A Gentleman in Moscow

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.

“I noted that as well,” said Andrey. “But I am afraid our flower shop has not been carrying the inventory necessary to ensure a frequent refreshing of the arrangement.”

“If you cannot secure flowers of sufficient freshness from Florist Eisenberg, then perhaps it is time to switch to a silk arrangement. That would obviate the necessity for refreshing the arrangement and should have the added benefit of proving more economical.”

“I shall speak with Florist Eisenberg today,” said Andrey.

“Of course.”

Once the Bishop had concluded the meeting and Emile had gone off grumbling in search of his bushel of beets, the Count accompanied Andrey to the main staircase.

“À tout à l’heure,” said the maître d’, as he headed down to the flower shop.

“À bientôt,” said the Count as he headed up to his rooms.

But as soon as Andrey had disappeared from sight, the Count was back on the second-floor landing. Spying around the corner to confirm that his friend was gone, the Count hurried to the Boyarsky. Having locked the door behind him, he peeked into the kitchen to confirm that Emile and his staff were otherwise engaged. Only then did he approach the maître d’s podium, open the drawer, cross himself twice, and pull out the 1954 edition of the Book.

Within minutes he had reviewed all the reservations in January and February. He paused at one event scheduled for the Yellow Room in March and at another scheduled for the Red Room in April, but neither would do. As he moved further into the future, the pages of the Book became increasingly bare. Whole weeks passed without a single entry. The Count began flipping the pages with a quicker pace, and even a hint of desperation—that is, until he landed on the eleventh of June. Having studied the marginal notes written in Andrey’s delicate script, the Count tapped the entry twice. A combined dinner of the Presidium and the Council of Ministers—two of the most powerful bodies in the Soviet Union.

Returning the Book to its drawer, the Count climbed the stairs to his bedroom, pushed his chair aside, sat on the floor, and for the first time in almost thirty years opened one of the hidden doors in the legs of the Grand Duke’s desk. For while the Count may have resolved to take action on the night of Katerina’s visit six months before, it was only with news of the Conservatory’s goodwill tour that the clock had begun to tick.

When the Count arrived at the Shalyapin at six o’clock that night, the denizens of the bar were celebrating the misadventures of “Pudgy” Webster, a gregarious if somewhat hapless American who had recently arrived in the capital. Twenty-nine years old and still suffering from that affliction for which he had been nicknamed as a boy, Pudgy had been sent to Russia by his father—the owner of the American Vending Machine Company of Montclair, New Jersey—with strict instructions that he not come home until he had sold a thousand machines. After three weeks, he had finally secured his first meeting with a Party official (the assistant to the manager of the skating rink in Gorky Park), and had thus been convinced by several journalists to sponsor a round of champagne.

Taking a stool at the other end of the bar, the Count accepted a flute from Audrius with a grateful nod and the smile of one who has his own cause for celebration. The designs of men are notoriously subservient to happenstance, hesitation, and haste; but had the Count been given the power to engineer an optimal course of events, he could not have done a better job than Fate was doing on its own. So with a smile on his lips, he raised his glass.

But to toast Fate is to tempt Fate; and sure enough, even as the Count set his flute down on the bar, a gust of frozen air brushed against the nape of his neck, followed by an urgent whisper.

“Your Excellency!”

Turning on his stool, the Count was surprised to find Viktor Stepanovich standing behind him with frost on his shoulders and snow on his cap. A few months before, Viktor had joined a chamber orchestra and thus was rarely at the hotel in the evening. What’s more, he was panting as if he had just sprinted across the city.

“Viktor!” exclaimed the Count. “What is it? You look in a state.”

Viktor ignored the remark and began to speak with uncharacteristic impatience.

“I know that you are protective of your daughter, Your Excellency, and rightfully so. Such is the prerogative of any parent, and the duty of one who is raising a tender heart. But with all due respect, I think you are making a terrible mistake. She will be graduating in six months, and her chances of receiving a worthy position will only be hampered by your decision.”

“Viktor,” said the Count, rising from his stool. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Viktor studied the Count.

“You did not instruct Sofia to withdraw her name?”

“Withdraw her name from what?”

“I just received a call from Director Vavilov. He informed me that she has declined the invitation to travel with the Conservatory’s orchestra.”

“Declined the invitation! I assure you, my friend, that I had no idea. In fact, I agree with you hares, hounds, and horses that the brightness of her future depends upon her performing on that tour.”

The two men looked at each other, dumbfounded.

“She must have acted of her own accord,” said the Count after a moment.

“But to what end?”

He shook his head.

“I fear it may be my fault, Viktor. Yesterday afternoon, when we received the news, I made so much of it: The chance to play Rachmaninov before an audience of thousands in the Palais Garnier! I must have triggered feelings of trepidation. She has a tender heart, as you say; but she also has spunk. She is bound to come around in the weeks ahead.”

Viktor took the Count by the sleeve.

“But there are no weeks ahead. On Friday, a public announcement will be made describing the orchestra’s itinerary and the musical program. The director will need to have all of his performers in place before the announcement. Assuming that the decision to withdraw Sofia was yours, I gained his assurance that he would wait twenty-four hours before making a new appointment—so that I could try to persuade you. If she has made this decision on her own, then you must speak to her tonight and change her mind. She must come to the defense of her own talent!”

One hour later at table ten of the Boyarsky, with menus perused and orders placed, Sofia looked to the Count expectantly—as it was his turn to play first in Zut. But, despite the fact that he had prepared a promising category (common uses for wax),* the Count opted instead to summon an untold story from the past.

“Have I ever told you about Ribbon Day at the academy?” he began.

“Yes,” Sofia said. “You have.”

Furrowing his brow, the Count reviewed all of the conversations that he had ever had with his daughter in chronological order and could find no evidence of having told her the tale before.

“I may have mentioned something about Ribbon Day once or twice,” he conceded, to be polite, “but I am quite sure that I have never told you this particular story. You see, as a boy I had a certain aptitude for marksmanship. And one spring—when I was about your age—there was a Ribbon Day at the academy in which we were all chosen to compete in different events—”

“Weren’t you closer to thirteen?”

“What’s that?”

“Weren’t you thirteen when this happened?”

The Count’s eyes went back and forth as he completed certain calculations.

“Well, yes,” he continued somewhat impatiently, “I suppose I was something like thirteen. The important point is that given my marksmanship, I was generally regarded throughout the school as the favorite in the archery competition, and I looked forward to the event with great anticipation. But the closer we got to Ribbon Day, the worse my marksmanship became. Well known for piercing grapes at fifty paces, I suddenly couldn’t hit the hide of an elephant at fifteen feet. Just the sight of my bow made my hands shake and my eyes water. Suddenly, I—a Rostov—found myself flirting with the notion of inventing an illness and checking into the infirmary—”

“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.”