A Gentleman in Moscow

1953 Apostles and Apostates

Like the wheeling of the stars,” muttered the Count as he paced.

That is how time passes when one is left waiting unaccountably. The hours become interminable. The minutes relentless. And the seconds? Why, not only does every last one of them demand its moment on the stage, it insists upon making a soliloquy full of weighty pauses and artful hesitations and then leaps into an encore at the slightest hint of applause.

But hadn’t the Count once waxed poetic over how slowly the stars advanced? Hadn’t he rhapsodized over how the constellations seemed to halt in their course when on a warm summer’s night one lay on one’s back and listened for footsteps in the grass—as if nature itself were conspiring to lengthen the last few hours before daybreak, so that they could be savored to the utmost?

Well, yes. Certainly that was the case when one was twenty-two and waiting for a young lady in a meadow—having climbed the ivy and rapped on the glass. But to keep a man waiting when he is sixty-three? When his hair has thinned, his joints have stiffened, and his every breath might be his last? There is such a thing as courtesy, after all.

It must be nearly one in the morning, calculated the Count. The performance was scheduled to end by eleven. The reception by twelve. They should have been here half an hour ago.

“Are there no taxis left in Moscow? No trolley cars?” he wondered aloud.

Or had they stopped somewhere on the way home . . . ? Was it possible that in passing a café they could not resist the impulse to slip inside and share a pastry while he waited and waited and waited? Could they have been so heartless? (If so, they dare not attempt to hide the fact, for he could tell if a pastry had been eaten from a distance of fifty feet!)

The Count paused in his pacing to peek behind the Ambassador, where he had carefully hidden the Dom Pérignon.

Preparing for a potential celebration is a tricky business. If Fortune smiles, then one must be ready to hit the ceiling with the cork. But if Fortune shrugs, then one must be prepared to act as if this were just another night, one of no particular consequence—and then later sink the unopened bottle to the bottom of the sea.

The Count stuck his hand into the bucket. The ice was nearly half melted and the temperature of the water a perfect 50˚. If they did not return soon, the temperature would become so tepid that the bottle belonged at the bottom of the sea.

Well, it would serve them right.

But as the Count withdrew his hand and stood to his full height, he heard an extraordinary sound emanating from the next room. It was the chime of the twice-tolling clock. Reliable Breguet announcing the stroke of midnight.

Impossible! The Count had been waiting for at least two hours. He had paced over twenty miles. It had to be half past one. Not a minute earlier.

“Perhaps reliable Breguet was no longer quite so reliable,” muttered the Count. After all, the clock was over fifty years old, and even the finest timepieces must be subject to the ravages of Time. Cogs will eventually lose their coginess just as springs will lose their springiness. But as the Count was having this thought, through the little window in the eaves he heard a clock tower in the distance tolling once, then twice, then thrice. . . .

“Yes, yes,” he said, collapsing into his chair. “You’ve made your point.”

Apparently, this was destined to be a day of exasperations.

Earlier that afternoon, the Boyarsky’s staff had been assembled by the assistant manager so that he could introduce new procedures for the taking, placing, and billing of orders.

Henceforth, he explained, when a waiter took an order, he would write it on a pad designed for this purpose. Leaving the table, he would bring the order to the bookkeeper, who, having made an entry in his ledger, would issue a cooking slip for the kitchen. In the kitchen, a corresponding entry would be made in the cooking log, at which point the cooking could commence. When the food was ready for consumption, a confirmation slip would be issued by the kitchen to the bookkeeper, who in turn would provide a stamped receipt to the waiter authorizing the retrieval of the food. Thus, a few minutes later, the waiter would be able to make the appropriate notation on his notepad confirming that that dish which had been ordered, logged, cooked, and retrieved was finally on the table. . . .

Now, in all of Russia, there was no greater admirer of the written word than Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov. In his time, he had seen a couplet of Pushkin’s sway a hesitant heart. He had watched as a single passage from Dostoevsky roused one man to action and another to indifference—in the very same hour. He certainly viewed it as providential that when Socrates held forth in the agora and Jesus on the Mount, someone in the audience had the presence of mind to set their words down for posterity. So let us agree that the Count’s concerns with this new regimen were not grounded in some distaste for pencils and paper.

Rather, it was a matter of context. For if one has chosen to dine at the Piazza, one should expect to have one’s waiter leaning over the table and scratching away on his little pad. But ever since the Count had become headwaiter of the Boyarsky, its customers could expect their server to look them in the eye, answer their questions, offer recommendations, and flawlessly record their preferences—without ever taking his hands from behind his back.

Sure enough, when the new regimen was put into practice that evening, the Boyarsky’s customers were shocked to find a clerk sitting at a little desk behind the maître d’s podium. They were bemused to watch pieces of paper flitting about the room as if it were the floor of a stock exchange. But they were beside themselves to find their cutlets of veal and asparagus spears arriving at their table as cold as aspic.

Naturally, this would not do.

As luck would have it, in the middle of the second seating the Count noticed the Bishop stopping momentarily at the Boyarsky’s door. So, having been raised on the principle that civilized men should share their concerns and proceed in the spirit of collegial common sense, the Count crossed the dining room and followed the Bishop into the hall.

“Manager Leplevsky!”

“Headwaiter Rostov,” said the Bishop, showing a hint of surprise at being hailed by the Count. “What can I do for you . . . ?”

“It’s really such a small matter that I hardly wish to trouble you with it.”

“If the matter concerns the hotel, then it concerns me.”

“Just so,” agreed the Count. “Now, I assure you, Manager Leplevsky, that in all of Russia there is no greater admirer of the written word . . .” And having thus broached the subject, the Count went on to applaud the couplets of Pushkin, the paragraphs of Dostoevsky, and the transcriptions of Socrates and Jesus. Then he explained the threat that pencils and pads posed to the Boyarsky’s tradition of romantic elegance.

“Can you imagine,” concluded the Count with a glint in his eye, “if when you sought your wife’s hand, you had to issue your proposal with the stamp of a presiding agency, and were then required to take down her response on a little pad of paper in triplicate—so that you could give one copy to her, one to her father, and one to the family priest?”

But even as the Count was delivering this quip, he was reminded by the expression on the Bishop’s face that one should generally avoid quips in which a man’s marriage played a part. . . .

“I don’t see that my wife has anything to do with this,” said the Bishop.

“No,” agreed the Count. “That was poorly put. What I am trying to say is that Andrey, Emile, and I—”

“So you are bringing this grievance on behalf of Maître d’ Duras and Chef Zhukovsky?”

“Well, no. I have hailed you of my own accord. And it is not a grievance per se. But the three of us are dedicated to ensuring the satisfaction of the Boyarsky’s customers.”

The Bishop smiled.

“Of course. And I am sure that all three of you have your own special concerns given your specific duties. But as manager of the Metropol, I am the one who must ensure that every aspect of the hotel meets a standard of perfection; and that requires a vigilant attention to the elimination of all discrepancies.”

The Count was confused.

“Discrepancies? What sort of discrepancies?”

“All kinds of discrepancies. One day, there may be a discrepancy between how many onions arrived in the kitchen and how many were served in the stew. On another, there may be a discrepancy between how many glasses of wine were ordered and how many poured.”

The Count grew cold.

“You are speaking of thievery.”

“Am I?”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, then the Bishop smiled narrowly.

“Given your shared dedication, please feel free to relate our conversation to Chef Zhukovsky and Maître d’ Duras at your earliest convenience.”

The Count gritted his teeth.

“Rest assured, I shall do so word for word tomorrow at our daily meeting.”

The Bishop studied the Count.

“You have a daily meeting . . . ?”

Suffice it to say that at the Boyarsky’s second seating, the customers were shocked, bemused, and beside themselves once again as slips of paper flew about the dining room like pheasants at the crack of a rifle. And after enduring all of that, here was the Count sitting alone in his study counting the minutes.

After drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the Count rose and recommenced his pacing while humming Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in C major.

“Dum de dum de dum,” he hummed.

It was a delightful composition, you had to admit, and one quite well suited to his daughter’s personality. The first movement had the tempo of Sofia coming home from school at the age of ten with fifteen things to relate. Without taking the time to explain who was who or what was what, she would zip along, punctuating her report with and then, and then, and then, and then. In the second movement, the sonata transitioned to an andante tempo more in keeping with Sofia at seventeen, when she would welcome thunderstorms on Saturday afternoons so that she could sit in their study with a book in her lap or a recording on the phonograph. In the third movement, with its fleet pace and pointillist style, you could almost hear her at the age of thirteen, running down the hotel’s stairs, freezing on a landing momentarily to let someone pass, and then bolting brightly ahead.

Yes, it was a delightful composition. There was no debating that. But was it too delightful? Would it be viewed by the judges as insufficiently weighty for the times? When Sofia had selected the composition, the Count had attempted to signal his concerns diplomatically, by referring to the piece as “pleasant” and “quite diverting”; and then he had kept his peace. For it is the role of the parent to express his concerns and then take three steps back. Not one, mind you, not two, but three. Or maybe four. (But by no means five.) Yes, a parent should share his hesitations and then take three or four steps back, so that the child can make a decision by herself—even when that decision may lead to disappointment.

But wait!

What was that?

As the Count turned, the closet door swung open and Anna charged into the study, dragging Sofia behind her.

“She won!”

For the first time in twenty years, the Count let out a shout: “Ha-ha!”

He embraced Anna for delivering the news.

Then he embraced Sofia for winning.

Then he embraced Anna again.

“We’re sorry we’re so late,” said Anna breathlessly. “But they wouldn’t let her leave the reception.”

“Don’t think of it for a minute! I hadn’t even noticed the time. But sit, sit, sit, and tell me everything.”

Offering the ladies the high-back chairs, the Count perched himself on the edge of the Ambassador and trained his gaze on Sofia, expectantly. Smiling shyly, Sofia deferred to Anna.

“It was incredible,” said the actress. “There were five performers before Sofia. Two violinists, a cellist—”

“Where was it? Which venue?”

“In the Grand Hall.”

“I know it well. Designed by Zagorsky at the turn of the century. How crowded was it? Who was there?”

Anna furrowed her brow. Sofia laughed.

“Papa. Let her tell it.”

“All right, all right.”

So the Count did as he was instructed: He let Anna tell it. And she told how there were five performers before Sofia: two violinists, a cellist, a French-horn player, and another pianist. All five had done the Conservatory proud, comporting themselves professionally and playing their instruments with precision. Two pieces by Tchaikovsky, two by Rimsky-Korsakov, and something by Borodin. But then it was Sofia’s turn.

“I tell you, Sasha, there was an audible gasp when she appeared. She crossed the stage to the piano without the slightest rustle of her dress. It was as if she were floating.”

“You taught me that, Aunt Anna.”

“No, no, Sofia. The manner in which you entered is unteachable.”

“Without a doubt,” agreed the Count.

“Well. When the director announced that Sofia would be playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 1, there was some muttering and a shifting of chairs. But the moment she began to play, they were overcome.”

“I knew it. Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I say that a little Mozart is never out of step?”

“Papa . . .”

“She played with such tenderness,” Anna continued, “such joy, that the audience was won over from the start. There was a smile on every face in every row, I tell you. And the applause when she finished! If only you could have heard it, Sasha. It shook the dust from the chandeliers.”

The Count clapped his own hands and rubbed them together.

“How many musicians performed after Sofia?”

“It didn’t matter. The competition was over and everyone knew it. The poor boy who was up next practically had to be dragged onstage. And then, she was the belle of the reception, being toasted from every corner.”

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Count, leaping to his feet. “I nearly forgot!”

He shoved aside the Ambassador and produced the bucket with the champagne.

“Voilà!”

As his hand dipped in the water, the Count could tell the temperature had climbed to 53˚, but what did that matter. With a single twist of the fingers he spun the foil off the bottle, then to the ceiling with the cork! The champagne flowed over his hands and they all laughed. He filled two flutes for the ladies and a wine glass for himself.

“To Sofia,” he said. “Let tonight mark the beginning of a grand adventure—one that is sure to take her far and wide.”

“Papa,” she said with a blush. “It was just a school competition.”

“Just a school competition! It is one of the intrinsic limitations of being young, my dear, that you can never tell when a grand adventure has just begun. But as a man of experience, you may take my word that—”

Suddenly Anna silenced the Count by holding up her hand. She looked to the closet door.

“Did you hear that?”

The three stood motionless. Sure enough, though muffled, they could hear the sound of a voice. Someone must have been at the bedroom door.

“I’ll find out who it is,” whispered the Count.

Setting down his glass, he slipped between his jackets, opened the closet door, and stepped into his bedroom only to discover—Andrey and Emile at the foot of the bed in the midst of a hushed debate. Emile was holding a ten-layered cake in the shape of a piano, and Andrey must have just suggested they leave it on the bed with a note, because Emile was replying that one does not “dump a Dobos torte on a bedcover”—when the closet door opened and out popped the Count.

Andrey let out a gasp.

The Count drew in a breath.

Emile dropped the cake.

And the evening might have come to an end right then and there, but for Andrey’s instinctive inability to let an object fall to the floor. With the lightest of steps and his fingers outstretched, the onetime juggler caught the torte in midair.

As Andrey breathed a sigh of relief and Emile stared with his mouth open, the Count attempted to act matter-of-factly.

“Why, Andrey, Emile, what a pleasant surprise. . . .”

Taking his cue from the Count, Andrey acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “Emile made a little something for Sofia in anticipation of her victory,” he said. “Please give her our heartfelt congratulations.” Then placing the cake gently on the Grand Duke’s desk, Andrey turned to the door.

But Emile didn’t budge.

“Alexander Ilyich,” he demanded: “What in the name of Ivan were you doing in the closet?”

“In the closet?” asked the Count. “Why, I . . . I was . . .” His voice trailed off diminuendo.

Andrey offered a sympathetic smile and then made a little sweeping motion with his hands, as if to say: The world is wide, and wondrous are the ways of men. . . .

But Emile furrowed his brow at Andrey, as if to say: Nonsense.

The Count looked from one member of the Triumvirate to the other.

“Where are my manners?” he said at last. “Sofia will be delighted to see you both. Please. Come this way.” Then he gestured with a welcoming hand to the closet.

Emile looked at the Count as if he’d lost his mind. But Andrey, who could never hesitate before a well-mannered invitation, picked up the cake and took a step toward the closet door.

Emile let out a grunt of exasperation. “If we’re going in,” he said to Andrey, “then you’d better watch out for the frosting on the sleeves.” So the maître d’ passed Emile the cake and carefully parted the Count’s jackets with his delicate hands.

Emerging on the other side, Andrey’s surprise at seeing the Count’s study for the first time was immediately displaced by the sight of Sofia. “Notre champion!” he said, taking her by the arms and kissing her on both cheeks. For Emile, however, the surprise at seeing the Count’s study was displaced by the even greater surprise of finding the film star Anna Urbanova standing inside it. For unbeknownst to the Triumvirate, the chef had seen every single one of her movies, and generally from the second row.

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.”

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.”

Katerina, who had listened to this story intently, was suddenly holding back tears.

“Ah, but there you have him,” she said.

They were both silent as she regained her composure.

“I want you to know,” said the Count, “how much I appreciate your coming to tell me in person.” But Katerina dismissed his gratitude.

“I came at Mikhail’s request. He asked me to bring you something.”

From her satchel she took out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

Taking the package in hand, the Count could tell from its weight that it was a book.

“It is his project,” said the Count with a smile.

“Yes,” she said. Then she added with pointed emphasis: “He slaved over it.”

The Count nodded to express his understanding and to assure Katerina that he did not take the bestowal lightly.

Katerina looked once more around the room with a light shake of the head as if it somehow exemplified the mystery of outcomes; then she said that she should go.

The Count rose to his feet with her, setting Mishka’s project on the chair.

“Are you going back to Yavas?” he asked.

“No.”

“Will you be staying in Moscow?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“Does it matter?”

She turned to go.

“Katerina . . .”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Katerina looked surprised at first by the Count’s offer, then ready to dismiss it. But after a moment, she said: “Remember him.”

Then she went out the door.

Returning to his chair, the Count sat in silence. After a few minutes, he took up Mishka’s legacy, untied the twine, and folded back the paper. Inside there was a small volume bound in leather. Tooled into the cover was a simple geometric design, at the center of which was the work’s title: Bread and Salt. From the roughly cut pages and loose threads, one could tell that the binding was the work of a dedicated amateur.

After running his hand over the surface of the cover, the Count opened the book to the title page. There, tucked in the seam, was the photograph that had been taken in 1912 at the Count’s insistence, and much to Mishka’s chagrin. On the left, the young Count stood with a top hat on his head, a glint in his eye, and moustaches that extended beyond the limits of his cheeks; while on the right stood Mishka, looking as if he were about to sprint from the frame.

And yet, he had kept the picture all these years.

With a sorrowful smile, the Count set the photograph down and then turned the title leaf to the first page of his old friend’s book. All it contained was a single quotation in a slightly uneven typeset:

And to Adam he said, “Because you have listened to the voice of your wife, and have eaten of the tree of which I commanded you, ‘You shall not eat of it,’ cursed is the ground because of you . . . In the sweat of your face you shall eat BREAD till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Genesis

3:17–19

The Count turned to the second page, on which there was also one quotation:

And the tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of BREAD.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by BREAD alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’”

Matthew

4:3–4

And then to the third . . .

And he took BREAD, and when he had given thanks he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Luke

22:19

As the Count continued turning slowly through the pages, he found himself laughing. For here was Mishka’s project in a nutshell: a compendium of quotations from seminal texts arranged in chronological order, but in each of which the word bread had been capitalized and printed in bold. Beginning with the Bible, the citations proceeded right through the works of the Greeks and Romans onto the likes of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe. But particular tribute was paid to the golden age of Russian literature:

For the sake of propriety, Ivan Yakovlevich put his tailcoat on over his undershirt and, settling at the table, poured out some salt, prepared two onions, took a knife in his hands, and, assuming a significant air, began cutting the BREAD. Having cut the loaf in two, he looked into the middle and, to his surprise, saw something white. Ivan Yakovlevich poked cautiously with his knife and felt with his finger. “Firm!” he said to himself. “What could it be?”

He stuck in his fingers and pulled out—a nose!

“The Nose”

Nikolai Gogol

(1836)

When a man isn’t meant to live upon the earth, the sunshine doesn’t warm him as it does others, and BREAD doesn’t nourish him and make him strong.

A Sportsman’s Sketches

Ivan Turgenev

(1852)

The past and the present merged together. He was dreaming he had reached the promised land flowing with milk and honey, where people ate BREAD they had not earned and went clothed in gold and silver. . . .

Oblomov

Ivan Goncharov

(1859)

“It’s all nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there was nothing to be troubled about! Just some physical disorder. One glass of beer, a piece of dry BREAD, and see—in an instant the mind gets stronger, the thoughts clearer, the intentions firmer!”

Crime and Punishment

Fyodor Dostoevsky

(1866)

I, the vile Lebedev, do not believe in the carts that deliver BREAD to mankind! For carts that deliver BREAD to all mankind, without any moral foundations for their action, may quite cold-bloodedly exclude a considerable part of mankind from enjoying what they deliver.

The Idiot

Fyodor Dostoevsky

(1869)

And do you know, do you know that mankind can live without the Englishman, it can live without Germany, it can live only too well without the Russian man, it can live without science, without BREAD, and it only cannot live without beauty. . . .

Demons

Fyodor Dostoevsky

(1872)

All this happened at the same time: a boy ran up to a pigeon and, smiling, looked at Levin; the pigeon flapped its wings and fluttered off, sparkling in the sun amidst the air trembling with snowdust, while the smell of baked BREAD wafted from the window as the rolls appeared in it. All this together was so extraordinarily good that Levin laughed and wept from joy.

Anna Karenina

Leo Tolstoy

(1877)

Do you see these stones in this bare, scorching desert? Turn them into BREAD and mankind will run after you like sheep, grateful and obedient. . . . But you did not want to deprive man of freedom and rejected the offer, for what sort of freedom is it, you reasoned, if obedience is bought with loaves of BREAD?

From “The Grand Inquisitor”

The Brothers Karamazov

Fyodor Dostoevsky

(1880)

As the Count turned the pages, he smiled in recognition of the characteristic feistiness that Mishka’s project expressed. But following the quote from “The Grand Inquisitor,” there was a second citation from The Brothers Karamazov from a scene the Count had all but forgotten. It related to the little boy, Ilyushechka—the one who was hounded by his schoolmates until falling dangerously ill. When the boy finally dies, his heartstricken father tells the saintly Alyosha Karamazov that his son had made one final request:

Papa, when they put the dirt on my grave, crumble a crust of BREAD on 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 BREAD here 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 BREAD can 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?