Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Around nine o’clock, the Count reviewed the restaurant from corner to corner, satisfied that the first seating had gone without a hitch. Menus had been delivered and orders taken according to plan. Four inclinations toward overcooked lamb had been narrowly averted, more than five bottles of Latour had been poured, and the two members of the Politburo had been equitably seated and equitably served. But then Andrey (who had just led the Commissar of Transport to the opposite side of the room from the American journalists) signaled the Count with an expression of apparent distress.

“What has happened?” asked the Count when he reached the maître d’s side.

“I have just been notified that there is to be a private function in the Yellow Room, after all.”

“How large?”

“They weren’t specific, other than to say it would be small.”

“Then we can send Vasenka. I’ll take tables five and six; Maxim can take tables seven and eight.”

“But that’s just it,” said Andrey. “We cannot send Vasenka.”

“Why not?”

“Because they have asked for you by name.”

Standing at attention in front of the Yellow Room was a Goliath that would have given any David pause. As the Count approached, the giant barely seemed to take note of his surroundings; then without a sign of acknowledgment, he suddenly stepped aside and deftly opened the door.

It was not particularly surprising for the Count to find a giant at the door of a private function in the Metropol; what was surprising was how the dining room had been arranged within. For the majority of furniture had been cleared to the periphery, leaving a single table set for two under the chandelier—at which a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit sat alone.

Though much smaller than the guard at the door and substantially better dressed, the man at the table struck the Count as one who was no stranger to brute force. His neck and wrists were as thick as a wrestler’s and his close-cropped hair revealed a scar above the left ear, which was presumably the result of a glancing blow that had hoped to cleave his skull. Apparently unhurried, the man was playing with his spoon.

“Good evening,” said the Count with a bow.

“Good evening,” replied the man with a smile, returning his spoon to the table.

“May I bring you something to drink while you wait?”

“There will be no one else coming.”

“Ah,” said the Count. He began clearing the second place setting.

“You needn’t clear those.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you weren’t expecting anyone else.”

“I am not expecting anyone else. I am expecting you, Alexander Ilyich.”

The two men studied each other for a moment.

“Please,” said the man. “Have a seat.”

The Count hesitated to take the offered chair.

Under the circumstances, one might leap to the conclusion that the Count hesitated due to a suspicion or even dread about this stranger. But principally, he hesitated because as a matter of decorum, it seemed utterly inappropriate for one to sit at a table when one is dressed to wait upon it.

“Come now,” the stranger said amiably. “You wouldn’t refuse a solitary diner the pleasure of your company.”

“Certainly not,” replied the Count.

But having accepted the chair, he did not place the napkin in his lap.

After a rap at the door, it opened to admit the Goliath. Without looking at the Count, he approached the table and held out a bottle for the stranger’s consideration.

The host leaned forward and squinted at the label.

“Excellent,” he said. “Thank you, Vladimir.”

Presumably, Vladimir could simply have broken the top off the bottle, but with surprising agility he produced a corkscrew from a pocket, spun it in his hand, and pulled the cork. Then, having received a nod from his superior, he placed the open bottle on the table and retreated back to the hall. The stranger poured a glass for himself. Then, with the bottle hovering over the table at a forty-five-degree angle, he looked to the Count.

“Won’t you join me?”

“With pleasure.”

After the stranger poured, they both raised their glasses and drank.

“Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov,” he said after returning his glass to the table. “Recipient of the Order of Saint Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt . . .”

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“I know that you are a man who can secure one of the Boyarsky’s private rooms in which to dine alone while a behemoth waits at the door.”

The stranger laughed.

“Very good,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What else do you see?”

The Count studied his host more indiscreetly and then shrugged.

“I’d say you were a man of forty and were a soldier once. I suspect you joined the infantry, but were a colonel by the end of the war.”

“How would you know that I became a colonel?”

“It is the business of a gentleman to distinguish between men of rank.”

“The business of a gentleman,” the colonel repeated with a smile, as if he appreciated the turn of phrase. “And can you tell where I’m from?”

The Count dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.

“The surest way to insult a Walloon is to mistake him for a Frenchman, though they live but a few miles apart and share the same language.”

“I suppose that’s true,” the colonel conceded. “Nonetheless. I’m interested in your guesswork; and I promise I won’t be insulted.”

The Count took a sip of his wine and returned the glass to the table.

“You are almost certainly from eastern Georgia.”

The captain sat up with an expression of enthusiasm.

“Extraordinary. Do I have an accent?”

“Not that’s distinguishable. But then armies, like universities, are where accents are most commonly shed.”

“Then why eastern Georgia?”

The Count gestured to the wine.

“Only an eastern Georgian would start his meal with a bottle of Rkatsiteli.”

“Because he’s a hayseed?”

“Because he misses home.”

The colonel laughed again.

“What a canny fellow you are.”

There was another rap at the door and it opened to admit the giant pushing a Regency cart.

“Ah. Excellent. Here we are.”

When Vladimir had wheeled the cart to the table, the Count began to push back his chair, but his host gestured that he should remain seated. Vladimir removed the dome and placed a platter at the center of the table. As he left the room, the colonel picked up a carving knife and fork.

“Let’s see. What do we have here? Ah, roasted duck. I’ve been told the Boyarsky’s is unparalleled.”

“You are not misinformed. Make sure you take a few cherries and some of the skin.”

The colonel doled out a portion for himself, including cherries and skin, and then served the Count.

“Absolutely delicious,” he said, when he had taken his first bite.

The Count bowed his head to accept the compliment on Emile’s behalf.

The colonel gestured to the Count with his fork.

“You have a very interesting file, Alexander Ilyich.”

“I have a file?”

“I’m sorry. A terrible habit of speech. What I meant to say is that you have an interesting background .”

“Ah, yes. Well. Life has been generous to me in its variety.”

The colonel smiled. Then he commenced in the tone of one who is trying to do justice to the facts.

“You were born in Leningrad. . . .”

“I was born in St. Petersburg.”

“Ah, yes, of course. In St. Petersburg. As your parents died when you were young, you were raised by your grandmother. You attended the academy and then the Imperial University in . . . St. Petersburg .”