Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Looking up from the pages of Montaigne, the Count rested his gaze on Helena’s portrait, which was leaning against the wall. Painted at Idlehour in the month of August, it depicted his sister at the dining room table before a plate of peaches. How well Serov had captured her likeness—with her hair as black as a raven’s, her cheeks lightly flushed, her expression tender and forgiving. Perhaps there had been something in those stitches, thought the Count, some gentle wisdom that she was mastering through the completion of every little loop. Yes, with such kindheartedness at the age of fourteen, one could only imagine the grace she might have exhibited at the age of twenty-five. . . .

The Count was roused from this reverie by a delicate tapping. Closing his father’s book, he looked back to find a sixty-year-old Greek in the doorway.

“Konstantin Konstantinovich!”

Letting the front legs of his chair land on the floor with a thump, the Count crossed to the threshold and took his visitor’s hand.

“I am so glad you could come. We have only met once or twice, so you may not remember, but I am Alexander Rostov.”

The old Greek gave a bow to show that no reminder was necessary.

“Come in, come in. Have a seat.”

Waving Montaigne’s masterpiece at the one-eyed cat (who leapt to the floor with a hiss), the Count offered his guest the high-back chair and took the desk chair for himself.

In the moment that ensued, the old Greek returned the Count’s gaze with an expression of moderate curiosity—which was to be expected, perhaps, given that they had never met on a matter of business. After all, the Count was not accustomed to losing at cards. So the Count took it upon himself to begin.

“As you can see, Konstantin, my circumstances have changed.”

The Count’s guest allowed himself an expression of surprise.

“No, it is true,” said the Count. “They have changed quite a bit.”

Looking once about the room, the old Greek raised his hands to acknowledge the doleful impermanence of circumstances,

“Perhaps you are looking for access to some . . . capital?” he ventured.

In making this suggestion, the old Greek paused ever so briefly before the word capital . And in the Count’s considered opinion, it was a perfect pause—one mastered over decades of delicate conversations. It was a pause with which he expressed an element of sympathy for his interlocutor without suggesting for even an instant that there had been a change in their relative stations.

“No, no,” assured the Count with a shake of the head to emphasize that borrowing was not a habit of the Rostovs. “On the contrary, Konstantin, I have something that I think will be of interest to you.” Then, as if from thin air, the Count produced one of the coins from the Grand Duke’s desk, balancing it upright on the tip of a finger and thumb.

The old Greek studied the coin for a second and then, in a sign of appreciation, slowly exhaled. For while Konstantin Konstantinovich was a lender by trade, his art was to see an item for a minute, to hold it for a moment, and to know its true worth.

“May I . . . ?” he asked.

“By all means.”

He took the coin, turned it once, and handed it back with reverence. For not only was the piece pure in the metallurgical sense, the winking double eagle on the reverse confirmed to the experienced eye that it was one of the five thousand coins minted in commemoration of Catherine the Great’s coronation. Such a piece purchased from a gentleman in need could be sold at a reasonable profit to the most cautious of banking houses in the best of times. But in a period of upheaval? Even as the demand for common luxuries collapsed, the value of a treasure like this would be on the rise.

“Excuse my curiosity, Your Excellency, but is that a . . . lonely piece?”

“Lonely? Oh, no,” replied the Count with a shake of the head. “It lives like a soldier in a barracks. Like a slave in a galley. Not a moment to itself, I’m afraid.”

The old Greek exhaled again.

“Well then . . .”

And in a matter of minutes the two men had struck an arrangement without a hem or haw. What is more, the old Greek said it would be his pleasure to personally deliver three notes, which the Count penned on the spot. Then they shook hands like familiars and agreed to see each other three months hence.

But just as the old Greek was about to step through the door, he paused.

“Your Excellency . . . May I ask a personal question?”

“By all means.”

He gestured almost shyly to the Grand Duke’s desk.

“Can we expect more verses from you?”

The Count offered an appreciative smile.

“I am sorry to say, Konstantin, that my days of poetry are behind me.”

“If your days of poetry are behind you, Count Rostov, then it is we who are sorry.”

Tucked discreetly into the northeast corner of the hotel’s second floor was the Boyarsky—the finest restaurant in Moscow, if not in all of Russia. With vaulted ceilings and dark red walls reminiscent of a boyar’s retreat, the Boyarsky boasted the city’s most elegant décor, its most sophisticated waitstaff, and its most subtle chef de cuisine.

So renowned was the experience of dining at the Boyarsky that on any given night one might have to elbow one’s way through a crowd of hopefuls just to catch the eye of Andrey, as he presided over the large black book in which the names of the fortunate were set down; and when beckoned ahead by the maître d’, one could expect to be stopped five times in four languages on the way to one’s table in the corner, where one would be served flawlessly by a waiter in a white dinner jacket.

That is, one could expect this until 1920 when, having already sealed the borders, the Bolsheviks decided to prohibit the use of rubles in fine restaurants—effectively closing them to 99 percent of the population. So tonight, as the Count began to eat his entrée, water glasses clinked against cutlery, couples whispered awkwardly, and even the best of waiters found himself staring at the ceiling.

But every period has its virtues, even a time of turmoil. . . .

When Emile Zhukovsky was lured to the Metropol as chef de cuisine in 1912, he was given command of a seasoned staff and a sizable kitchen. In addition, he had the most celebrated larder east of Vienna. On his spice shelves was a compendium of the world’s predilections and in his cooler a comprehensive survey of birds and beasts hanging from hooks by their feet. As such, one might naturally leap to the conclusion that 1912 had been a perfect year in which to measure the chef’s talents. But in a period of abundance any half-wit with a spoon can please a palate. To truly test a chef’s ingenuity, one must instead look to a period of want. And what provides want better than war?

In the Revolution’s aftermath—with its economic declines, failed crops, and halted trade—refined ingredients became as scarce in Moscow as butterflies at sea. The Metropol’s larder was depleted bushel by bushel, pound by pound, dash by dash, and its chef was left to meet the expectations of his audience with cornmeal, cauliflower, and cabbage—that is to say, with whatever he could get his hands on.

Yes, some claimed Emile Zhukovsky was a curmudgeon and others called him abrupt. Some said he was a short man with a shorter temper. But none could dispute his genius. Just consider the dish the Count was finishing at that very moment: a saltimbocca fashioned from necessity. In place of a cutlet of veal, Emile had pounded flat a breast of chicken. In place of prosciutto de Parma, he had shaved a Ukrainian ham. And in place of sage, that delicate leaf that binds the flavors together? He had opted for an herb that was as soft and aromatic as sage, but more bitter to the taste. . . . It wasn’t basil or oregano, of that the Count was certain, but he had definitely encountered it somewhere before. . . .