looked as if they had been performing together since the nineteenth century, sharing the same white hair and weary professionalism. But the second violinist stood out from the others as he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two and retained a certain brightness to his step. It was only as the quartet approached the elevator that the Count recognized him.

The Count probably hadn’t seen Nikolai Petrov since 1914 when the Prince had been no more than a lad of thirteen; and given the passage of time, the Count might not have recognized him at all were it not for his unassuming smile—a distinguishing feature of the Petrov line for generations.

“Nikolai?”

When the Count spoke, the four musicians turned from the elevator and eyed him with curiosity.

“Alexander Ilyich . . . ?” the Prince asked after a moment.

“None other.”

The Prince encouraged his colleagues to go ahead and then offered the Count the familial smile.

“It’s good to see you, Alexander.”

“And you.”

They were quiet for a moment, then the Prince’s expression changed from one of surprise to curiosity.

“Is that . . . ice cream?”

“What? Oh! Yes, it is. Though not for me.”

The Prince nodded in bemusement, but without further remark.

“Tell me,” the Count ventured, “have you heard from Dmitry?”

“I believe he is in Switzerland.”

“Ah,” said the Count with a smile. “The purest air in Europe.”

The Prince shrugged, as if to say he had heard something of the sort, but wouldn’t know firsthand.

“The last time I saw you,” observed the Count, “you were playing Bach at one of your grandmother’s dinner parties.”

The Prince laughed and held up his case.

“I guess I am still playing Bach at dinner parties.”

Then he gestured toward the departed elevator and said with unmistakable fondness:

“That was Sergei Eisenov.”

“No!”

At the turn of the century, Sergei Eisenov had given music lessons to half the boys on the Boulevard Ring.

“It’s not easy for our likes to find work,” said the Prince. “But Sergei hires me when he can.”

The Count had so many questions: Were there other members of the Petrov family still in Moscow? Was his grandmother alive? Was he still living in that wonderful house on Pushkin Square? But the two were standing in the middle of a hotel lobby as men and women headed up the stairs—including some in formal clothes.

“They’ll be wondering what’s become of me,” said the Prince.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

The Prince nodded and turned to mount the stairs, but then turned back.

“We are playing here again on Saturday night,” he said. “Perhaps we could meet afterwards for a drink.”

“That would be splendid,” said the Count.*

When the Count arrived on the sixth floor, he clicked his tongue three times then went into his bedroom, leaving the door ajar. On the desk sat Nina’s gift where Petya had left it. Taking it under an arm, the Count passed through his jackets into his study, set the present on his grandmother’s table, and put the bowl of melted ice cream on the floor. As the Count poured himself a glass of port, a silvery shadow swerved around his feet and approached the bowl.

“Happy holidays to you, Herr Drosselmeyer.”

“Meow,” replied the cat.

According to the twice-tolling clock, it was only eleven. So with his port in one hand and A Christmas Carol in the other, the Count tilted back his chair and dutifully waited for the chime of twelve. Admittedly, it takes a certain amount of discipline to sit in a chair and read a novel, even a seasonal one, when a beautifully wrapped present waits within arm’s reach and the only witness is a one-eyed cat. But this was a discipline the Count had mastered as a child when, in the days leading up to Christmas, he had marched past the closed drawing-room doors with the unflinching stare of a Buckingham Palace guard.

The young Count’s self-mastery did not stem from a precocious admiration of military regimentation, nor a priggish adherence to household rules. By the time he was ten, it was perfectly clear that the Count was neither priggish nor regimental (as a phalanx of educators, caretakers, and constables could attest). No, if the Count mastered the discipline of marching past the closed drawing-room doors, it was because experience had taught him that this was the best means of ensuring the splendor of the season.

For on Christmas Eve, when his father finally gave the signal and he and Helena were allowed to pull the doors apart—there was the twelve-foot spruce lit up from trunk to tip and garlands hanging from every shelf. There were the bowls of oranges from Seville and the brightly colored candies from Vienna. And hidden somewhere under the tree was that unexpected gift—be it a wooden sword with which to defend the ramparts, or a lantern with which to explore a mummy’s tomb.

Such is the magic of Christmas in childhood, thought the Count a little wistfully, that a single gift can provide one with endless hours of adventure while not even requiring one to leave one’s house .

Drosselmeyer, who had retired to the other high-back chair to lick his paws, suddenly turned his one-eyed gaze toward the closet door with his little ears upright. What he must have heard was the whirring of inner wheels, for a second later came the first of midnight’s chimes.

Setting his book and his port aside, the Count placed Nina’s gift in his lap with his fingers on the dark green bow and listened to the tolling of the clock. Only with the twelfth and final chime did he pull the ribbon’s ends.