Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Noting Emile’s starstruck expression, Andrey took a quick step forward and put his hands under the cake. But Emile did not lose his grip this time. Rather, he suddenly thrust the cake toward Anna, as if he had baked it for her.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “But isn’t that for Sofia?”

Emile blushed from his shoulders to the top of his balding head and turned to Sofia.

“I made your favorite,” he said. “A Dobos torte with chocolate cream.”

“Thank you, Uncle Emile.”

“It is in the shape of a piano,” he added.

As Emile produced his chopper from his apron string and proceeded to slice the cake, the Count took two more glasses from the Ambassador and filled them with champagne. The story of Sofia’s victory was told again and the perfection of her performance was compared by Anna to the perfection of Emile’s cake. As the chef began explaining to the actress the intricate process by which one makes such a torte, Andrey was recalling for Sofia’s benefit the night many years ago when he and several others had toasted the Count’s arrival on the sixth floor.

“Do you remember, Alexander?”

“ As if it were yesterday,” replied the Count with a smile. “You did the honors with the brandy that night, my friend; and Marina was here along with Vasily. . . .”

As if by an act of magic, at the very instant the Count said Vasily’s name, the concierge stepped through the closet door. In military fashion, he clicked his heels and greeted those assembled in rapid succession without showing the slightest indication of surprise as to their whereabouts:

“Miss Urbanova. Sofia. Andrey. Emile.” Then turning to the Count, he said: “Alexander Ilyich, may I have a word . . . ?”

From the manner in which Vasily asked the question, it was clear that he wished to take the Count aside. But as the Count’s study was but a hundred foot square, they could only step about three feet away from the others in order to secure their privacy—an action that was immediately rendered inconsequential when the other four members of the party moved a similar distance in a similar direction.

“I wish to inform you,” said Vasily (in a manner sort of entre nous ), “that the hotel’s manager is on his way.”

It was the Count’s turn to express surprise.

“On his way where?”

“On his way here. Or rather . . . there,” said Vasily, pointing back toward the Count’s bedroom.

“But for what possible reason?”

Vasily explained that as he was reviewing the next night’s reservations, he happened to notice the Bishop lingering in the lobby. When a few minutes later a rather petit gentleman wearing a brimmed hat approached the front desk and asked for the Count by name, the Bishop introduced himself, indicated that he had been expecting the visitor, and offered to show him personally to the Count’s room.

“When was this?”

“They were just entering the elevator when I took to the stairs; but they were accompanied by Mr. Harriman from suite 215 and the Tarkovs from room 426. Accounting for the stops at the second and fourth floors, I suspect they should be here any second.”

“Good God!”

The members of the party looked to one another.

“No one make a sound,” said the Count. Entering the closet, he closed the study door behind him, then he opened the door to his bedroom a little more cautiously than he had the last time. Relieved to find the room empty, he shut the closet door, took up Sofia’s copy of Fathers and Sons , sat in his desk chair, and tilted back on two legs just in time to hear the knock on the door.

“Who is it?” called out the Count.

“It is Manager Leplevsky,” called back the Bishop.

The Count let the front legs of his chair drop with a thump and opened the door to reveal the Bishop and a stranger in the hall.

“I hope we are not disturbing you,” said the Bishop.

“Well, it is a rather unusual hour for paying a call. . . .”

“Of course,” said the Bishop with a smile. “But allow me to introduce you to comrade Frinovsky. He was asking after you in the lobby, so I took the liberty of showing him the way, what with your room’s . . . remoteness.”

“How considerate of you,” replied the Count.

When Vasily had noted that comrade Frinovsky was petit , the Count had assumed the concierge was being colorful in his choice of adjectives. But in point of fact, the word small would not have been sufficiently diminutive to suggest comrade Frinovsky’s size. When the Count addressed the visitor, he had to resist the temptation of getting down on his haunches.

“How can I be of service to you, Mr. Frinovsky?”

“I am here in regards to your daughter,” Frinovsky explained, taking his little hat from his head.

“Sofia?” asked the Count.

“Yes, Sofia. I am the director of the Red October Youth Orchestra. Your daughter was recently brought to our attention as a gifted pianist. In fact, I had the pleasure of attending her performance tonight, which accounts for the lateness of my visit. But with the greatest pleasure, I come to confer upon her a position as our second pianist.”

“The Youth Orchestra of Moscow!” exclaimed the Count. “How wonderful. Where are you housed?”

“No. I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear,” explained Frinovsky. “The Red October Youth Orchestra is not in Moscow. It is in Stalingrad.”

After a moment of bewilderment, the Count attempted to compose himself.

“As I said, it is a wonderful offer, Mr. Frinovsky. . . . But I am afraid that Sofia would not be interested.”

Frinovsky looked to the Bishop as if he hadn’t understood the Count’s remark.

The Bishop simply shook his head.

“But it is not a matter of interest,” Frinovsky said to the Count. “A requisition has been made and an appointment has been granted—by the regional undersecretary of cultural affairs.” The director took a letter from his jacket, handed it to the Count, and reached over to point to the undersecretary’s signature. “As you can see, Sofia is to report to the orchestra on the first of September.”

With a feeling of nausea, the Count read over this letter that, in the most technical of language, welcomed his daughter to an orchestra in an industrial city six hundred miles away.

“The Youth Orchestra of Stalingrad,” the Bishop said. “How exciting this must be for you, Alexander Ilyich. . . .”

Looking up from the letter, the Count saw the flash of spite in the Bishop’s smile, and just like that the Count’s feelings of nausea and bewilderment were gone—having been replaced by a cold fury. Standing to his full height, the Count took a step toward the Bishop with every intention of grabbing him by the lapels, or better yet the throat—when the door to the closet opened and Anna Urbanova stepped into the room.

The Count, the Bishop, and the petit musical director all looked up in surprise.

Crossing gracefully to the Count’s side and delicately placing her hand at the small of his back, Anna studied the expressions of the two men in the doorway then addressed the Bishop with a smile.

“Why, Manager Leplevsky, you look as if you’ve never seen a beautiful woman step from a closet before.”

“I haven’t,” sputtered the Bishop.

“Of course,” she said sympathetically. Then she turned her attention to the stranger. “And who have we here?”

Before the Bishop or the Count could reply, the little man piped up:

“Comrade Ivan Frinovsky, director of the Red October Youth Orchestra of Stalingrad. It is an honor and a privilege to meet you, comrade Urbanova!”

“An honor and a privilege,” echoed Anna with her most disarming smile. “You exaggerate, comrade Frinovsky; but I shan’t hold it against you.”