Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

Papa, when they put the dirt on my grave, crumble a crust of BREADon it so the sparrows will come, and I’ll hear that they’ve come and be glad that I’m not lying alone.

Upon reading this, Alexander Rostov finally broke down and wept. Certainly, he wept for his friend, that generous yet temperamental soul who only briefly found his moment in time—and who, like this forlorn child, was disinclined to condemn the world for all its injustices.

But, of course, the Count also wept for himself. For despite his friendships with Marina and Andrey and Emile, despite his love for Anna, despite Sofia—that extraordinary blessing that had struck him from the blue—when Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich died, there went the last of those who had known him as a younger man. Though, as Katerina had so rightfully observed, at least he remained to remember.

Taking a deep breath, the Count attempted to restore his composure, determined to read through the final pages of his old friend’s final discourse. The progression of citations, which had spanned over two thousand years, did not continue much further. For rather than extending into the present, the survey ended in June 1904, with the sentences that Mishka had cut from Chekhov’s letter all those years ago:

Here in Berlin, we’ve taken a comfortable room in the best hotel. I am very much enjoying the life here and haven’t eaten so well and with such an appetite in a long time. The BREADhere is amazing, I’ve been stuffing myself with it, the coffee is excellent, and the dinners are beyond words. People who have never been abroad don’t know how good BREADcan be. . . .

Given the hardships of the 1930s, the Count supposed he could understand why Shalamov (or his superiors) had insisted upon this little bit of censorship—having presumed that Chekhov’s observation could only lead to feelings of discontent or ill will. But the irony, of course, was that Chekhov’s observation was no longer even accurate. For surely, by now, the Russian people knew better than anyone in Europe how good a piece of bread could be.

When the Count closed Mishka’s book, he did not head straight downstairs to join the others. Instead, he remained in his study, lost in thought.

Given the circumstances, an observer might understandably have drawn the conclusion that as the Count sat there he was dwelling on memories of his old friend. But, in fact, he was no longer thinking about Mishka. He was thinking about Katerina. In particular, he was thinking—with a sense of foreboding—that in the course of twenty years this firefly, this pinwheel, this wonder of the world had become a woman who, when asked where she was going, could answer without the slightest hesitation: Does it matter?

BOOK FIVE

1954 Applause and Acclaim

Paris . . . ?”

Or so asked Andrey in the manner of one who cannot quite believe what he has heard.

“Yes,” said Emile.

“Paris . . . France ?”

Emile furrowed his brow. “Are you drunk? Have you been knocked on the head?”

“But how?” asked the maître d’.

Emile sat back in his chair and nodded. For here was a question that was worthy of a man of intelligence.

It is a well-known fact that of all the species on earth Homo sapiens is among the most adaptable. Settle a tribe of them in a desert and they will wrap themselves in cotton, sleep in tents, and travel on the backs of camels; settle them in the Arctic and they will wrap themselves in sealskin, sleep in igloos, and travel by dog-drawn sled. And if you settle them in a Soviet climate? They will learn to make friendly conversation with strangers while waiting in line; they will learn to neatly stack their clothing in their half of the bureau drawer; and they will learn to draw imaginary buildings in their sketchbooks. That is, they will adapt. But certainly one aspect of adaptation for those Russians who had seen Paris before the Revolution was the acceptance that they would never, ever see Paris again. . . .

“Here he is now,” said Emile as the Count came through the door. “Ask him yourself.”

Having taken his seat, the Count confirmed that six months hence, on the twenty-first of June, Sofia would be in Paris, France. And when asked how this could possibly have come about, with a shrug the Count responded: “VOKS.” That is, the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries.

It was now Emile’s turn to express disbelief: “Do we have cultural relations with foreign countries?”

“Apparently, we are now sending our artists all around the world. In April we are sending the ballet to New York; in May we are sending a dramatic ensemble to London; and in June we are sending the orchestra of the Moscow Conservatory to Minsk, Prague, and Paris—where Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier.”

“It’s incredible,” said Andrey.

“Fantastical,” said Emile.

“I know.”

The three men laughed, until Emile pointed his chopper at his colleagues:

“But well deserved.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Without a doubt.”

The three were quiet, each lost for a moment in their respective memories of the City of Light.

“Do you think it has changed?” wondered Andrey.

“Yes,” said Emile. “As much as the pyramids.”

And here, the three members of the Triumvirate might have waded into the rose-colored past, but for the fact that the door to Emile’s office swung open and in walked the newest member of the Boyarsky’s daily meeting: the Bishop.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. There was business at the front desk that demanded my immediate attention. In the future, please don’t feel the need to congregate until I have arrived.”

Emile grunted, semiaudibly.

Ignoring the chef, the Bishop turned to the Count.

“Headwaiter Rostov, isn’t this your day of rest? You shouldn’t feel the need to be in attendance at the daily meeting when you are not scheduled to work.”

“Well informed is well prepared,” said the Count.

“Of course.”

Some years before, the Bishop had helpfully explained to the Count that while the Metropol’s employees each had their narrow little tasks, the manager alone had to ensure a standard of excellence for the entire hotel. And to be fair, the Bishop’s personality made him perfectly suited to the task. For whether in the guest rooms, the lobby, or the linen closet on the second floor, no detail was too small, no flaw too immaterial, no moment too inopportune to receive the benefit of the Bishop’s precious, persnickety, and mildly dismissive interference. And that was certainly the case within the walls of the Boyarsky.

The daily meeting commenced with a detailed description of the evening’s special offerings. Naturally, the Bishop had dispensed with the tradition of tasting the specials, on the grounds that the chef knew perfectly well what his food tasted like, and to prepare samples for the staff was both indiscriminate and wasteful. Instead, Emile was instructed to write out a description of the specials by hand.

With another grunt, the chef slid his menu across the table. After inscribing a series of circles, arrows, and x ’s, the Bishop’s pencil paused.

“I should think that beets would accompany the pork quite as well as apples,” he reflected. “And if I am not mistaken, Chef Zhukovsky, you still have a bushel of beets in the pantry.”

As the Bishop inserted this improvement into Emile’s menu, the chef cast a furious glance across the table at the man he now referred to as Count Blabbermouth.

Handing the corrected menu back to the chef, the Bishop now turned his attention to the maître d’, who slid the Book across the table. Despite the fact that it was one of the last days of 1953, the Bishop opened the Book to the first page and turned through the weeks of the year one by one. Finally arriving at the present, he scrutinized the evening’s reservations with the tip of his pencil. Then he provided seating instructions to Andrey and slid the Book back. As a final piece of business, the Bishop alerted the maître d’ to the fact that the flowers in the dining room’s centerpiece had begun to wilt.