Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Two days after the premiere, an open letter was written to Pravda by an up-and-coming apparatchik (who had been sitting just a few seats behind Soso). The film was entertaining in its way, he conceded, but what was one to make of Rosotsky’s incessant return to the era of princes and princesses? Of waltzing and candlelight and marble stairs? Had not his fascination with the past begun to smell suspiciously of nostalgia? And once again, does not his story line seem centered on the trials and triumphs of the individual? A predilection that he reinforces by his rather excessive reliance on the close-up? Yes, we have another beautiful woman in another beautiful gown, but where is the historical immediacy? And where the collective struggle?

Four days after the letter appeared in Pravda , Soso took a moment before addressing the Plenum to approach this new film critic and compliment him on his turns of phrase. Two weeks after the Plenum, the substance of the letter (and a few of its turns of phrase) were echoed in three more newspapers and a journal of the arts. The film received limited distribution to second-rate theaters, where it was met with muted applause. By that autumn, not only was Rosotsky’s next project up in the air, his political reliability had come into question. . . .

An ingénue in film but not in life, Anna understood that Rosotsky’s fall from grace was a stone that could quickly drag her to the depths. She began avoiding public appearances in his company, while openly praising the aesthetics of other directors; and this stratagem might well have succeeded in securing her a new avenue of stardom but for an unfortunate development across the Atlantic: the talking picture. While Anna’s face was still one of the most alluring on screen, audiences who for years had imagined her speaking in dulcet tones were not prepared to hear her husky tenor. Thus, in the spring of 1928, at the sprightly age of twenty-nine, Anna Urbanova was what the Americans would have called a has-been.

Alas, while the copper plate on the bottom of a priceless antique may allow a good comrade to sleep soundly, it is the nature of objects with serial numbers set down in ledgers that they may be reclaimed and put to new use at the stroke of a pen. In a matter of months, the gilded chairs, painted armoires, and Louis Quatorze dresser were all gone—as was the fur merchant’s mansion and the Peterhof dacha—and Anna found herself with two trunks of clothing in the street. In her purse she still had train fare to her hometown outside Odessa. Instead, she moved into a one-room apartment with her sixty-year-old dresser, for Anna Urbanova had no intention of going home ever again.

The second time the Count saw Anna was in November 1928, about eight months after she had lost her mansion. He was just pouring water into the glass of an Italian importer when she walked through the door of the Boyarsky wearing a red sleeveless dress and high-heeled shoes. As the Count apologized to the importer and attempted to mop his lap with a napkin, he overheard the actress explain to Andrey that she would be joined by a guest at any moment.

Andrey led her to a table for two in the corner.

Forty minutes later her guest arrived.

From his vantage point on the other side of the Boyarsky’s centerpiece (an arrangement of sunflowers), the Count could tell that the actress and her guest knew each other only by reputation. He was a good-enough-looking fellow, a few years younger than Anna and wearing a tailored jacket, but plainly something of a cad. For having taken his seat, even as he apologized for being late he was already scanning the menu; and when she assured him that it was quite all right, he was already signaling their waiter. For her part, Anna appeared to be perfectly charming. She related her stories with a sparkle in her eye and listened to his with a ready laugh; and she was the very image of patience whenever their conversation was interrupted by someone who had approached the table to fawn over his latest picture.

A few hours later, when the Boyarsky was empty and the kitchen was closed, the Count passed through the lobby just as Anna and her guest emerged from the Shalyapin Bar. As he paused to put on his overcoat, Anna gestured to the elevator, clearly inviting him upstairs for one more drink. But he continued putting his arms through his sleeves. It was a pleasure meeting, he assured her with a glance at his watch; unfortunately, he was expected elsewhere. Then he made a beeline for the door.

As the young director crossed the lobby, the Count was of the opinion that Anna looked every bit as radiant as she had in 1923. But the moment the director disappeared into the street, the actress’s smile and shoulders drooped. Then having passed a hand across her brow, she turned from the door—only to meet the gaze of the Count.

In an instant, she drew back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strolled toward the staircase. But having mastered the art of descending the stairs to a gathering of admirers, she had yet to master the art of ascending the stairs alone. (Perhaps no one has.) On the third step, she stopped. She stood motionless. Then she turned, came back down, and crossed to where the Count was standing.

“Whenever I am in this lobby with you,” she said, “it seems that I am destined to be humiliated.”

The Count looked surprised.

“Humiliated? You have no cause to feel humiliated, as far as I can see.”

“I gather you’re blind.”

She looked toward the revolving door as if it were still spinning from the young director’s exit.

“I invited him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start.”

“I have never had an early start in my life,” said the Count.

Offering her first genuine smile of the evening, she waved a hand at the stairs.

“Then you might as well come on up.”

At the time, Anna was staying in room 428. It was not the finest room on the fourth floor, nor was it the worst. Off the small bedroom, it had a small sitting area with a small couch, a small coffee table, and two small windows looking over the trolley tracks on Teatralny Proyezd. It was the room of one who hoped to make an impression when she could not easily afford to do so. On the coffee table were two glasses, a serving of caviar, and a bottle of vodka in a bucket of melting ice.

As they looked over this little mise-en-scène , she shook her head.

“That’ll cost me a pretty penny.”

“Then we mustn’t let it go to waste.”

The Count drew the bottle from the ice and poured them both a glass.

“To old times,” he said.

“To old times,” she conceded with a laugh. And they emptied their glasses.

When one experiences a profound setback in the course of an enviable life, one has a variety of options. Spurred by shame, one may attempt to hide all evidence of the change in one’s circumstances. Thus, the merchant who gambles away his savings will hold on to his finer suits until they fray, and tell anecdotes from the halls of the private clubs where his membership has long since lapsed. In a state of self-pity, one may retreat from the world in which one has been blessed to live. Thus, the long-suffering husband, finally disgraced by his wife in society, may be the one who leaves his home in exchange for a small, dark apartment on the other side of town. Or, like the Count and Anna, one may simply join the Confederacy of the Humbled.

Like the Freemasons, the Confederacy of the Humbled is a close-knit brotherhood whose members travel with no outward markings, but who know each other at a glance. For having fallen suddenly from grace, those in the Confederacy share a certain perspective. Knowing beauty, influence, fame, and privilege to be borrowed rather than bestowed, they are not easily impressed. They are not quick to envy or take offense. They certainly do not scour the papers in search of their own names. They remain committed to living among their peers, but they greet adulation with caution, ambition with sympathy, and condescension with an inward smile.