Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Comrade Frinovsky returned the actress’s smile with a blush.

“Here,” she added, “let me help you with your hat.”

For, as a matter of fact, the musical director had folded his hat two times over. Taking it from his hands, Anna gently restored the crown, snapped the brim, and returned the hat in a manner that would be retold by the director a few hundred times in the years to come.

“So, you are the musical director of the Youth Orchestra in Stalingrad?”

“I am,” he said.

“Then perhaps you know comrade Nachevko?”

At the mention of the round-faced Minister of Culture, the director stood up so straight he added an inch to his stature.

“I have never had the honor.”

“Panteleimon is a delightful man,” assured Anna, “and a great supporter of youthful artistry. In fact, he has taken a personal interest in Alexander’s daughter, young Sofia.”

“A personal interest . . . ?”

“Oh, yes. Why, just last night at dinner, he was telling me how exciting it will be to watch her talent develop. I sense he has great plans for her here in the capital.”

“I wasn’t aware. . . .”

The director looked to the Bishop with the expression of one who has been put in an uncomfortable position due to no fault of his own. Turning back to the Count, he delicately retrieved his letter. “If your daughter should ever be interested in performing in Stalingrad,” he said, “I hope you will not hesitate to contact me.”

“Thank you, comrade Frinovsky,” said the Count. “That’s very gracious of you.”

Looking from Anna to the Count and back again, Frinovsky said, “I am so sorry that we have inconvenienced you at such an unsuitable hour.” Then he placed his hat on his head and hurried to the belfry with the Bishop hot on his heels.

When the Count had quietly closed the door, he turned to Anna, whose expression was unusually grave.

“When did the Minister of Culture start taking a personal interest in Sofia?” he asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she replied. “At the latest.”

If those gathered in the Count’s study had good cause to celebrate before the Bishop’s visit, they had even more cause to do so after his departure. In fact, as the Count opened a bottle of brandy, Anna found an American jazz record that Richard had slipped among the classical recordings, and cued it on the phonograph. In the minutes that followed, the brandy was poured liberally, Emile’s cake was eaten in its entirety, the jazz record was played repeatedly, and each of the gentlemen had his turn scuffing the parquet with the ladies in attendance.

When the last of the brandy was dispensed, Emile—who given the hour was nearly in a state of ecstasy—suggested they all head downstairs for another round, a little more dancing, and to bring the festivities to Viktor Stepanovich, who was still on the bandstand in the Piazza.

Emile’s motion was immediately seconded and passed by unanimous vote.

“But before we go,” said Sofia, who was a little flushed, “I would like to make a toast: To my guardian angel, my father, and my friend, Count Alexander Rostov. A man inclined to see the best in all of us.”

“Hear! Hear!”

“And you needn’t worry, Papa,” Sofia continued. “For no matter who comes knocking at our door, I have no intention of ever leaving the Metropol.”

After joining in a cheer, the members of the gathering emptied their glasses, stumbled through the closet, and exited into the hall. Opening the door to the belfry, the Count gave a slight bow and gestured for everyone to proceed. But just as the Count was about to follow the others into the stairwell, a woman in late middle age with a satchel on her shoulder and a kerchief in her hair stepped from the shadows at the end of the hall. Though the Count had never seen her before, it was clear from her demeanor that she had been waiting to speak with him alone.

“Andrey,” the Count called into the belfry, “I’ve forgotten something in the room. You all go ahead. I’ll be down in a moment. . . .”

Only when the last sound of voices had receded down the stairs did the woman approach. In the light, the Count could see that she had an almost severe beauty about her—like one for whom there would be no half measures in matters of the heart.

“I’m Katerina Litvinova,” she said without a smile.

It took a moment for the Count to realize that this was none other than Mishka’s Katerina, the poet from Kiev whom he had lived with back in the 1920s.

“Katerina Litvinova! How extraordinary. To what do I owe—”

“Is there somewhere we could talk?”

“Why, yes . . . Of course . . .”

The Count led Katerina into the bedroom and then, after a moment’s hesitation, took her through the jackets into the study. Apparently, he needn’t have hesitated, for she looked around the room as one who had heard descriptions of it before, nodding lightly to herself as her gaze shifted from the bookcase to the coffee table to the Ambassador. Taking her satchel from her shoulder, she suddenly appeared tired.

“Here,” said the Count, offering a chair.

She sat down, putting the satchel in her lap. Then passing a hand over her head, she removed her kerchief, revealing light brown hair cut as short as a man’s.

“It’s Mishka, isn’t it . . . ,” the Count said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A week ago today.”

The Count nodded, as one who had been expecting the news for some time. He didn’t ask Katerina how his old friend had died, and she didn’t offer to tell him. It was plain enough that he had been betrayed by his times.

“Were you with him?” asked the Count.

“Yes.”

“In Yavas?”

“Yes.”

. . .

“I was under the impression that . . .”

“I lost my husband some time ago.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Do you have children . . . ?”

“No.”

She said it curtly, as if in response to a foolish question; but then she continued more softly. “I received word from Mikhail in January. I went to him in Yavas. We have been together these last six months.” After a moment, she added: “He spoke of you often.”

“He was a loyal friend,” said the Count.

“He was a man of devotions,” corrected Katerina.

The Count had been about to remark on Mishka’s propensity for getting into scrapes and his love of pacing, but she had just described his old friend better than he ever had. Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich was a man of devotions.

“And a fine poet,” the Count added, almost to himself.

“One of two.”

The Count looked to Katerina as if he didn’t understand. Then he offered a wistful smile.

“I’ve never written a poem in my life,” he said.

Now, it was Katerina who didn’t understand.

“What do you mean? What about Where Is It Now ?”

“It was Mishka who wrote that poem. In the south parlor at Idlehour . . . In the summer of 1913 . . .”

As Katerina still looked confused, the Count elaborated.

“What with the revolt of 1905 and the repressions that followed, when we graduated it was still a dangerous time for writing poems of political impatience. Given Mishka’s background, the Okhrana would have swept him up with a broom. So one night—after polishing off a particularly good bottle of Margaux—we decided to publish the poem under my name.”

“But why yours?”

“What were they going to do to Count Alexander Rostov—member of the Jockey Club and godson of a counselor to the Tsar?” The Count shook his head. “The irony, of course, is that the life which ended up being saved was mine, not his. But for that poem, they would have shot me back in 1922.”