Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“What do you think, mein Herr ? A dapper hat?”

The cat looked up at the Count and in deference to the season began to purr. The Count replied with a nod and then carefully lifted the lid . . . only to discover another box wrapped in yellow and tied with a dark green bow.

Setting the empty box aside, the Count nodded again to the cat, pulled the strands of the second bow, and lifted the second lid . . . only to discover a third box. Dutifully, the Count repeated the debowing and unlidding with the next three boxes, until he held one the size of a matchbox. But when he untied the bow and lifted the lid on this box, inside the cozy chamber, strung on a bit of the dark green ribbon, was Nina’s passkey to the hotel.

When the Count climbed into bed with his Dickens at 12:15, he assumed he would only read a paragraph or two before switching off the light; but instead, he found himself reading with the greatest interest.

He had reached the part in the story where Scrooge is being spirited around by that jolly giant, the Ghost of Christmas Present. Over the course of his childhood, the Count had been read A Christmas Carol no less than three times. So, he certainly remembered the visit Scrooge and his guide paid to the laughter-filled party at Scrooge’s nephew’s house; just as he remembered the visit they paid to the humble, yet heartfelt celebration at the Cratchits’. But he had completely forgotten that upon leaving the Cratchits’, the Second Spirit had taken Scrooge out of the city of London altogether, to a bleak and deserted moor where a family of miners was celebrating the season in their ramshackle hut at the edge of the mine; and from there to a lighthouse on a rocky outpost where the waves thundered as the two craggy keepers of the beacon joined their hands in yuletide song; and from there, further and further the Spirit carried Scrooge, into the howling darkness of the rolling sea, until they alit upon the deck of a ship where every man good or bad had fond thoughts of home and a kinder word for his mates.

Who knows.

Perhaps what stirred the Count were these far-flung figures sharing in the fellowship of the season despite their lives of hard labor in inhospitable climes. Perhaps it was the sight earlier in the evening of that modern young couple proceeding toward romance in the age-old fashion. Perhaps it was the chance meeting with Nikolai, who, despite his heritage, seemed to be finding a place for himself in the new Russia. Or perhaps it was the utterly unanticipated blessing of Nina’s friendship. Whatever the cause, when the Count closed his book and turned out the light, he fell asleep with a great sense of well-being.

But had the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come suddenly appeared and roused the Count to give him a glimpse of the future, he would have seen that his sense of well-being had been premature. For less than four years later, after another careful accounting of the twice-tolling clock’s twelve chimes, Alexander Ilyich Rostov would be climbing to the roof of the Metropol Hotel in his finest jacket and gamely approaching its parapet in order to throw himself into the street below.

BOOK TWO

1923 An Actress, an Apparition, an Apiary

At five o’clock on the twenty-first of June, the Count stood before his closet with his hand on his plain gray blazer and hesitated. In a few minutes, he would be on his way to the barbershop for his weekly visit, and then to the Shalyapin to meet Mishka, who would probably be wearing the same brown jacket he’d worn since 1913. As such, the gray blazer seemed a perfectly suitable choice of attire. That is, until one considered that it was an anniversary of sorts—for it had been one year to the day since the Count had last set foot outside of the Metropol Hotel.

But how was one to celebrate such an anniversary? And should one? For while house arrest is a definitive infringement upon one’s liberty, presumably it is also intended to be something of a humiliation. So both pride and common sense would suggest that such an anniversary might best be left unmarked.

And yet . . .

Even men in the most trying of circumstances—like those lost at sea or confined to prison—will find the means to carefully account the passing of a year. Despite the fact that all the splendid modulations of the seasons and those colorful festivities that recur in the course of normal life have been replaced by a tyranny of indistinguishable days, the men in such situations will carve their 365 notches into a piece of wood or scratch them into the walls of their cell.

Why do they go to such lengths to mark time? When, ostensibly, to do so should matter to them least of all? Well, for one, it provides an occasion to reflect on the inevitable progress of the world they’ve left behind: Ah, Alyosha must now be able to climb the tree in the yard; and Vanya must be entering the academy; and Nadya, dear Nadya, will soon be of an age to marry. . . .

But just as important, a careful accounting of days allows the isolated to note that another year of hardship has been endured; survived; bested. Whether they have found the strength to persevere through a tireless determination or some foolhardy optimism, those 365 hatch marks stand as proof of their indomitability. For after all, if attentiveness should be measured in minutes and discipline measured in hours, then indomitability must be measured in years. Or, if philosophical investigations are not to your taste, then let us simply agree that the wise man celebrates what he can.

Thus, the Count donned his finest smoking jacket (custom-made in Paris from a burgundy velvet) and headed down the stairs.

When the Count reached the lobby, before he could continue to the barbershop his eyes were drawn to a willowy figure coming through the hotel’s doors. But then all eyes in the lobby were drawn to her. A tall woman in her midtwenties with arched eyebrows and auburn hair, she was indisputably striking. And as she approached the front desk, she walked with a breezy sureness as seemingly unaware of the feathers projecting from her hat as of the bellhops dragging her luggage behind her. But what guaranteed her position as the natural center of attention were the two borzois she had on leash.

In an instant the Count could see that they were magnificent beasts. Their coats silver, their loins lean, their every sense alert, these dogs had been raised to give chase in the cold October air with a hunting party hot on their heels. And at day’s end? They were meant to sit at the feet of their master before a fire in a manor house—not adorn the hands of a willow in the lobby of a grand hotel. . . .

The injustice of this was not lost on the dogs. As their mistress addressed Arkady at the front desk, they tugged every which way, sniffing about for familiar landmarks.

“Stop it!” the willow commanded in a surprisingly husky voice. Then she yanked in a manner that showed she had no more familiarity with the wolfhounds on her leashes than she had with the birds that had feathered her hat.

The Count gave the situation the shake of the head it deserved. But as he turned to go, he noticed with some amusement that a slender shadow suddenly jumped from behind a wingback chair to the edge of one of the potted palms. It was none other than Field Marshal Kutuzov attaining higher ground to take measure of his foes . When the dogs turned their heads in unison with their ears upright, the one-eyed cat slipped behind the trunk of the tree. Then having satisfied himself that the dogs were securely tethered, the cat alit from the palm to the floor and without even bothering to arch his back opened his little jaws and hissed.

With a terrific volley of barking, the dogs leapt to the extent of their leashes, tugging their mistress from the front desk as the ledger pen clattered to the floor.