Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

“But you didn’t.”

“That’s right. I didn’t.”

The Count took a sip of wine and paused for dramatic effect.

“At last the dreaded day arrived; and with all the spectators assembled on the sporting fields, the time came for the archery event. Even as I faced the target, I could anticipate the humiliation that was sure to follow when—despite my reputation—my arrow would shoot wide of its mark. But as with trembling hands I drew back my bow, from the corner of my eye I happened to see old Professor Tartakov trip over his walking stick and topple into a pile of manure. Well, the sight filled me with such joy that my fingers released the bow of their own accord—”

“And having sailed through the air, your arrow landed in the center of the target.”

“Well, yes. That’s right. The very center. So perhaps I have told you this story before. But did you know that ever since that day, when I have been anxious about my aim, I have thought of old Professor Tartakov tumbling into the manure and have reliably hit my mark.”

The Count turned his hand in the air in a concluding flourish.

Sofia smiled but with a perplexed expression, as if she wasn’t quite sure why the renowned marksman had chosen to relay this particular tale at this particular time. So, the Count elaborated.

“In life, it is the same for all of us. We are bound to face moments of trepidation whether we venture onto the floor of the senate, the field of athletics, or . . . the stage of a concert hall.”

Sofia stared at the Count, for a moment then let out a bright laugh.

“The stage of a concert hall.”

“Yes,” said the Count, a little offended. “The stage of a concert hall.”

“Someone has told you about my conversation with Director Vavilov.”

The Count rearranged his fork and knife, which had somehow become misaligned.

“I may have heard something from someone,” he said noncommittally.

“Papa. I am not afraid of performing with the orchestra before an audience.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“Positively.”

“You have never performed in a hall as large as the Palais Garnier. . . .”

“I know.”

“And the French are notoriously exacting as an audience. . . .”

Sofia laughed again.

“Well, if you’re trying to set me at ease, you’re not doing a very good job of it. But honestly, Papa, feelings of anxiety have nothing to do with my decision.”

“Then what?”

“I simply don’t want to go.”

“How could you not want to go?”

Sofia looked down at the table and moved her own silver.

“I like it here,” she said at last—gesturing to the room and, by extension, the hotel. “I like it here with you.”

The Count studied his daughter. With her long black hair, fair skin, and dark blue eyes, she seemed serene beyond her years. And therein, perhaps, lay the problem. For if serenity should be a hallmark of maturity, then impetuousness should be a hallmark of youth.

“I want to tell you a different story,” he said, “a story that I am sure you have never heard. It took place in this very hotel some thirty years ago—on a snowy night in December, much like this one. . . .”

And the Count went on to tell Sofia about the Christmas that he had celebrated with her mother in the Piazza in 1922. He told her about Nina’s hors d’oeuvre of ice creams, and her reluctance to sit in scholarly rows, and her argument that if one wished to broaden one’s horizons, one would best be served by venturing beyond the horizon.

The Count suddenly grew somber.

“I fear I have done you a great disservice, Sofia. From the time you were a child, I have lured you into a life that is principally circumscribed by the four walls of this building. We all have. Marina, Andrey, Emile, and I. We have ventured to make the hotel seem as wide and wonderful as the world, so that you would opt to spend more time in it with us. But your mother was perfectly right. One does not fulfill one’s potential by listening to Scheherazade in a gilded hall, or by reading the Odyssey in one’s den. One does so by setting forth into the vast unknown—just like Marco Polo when he traveled to China, or Columbus when he traveled to America.”

Sofia nodded in understanding.

The Count continued.

“I have had countless reasons to be proud of you; and certainly one of the greatest was the night of the Conservatory competition. But the moment I felt that pride was not when you and Anna brought home news of your victory. It was earlier in the evening, when I watched you heading out the hotel’s doors on your way to the hall. For what matters in life is not whether we receive a round of applause; what matters is whether we have the courage to venture forth despite the uncertainty of acclaim.”

“If I am to play the piano in Paris,” said Sofia after a moment, “I only wish that you could be there in the audience to hear me.”

The Count smiled.

“I assure you, my dear, were you to play the piano on the moon, I would hear every chord.”

Achilles Agonistes

Greetings, Arkady.”

“Greetings to you, Count Rostov. Is there something I can do for you this morning?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you spare a bit of stationery?”

“Certainly.”

Standing at the front desk, the Count penned a one-sentence note under the hotel’s moniker and addressed the envelope in an appropriately slanted script; he waited until the bell captain was otherwise occupied, casually crossed the lobby, slipped the note onto the bell captain’s desk, and then headed downstairs for his weekly visit to the barber.

It had been many years since Yaroslav Yaroslavl had worked his magic in the barbershop of the Metropol, and in the interim any number of successors had attempted to fill his shoes. The most recent fellow—Boris Something-or-other-ovich—was perfectly qualified to shorten a man’s hair; but he was neither the artist nor the conversationalist that Yaroslav had been. In fact, he went about his business with such mute efficiency, one suspected he was part machine.

“Trim?” he asked the Count, wasting no time with subjects, verbs, or the other superfluities of language.

Given the Count’s thinning hair and the barber’s predisposition to efficiency, a trim might take all of ten minutes.

“Yes, a trim,” said the Count. “But perhaps a shave as well. . . .”

The barber furrowed his brow. The man in him, no doubt, was inclined to point out that the Count had obviously shaved a few hours before; but the machinery in him was so finely tuned, it was already putting down the scissors and reaching for the shaving brush.

Having whipped a sufficient lather, Boris dabbed it on those areas of the Count’s face where whiskers would have been had the Count been in need of a shave. He sharpened one of his razors on his strop, leaned over the chair, and with an unflinching hand shaved the Count’s right upper cheek in a single pass. Wiping the blade on the towel at his waist, he then leaned over the Count’s left upper cheek, and shaved it with equal alacrity.

At this rate, fretted the Count , he’ll be done in a minute and a half.

Using a bent knuckle, the barber now raised the Count’s chin. The Count could feel the metal of the razor make contact with his throat. And that’s when one of the new bellhops appeared in the door.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?” said the barber with his blade held fast at the Count’s jugular.

“I have a note for you.”

“On the bench.”

“But it is urgent,” said the young man with some anxiety.

“Urgent?”