Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

In the interests of realism, Mishka tried to stand on the banquette, nearly knocking over his beer. He settled for a seated oration with a finger in the air:

Suddenly—I

shone in all my might,

and morning rang its round.

Always to shine,

to shine everywhere,

to the very depths of the last days,

to shine—

and to hell with everything else!

That is my motto—

and the sun’s!

Naturally, Mayakovsky’s poem prompted unrestrained applause and the smashing of glasses. But then, just as everyone had settled down and was preparing to slice into their chicken, some fellow named Zelinsky was up on his chair.

“For, of course, we must hear from Zelinsky,” muttered Mishka. “As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with Mayakovsky. As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with a bottle of milk.”

Mishka took another sip.

“You remember Zelinsky. No? The one who was a few years behind us at the university? The one who wore a monocle in ’16 and a sailor’s cap the following year? Well, anyway, you know the sort, Sasha—the type who must always have their hands on the wheel. At the end of dinner, say two of you are lingering in your chairs to continue a discussion from earlier in the day—well, there is Zelinsky proclaiming that he knows just the place to carry on the conversation. Next thing you know, there are ten of you being crowded around a table in some basement café. When you go to take a seat, he has a hand on your shoulder, steering you to this end of the table or that. And when someone calls for bread, he has a better idea. They have the best zavitushki in Moscow, he says. And before you know it, he’s snapping his fingers in the air.”

Here Mishka snapped his fingers three times so emphatically that the Count had to wave off the ever-attentive Audrius, who was already halfway across the room.

“And his ideas!” Mishka continued in disdain. “On and on he goes with his declarations, as if he is in a position to enlighten anyone on matters of verse. And what does he have to say to the impressionable young student at his side? That all poets must eventually bow before the haiku. Bow before the haiku! Can you imagine.”

“For my part,” contributed the Count, “I am glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan.”

Mishka stared at the Count for a moment then burst out laughing.

“Yes,” he said, slapping the table and wiping a tear from his eye. “Glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan. I shall have to remember to tell that one to Katerina.”

Mishka smiled in apparent anticipation of telling that one to Katerina.

“Katerina . . . ?” asked the Count.

Mishka casually reached for his beer.

“Katerina Litvinova. Have I not mentioned her before? She’s a talented young poet from Kiev—in her second year at the university. We sit on a committee together.”

Mishka leaned back in order to drink from his glass. The Count leaned back in order to smile at his companion—as the entire picture came into focus.

A new jacket and a well-groomed beard . . .

A discussion after dinner continued from earlier in the day . . .

And a Zelinsky who, having dragged everyone to his favorite little nightspot, steers an impressionable young poet to one end of the table and a Mishka to the other. . . .

As Mishka continued with his description of the previous evening, the irony of the situation did not escape the Count: that during all those years they had lived above the cobbler’s, it was Mishka who had stayed put and the Count who, having apologized that he couldn’t join his friend for dinner, had returned hours later with tales of lively toasts and tête-à-têtes and impromptu outings to candlelit cafés.

Did the Count take some pleasure in hearing about Mishka’s late-night skirmishes? Of course he did. Particularly when he learned that at the end of the evening, as the group was about to climb into three different cabs, Mishka reminded Zelinsky that he had forgotten his hat; and when Zelinsky dashed back inside to retrieve it, Katerina from Kiev leaned from her cab to call: Here, Mikhail Fyodorovich, why don’t you ride with us. . . .

Yes, the Count took pleasure in his old friend’s romantic skirmish; but that is not to suggest that he didn’t feel the sting of envy.

Half an hour later, after the Count had sent Mishka off to a discussion on the future of meter (at which Katerina from Kiev would presumably be in attendance), he headed to the Boyarsky, apparently destined to dine on duck alone. But just as he was leaving, Audrius beckoned.

Sliding a folded piece of paper across the bar, Audrius explained under his breath: “I was instructed to relay this to you.”

“To me? From whom?”

“Miss Urbanova.”

“Miss Urbanova?”

“Anna Urbanova. The movie star.”

Since the Count still showed no sign of understanding, the bartender explained a little more loudly: “The one who was sitting at that table across from you.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.”

As Audrius returned to his work, the Count unfolded the piece of paper, which bore the following request in a willowy script:

Please allow me a second chance

at a first impression

in suite 208

When the Count knocked on the door of suite 208, it was opened by an older woman who regarded him with impatience.

“Yes?”

“I am Alexander Rostov. . . .”

“You’re expected. Come in. Miss Urbanova will be a moment.”

Instinctively, the Count prepared to offer the woman a witty remark about the weather, but when he stepped inside she stepped out and closed the door, leaving him alone in the entryway.

Decorated in the style of a Venetian palazzo, suite 208 was one of the finest accommodations on the floor and looked no worse for wear now that the tireless typers of directives had finally moved to the Kremlin. With a bedroom and drawing room on either side of a grand salon, its ceilings were painted with allegorical figures gazing down from the heavens. On an ornate side table stood two towering arrangements of flowers—one of calla lilies and the other of long-stemmed roses. The fact that the two arrangements matched each other in extravagance while clashing in color suggested they were from competing admirers. One could only imagine what a third admirer would feel obliged to send. . . .

“I’ll be right out,” called a voice from the bedroom.

“Take your time,” called back the Count.

At the sound of his voice, there was a light clacking of nails on the floor as the borzois appeared from the drawing room.

“Hello, boys,” he said, giving them another scratch behind the ears.

Having paid their respects, the dogs trotted to the windows overlooking Theatre Square and rested their forepaws on the sills in order to watch the movement of the cars below.

“Count Rostov!”

Turning, the Count found the actress dressed in her third outfit of the day: black pants and an ivory blouse. With the smile of an old acquaintance and her hand extended, she approached.

“I’m so pleased you could come.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Urbanova.”

“I doubt that. But please, call me Anna.”

Before the Count could reply, there was a knock at the door.

“Ah,” she said. “Here we are.”

Swinging the door open, she stepped aside to let Oleg from room service pass. When Oleg caught sight of the Count, he nearly ran his dinner cart into the competing arrangements of flowers.

“Perhaps over there by the window,” suggested the actress.

“Yes, Miss Urbanova,” said Oleg, who, having regained his composure, set a table for two, lit a candle, and backed out the door.