Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Having successfully returned to the silver screen in the 1930s, in 1948 Anna had been lured back to the stage by the director of the Maly Theatre. This was a stroke of good fortune for the fifty-year-old actress, for while the silver screen showed a distinct preference for young beauties, the theater seemed to understand the virtues of age. After all, Medea, Lady Macbeth, Irina Arkadina—these were not roles for the blue-eyed and blushing. They were roles for women who had known the bitterness of joy and the sweetness of despair. But Anna’s return to the stage also proved fortunate for the Count because instead of visiting the Metropol a few days a year, she was now in residence for months at a time, which allowed our seasoned astronomer to chart the newest of her constellations with the utmost care. . . .

Once the Count and Sofia had been seated, the two carefully studied their menus (working backward from entrées to appetizers as was their custom), placed their orders with Martyn (who, at the Count’s recommendation, had been promoted to the Boyarsky in 1942), and then finally turned their attention to the business at hand.

Surely, the span of time between the placing of an order and the arrival of appetizers is one of the most perilous in all human interaction. What young lovers have not found themselves at this juncture in a silence so sudden, so seemingly insurmountable that it threatens to cast doubt upon their chemistry as a couple? What husband and wife have not found themselves suddenly unnerved by the fear that they might not ever have something urgent, impassioned, or surprising to say to each other again? So it is with good reason that most of us meet this dangerous interstice with a sense of foreboding.

But the Count and Sofia? They looked forward to it all day long—because it was the moment allotted for Zut.

A game of their own invention, Zut ’s rules were simple. Player One proposes a category encompassing a specialized subset of phenomena—such as stringed instruments, or famous islands, or winged creatures other than birds. The two players then go back and forth until one of them fails to come up with a fitting example in a suitable interval of time (say, two and a half minutes). Victory goes to the first player who wins two out of three rounds. And why was the game called Zut ? Because according to the Count, Zut alors! was the only appropriate exclamation in the face of defeat.

Thus, having searched throughout their day for challenging categories and carefully considered the viable responses, when Martyn reclaimed the menus father and daughter faced each other at the ready.

Having lost the previous match, the Count had the right to propose the first category and did so with confidence: “Famous foursomes.”

“Well chosen,” said Sofia.

“Thank you.”

They both took a drink of water, then the Count began.

“The four seasons.”

“The four elements.”

“North, South, East, and West.”

“Diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades.”

“Bass, tenor, alto, and soprano.”

Sofia reflected.

. . .

“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—the Four Evangelists.”

“Boreas, Zephyrus, Notos, and Euros—the Four Winds.”

. . .

. . .

With an inward smile, the Count began counting the seconds; but he counted prematurely.

“Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm—the Four Humors,” said Sofia.

“ Très bien! ”

“ Merci .”

Sofia took a sip of water in order to obscure the hint of gloating on her lips. But now it was she who was celebrating prematurely.

“The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Ah,” said Sofia with the sigh of one receiving the coup de grâce , just as Martyn arrived with the Château d’Yquem. Having presented the bottle, the waiter pulled the cork, poured a taste, and served the table.

“Round two?” asked Sofia when Martyn had departed.

“With pleasure.”

“Animals that are black and white—such as the zebra.”

“Excellent,” said the Count.

For a moment, he rearranged his silverware. He took a sip of wine and slowly returned his glass to the table.

“Penguin,” he said.

“Puffin.”

“Skunk.”

“Panda.”

The Count reflected; then smiled.

“Killer whale.”

“The peppered moth,” countered Sofia.

The Count sat up in indignation.

“But that’s my animal!”

“It is not your animal; but it is your turn. . . .”

The Count frowned.

. . .

“Dalmatian!” he exclaimed.

Now it was Sofia who arranged her silver and sipped her wine.

. . .

. . .

“Time is passing . . . ,” said the Count.

. . .

. . .

“Me,” said Sofia.

“What!”

With a tilt of her head she held out the white stripe from her long black hair.

“But you’re not an animal.”

Sofia smiled sympathetically then said: “You’re up.”

. . .

. . .

Is there a black-and-white fish? the Count asked himself. A black-and-white spider? A black-and-white snake?

. . .

. . .

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” said Sofia.

“Yes, yes. Wait a moment.”

. . .

. . .

I know there is another black-and-white animal , thought the Count. It is something reasonably common. I’ve seen it myself. It’s on the very tip of my—

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Alexander Rostov?”

The Count and Sofia both looked up in surprise. Standing before them was the eminent professor from table six.

“Yes,” said the Count, rising from the table. “I am Alexander Rostov. This is my daughter, Sofia.”

“I am Professor Matej Sirovich from Leningrad State University.”

“Of course you are,” said the Count.

The professor gave a quick bow of the head in gratitude.

“Like so many others,” he continued, “I am an admirer of your verse. Perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for a glass of cognac after your meal?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“I am in suite 317.”

“I will be there within the hour.”

“Please, don’t rush.”

The professor smiled and gently backed away from the table.

Resuming his seat, the Count casually placed his napkin in his lap. “Matej Sirovich,” he informed Sofia, “is one of our most revered professors of literature; and apparently, he would like to discuss poetry with me over a glass of cognac. What do you think of that?”

“I think your time is up.”

The Count lowered his eyebrows.

“Yes. Well. I had an answer sitting right on the tip of my tongue. I should have expressed it in another moment, if we hadn’t been interrupted. . . .”

Sofia nodded, in the friendly manner of one who has no intention of considering the merits of an appeal.

“All right,” conceded the Count. “One round apiece.”

The Count took a kopek from the ticket pocket of his vest and laid it on his thumbnail so that they could determine by toss who would get to choose the tie-breaking category. But before he could flip the coin, Martyn appeared with their first course: Emile’s interpretation of the Olivier salad for Sofia and goose-liver pâté for the Count.

Since they never played while they ate, the two turned their attention to an enjoyable discussion of the day’s events. It was while the Count was spreading the last of his pâté on a corner of toast that Sofia observed, rather casually, that Anna Urbanova was in the restaurant.

“What’s that?” asked the Count.

“Anna Urbanova, the actress. She’s seated over there at table seven.”

“Is she?”

The Count raised his head to look across the dining room with the curiosity of the idle; then returned to his spreading.