Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“I daresay he has something there,” said the Brit. Then he raised his glass and emptied it. So the Count emptied his, and after a grumble, the German followed suit.

“Number two?” asked the Brit, as Audrius refilled the glasses.

“Act one, scene one of The Nutcracker .”

“Tchaikovsky!” the German guffawed.

“You laugh, mein Herr . And yet, I would wager a thousand crowns that you can picture it yourself. On Christmas Eve, having celebrated with family and friends in a room dressed with garlands, Clara sleeps soundly on the floor with her magnificent new toy. But at the stroke of midnight, with the one-eyed Drosselmeyer perched on the grandfather clock like an owl, the Christmas tree begins to grow. . . .”

As the Count raised his hands slowly over the bar to suggest the growth of the tree, the Brit began to whistle the famous march from the opening act.

“Yes, exactly,” said the Count to the Brit. “It is commonly said that the English know how to celebrate Advent best. But with all due respect, to witness the essence of winter cheer one must venture farther north than London. One must venture above the fiftieth parallel to where the course of the sun is its most elliptical and the force of the wind its most unforgiving. Dark, cold, and snowbound, Russia has the sort of climate in which the spirit of Christmas burns brightest. And that is why Tchaikovsky seems to have captured the sound of it better than anyone else. I tell you that not only will every European child of the twentieth century know the melodies of The Nutcracker , they will imagine their Christmas just as it is depicted in the ballet; and on the Christmas Eves of their dotage, Tchaikovsky’s tree will grow from the floor of their memories until they are gazing up in wonder once again.”

The Brit gave a sentimental laugh and emptied his glass.

“The story was written by a Prussian,” said the German, as he begrudgingly lifted his drink.

“I grant you that,” conceded the Count. “And but for Tchaikovsky, it would have remained in Prussia.”

As Audrius refilled the glasses, the ever-attentive tender at bar noted the Count’s look of inquiry and replied with a nod of confirmation.

“Third,” said the Count. Then in lieu of explanation, he simply gestured to the Shalyapin’s entrance where a waiter suddenly appeared with a silver platter balanced on the palm of his hand. Placing the platter on the bar between the two foreigners, he lifted the dome to reveal a generous serving of caviar accompanied by blini and sour cream. Even the German could not help but smile, his appetite getting the better of his prejudices.

Anyone who has spent an hour drinking vodka by the glass knows that size has surprisingly little to do with a man’s capacity. There are tiny men for whom the limit is seven and giants for whom it is two. For our German friend, the limit appeared to be three. For if the Tolstoy dropped him in a barrel, and the Tchaikovsky set him adrift, then the caviar sent him over the falls. So, having wagged a chastising finger at the Count, he moved to the corner of the bar, laid his head on his arms, and dreamed of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Taking this as a signal, the Count prepared to push back his stool, but the young Brit was refilling his glass.

“The caviar was a stroke of genius,” he said. “But how did you manage it? You never left our sight.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

The Brit laughed. Then he studied the Count as if with renewed curiosity.

“Who are you?”

The Count shrugged.

“I am someone you have met in a bar.”

“No. That’s not quite it. I know a man of erudition when I meet one. And I heard how the bartender referred to you. Who are you, really?”

The Count offered a self-deprecating smile.

“At one time, I was Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov—recipient of the Order of Saint Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt. . . .”

The young Brit held out his hand.

“Charles Abernethy—presumptive heir to the Earl of Westmorland, financier’s apprentice, and bowman of the losing Cambridge crew at Henley in 1920.”

The two gentlemen shook hands and drank. And then the presumptive heir to the Earl of Westmorland studied the Count again. “This must have been quite a decade for you. . . .”

“You could put it that way,” said the Count.

“Did you try to leave after the Revolution?”

“On the contrary, Charles; I came back because of it.”

Charles looked at the Count in surprise.

“You came back?”

“I was in Paris when the Hermitage fell. I had left the country before the war due to certain . . . circumstances.”

“You weren’t an anarchist, were you?”

The Count laughed.

“Hardly.”

“Then what?”

The Count looked into his empty glass. He hadn’t spoken of these events in so many years.

“It is late,” he said. “And the story is long.”

By way of response, Charles refilled their glasses.

So the Count took Charles all the way back to the fall of 1913, when on an inclement night he had set out for the twenty-first birthday of the Princess Novobaczky. He described the ice on the driveway, and Mrs. Trent’s roast, and the torn IOU—and how a few degrees here and there had landed him on the terrace in the arms of the Princess while the rash lieutenant retched in the grass.

Charles laughed.

“But, Alexander, that sounds splendid. Surely, it’s not the reason you left Russia.”

“No,” admitted the Count, but then he continued with his fateful tale: “Seven months pass, Charles. It is the spring of 1914, and I return to the family estate for a visit. Having paid my respects to my grandmother in the library, I venture outside in search of my sister, Helena, who likes to read under the great elm at the bend in the river. From a hundred feet away, I can tell that she is not herself—that is, I can tell that she is more than herself. Upon seeing me she sits up with a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her lips, clearly eager to share some piece of news, which I am now equally eager to hear. But just as I cross the lawn toward her, she looks over my shoulder and smiles even more brightly to see a lone figure approaching on a steed—a lone figure in the uniform of the Hussars. . . .

“You see the dilemma the fox had put me in, Charles. While I had been carousing back in Moscow, he had sought my sister out. He had arranged an introduction and then courted her carefully, patiently, successfully . And when he swung down from the saddle and our eyes met, he could barely keep the twist of mirth from his lips. But how was I to explain the situation to Helena? This angel of a thousand virtues? How was I to tell her that the man she has fallen in love with has sought her affections not due to an appreciation of her qualities, but to settle a score?”

“What did you do?”

“Ah, Charles. What did I do? I did nothing. I thought surely his true nature would find occasion to express itself—much as it had at the Novobaczkys’. So in the weeks that followed, I hovered at the edge of their courtship. I suffered through lunches and teas. I ground my teeth as I watched them stroll through the gardens. But as I bided my time, his self-control surpassed my wildest expectations. He pulled out her chair; he picked blossoms; he read verses; he wrote verses! And always when he caught my eye there was that little twist in his smile.

“But then on the afternoon of my sister’s twentieth birthday, when he was off on maneuvers and we were paying a visit to a neighbor, we returned at dusk to find his troika in front of our house. From a glance at Helena, I could sense her elation. He has rushed back all the way from his battalion, she was thinking, to wish me well on my day. She nearly jumped from her horse and ran up the steps; and I followed her like a condemned man to the noose.”