A Gentleman in Moscow (10 page)

With Helena, Alexander was always his most outlandish, claiming as he collapsed on the grass that they had just met Tolstoy on the train; or that he had decided after careful consideration to join a monastery and take an eternal vow of silence. Immediately. Without a moment's delay. Or, as soon as they'd had lunch.

“Do you really think that silence would suit you?” Helena would ask.

“Like deafness suited Beethoven.”

Then, after casting a friendly glance at Mishka, Helena would laugh,
look back at her brother, and ask, “What is to become of you, Alexander?”

They all asked that question of the Count. Helena, the Countess, the Grand Duke.
What is to become of you, Alexander?
But they asked it in three different ways.

For the Grand Duke the question was, of course, rhetorical. Confronted with a report of a failed semester or an unpaid bill, the Grand Duke would summon his godson to his library, read the letter aloud, drop it on his desk, and ask the question without expectation of a response, knowing full well that the answer was imprisonment, bankruptcy, or both.

For his grandmother, who tended to ask the question when the Count had said something particularly scandalous,
What is to become of you
,
Alexander?
was an admission to all in earshot that here was her favorite, so you needn't expect
her
to rein in his behavior.

But when Helena asked the question, she did so as if the answer were a genuine mystery. As if, despite her brother's erratic studies and carefree ways, the world had yet to catch a glimpse of the man he was bound to become.

“What is to become of you, Alexander?” Helena would ask.

“That is the question,” the Count would agree. And then he would lie back in the grass and gaze thoughtfully at the figure eights of the fireflies as if he too were pondering this essential enigma.

Yes, those were Elysian days, thought Mishka. But like Elysium they belonged in the past. They belonged with waistcoats and corsets, with quadrilles and bezique, with the ownership of souls, the payment of tribute, and the stacking of icons in the corner. They belonged in an age of elaborate artifice and base superstition—when a lucky few dined on cutlets of veal and the majority endured in ignorance.

They belong with those, thought Mishka, as he turned his gaze from Helena's portrait to the nineteenth-century novels that lined the familiar little bookcase. All those adventures and romances spun in the fanciful styles that his old friend so admired. But here, on top of the bookcase in its long narrow frame, was a genuine artifact—the black-and-white photograph of the men who signed the Treaty of Portsmouth to end the Russo-Japanese War.

Mishka picked up the picture and surveyed the visages, sober and
assured. Standing in formal configuration, the Japanese and Russian delegates all wore high white collars, moustaches, bow ties, and expressions suggestive of some grand sense of accomplishment—having just concluded with the stroke of a pen the war that their likes had started in the first place. And there, just left of center, stood the Grand Duke himself: special envoy from the court of the Tsar.

It was at Idlehour in 1910 that Mishka first witnessed the Rostovs' long-standing tradition—of gathering on the tenth anniversary of a family member's death to raise a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Two days after the Count and he had arrived for their holiday, the guests began to appear. By four in the afternoon the drive was lined with surreys, britzkas, droshkies, and gigs from Moscow and St. Petersburg and all the neighboring districts. And when the family gathered in the hall at five, it was the Grand Duke who was given the honor of raising the first glass in memory of the Count's parents, who had died just hours apart.

What a formidable figure the Grand Duke had been. Seemingly born in full dress, he rarely sat, never drank, and died on the back of his horse on the twenty-first of September 1912—ten years ago to the day.

“He was a right old soul.”

Mishka turned to find the Count standing behind him with two Bordeaux glasses in hand. “A man of another time,” Mishka said, not without reverence, returning the picture to its shelf. Then the bottle was opened, the wine was poured, and the two old friends raised their glasses on high.

“What a group we have gathered, Sasha. . . .”

Having toasted the Grand Duke and reminisced of days gone by, the old friends shifted their attention to the upcoming congress of RAPP, which turned out to be the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers.

“It will be an extraordinary assembly. An extraordinary assembly at an extraordinary time. Akhmatova, Bulgakov, Mayakovksy, Mandelstam—the sort of writers who not long ago couldn't have dined at the same table without fear of arrest—will all be there. Yes, over the years they have championed their differing styles, but in June they will gather to forge
novaya poeziya
, a new poetry. One that is universal, Sasha. One that doesn't hesitate and needn't kowtow. One that has the human spirit as its subject and the future as its muse!”

Just before uttering his first
One that
, Mishka had leapt to his feet and now paced the Count's little study from corner to corner, as if formulating his ideas in the privacy of his own apartment.

“You remember, no doubt, that work by the Dane Thomsen. . . .”

(The Count did not remember that work by the Dane Thomsen. But he would no sooner have interrupted Mikhail on his feet than Vivaldi on his violin.)

“As an archeologist, when Thomsen divided the ages of man into Stone, Bronze, and Iron, naturally enough, he did so in accordance with the physical tools that defined each epoch. But what of man's
spiritual
development? What of his
moral
development? I tell you, they progressed along the very same lines. In the Stone Age, the ideas in the caveman's head were as blunt as the club in his hand; they were as rough as the flint from which he struck a spark. In the Age of Bronze, when a canny few discovered the science of metallurgy, how long did it take for them to fashion coins, crowns, and swords? That unholy trinity to which the common man was enslaved for the next one thousand years.”

Mishka paused to consider the ceiling.

“Then came the Age of Iron—and with it the steam engine, the printing press, and the gun. Here was a very different trinity, indeed. For while these tools had been developed by the Bourgeoisie to further their own interests, it was through the engine, the press, and the pistol that the Proletariat began to free itself from labor, ignorance, and tyranny.”

Mishka shook his head in appreciation of either history's trajectory or his turns of phrase.

“Well, my friend, I think we can agree that a new age has begun: the Age of Steel. We now have the ability to build power stations, skyscrapers, airplanes.”

Mishka turned to the Count.

“You have seen the Shukhov Radio Tower?”

The Count had not.

“What a thing of beauty, Sasha. A two-hundred-foot structure of spiraling steel from which we can broadcast the latest news and intelligence—and,
yes, the sentimental strains of your Tchaikovsky—into the home of every citizen within a hundred miles. And with each one of these advances, the Russian morality has been keeping step. In our time, we may witness the end of ignorance, the end of oppression, and the advent of the brotherhood of man.”

Mishka stopped and waved a hand in the air.

“
But what of poetry?
you ask.
What of the written word?
Well, I can assure you that it too is keeping pace. Once fashioned from bronze and iron, it is now being fashioned from steel. No longer an art of quatrains and dactyls and elaborate tropes, our poetry has become an art of action. One that will speed across the continents and transmit music to the stars!”

Had the Count overheard such a speech spilling forth from a student in a coffeehouse, he might have observed with a glint in his eye that, apparently, it was no longer enough for a poet to write verse. Now, a poem must spring from a school with its own manifesto and stake its claim on the moment by means of the first-person plural and the future tense, with rhetorical questions and capital letters and an army of exclamation points! And above all else, it must be
novaya
.

But as noted, these would have been the Count's thoughts had he overheard someone
else
speaking. Hearing the speech spill forth from Mishka filled the Count with joy.

For it is a fact that a man can be profoundly out of step with his times. A man may have been born in a city famous for its idiosyncratic culture and yet, the very habits, fashions, and ideas that exalt that city in the eyes of the world may make no sense to him at all. As he proceeds through life, he looks about in a state of confusion, understanding neither the inclinations nor the aspirations of his peers.

For such a fellow, forget any chance of romance or professional success; those are the provenance of men in step with their times. Instead, for this fellow the options will be to bray like a mule or find what solace he can from overlooked volumes discovered in overlooked bookshops. And when his roommate stumbles home at two in the morning, he has little choice but to listen in silent mystification as he is recounted the latest dramas from the city's salons.

This had been Mishka's lot for most of his life.

But events can unfold in such a manner that overnight the man out of
step finds himself in the right place at the right time. The fashions and attitudes that had seemed so alien to him are suddenly swept aside and supplanted by fashions and attitudes in perfect sympathy with his deepest sentiments. Then, like a lone sailor adrift for years on alien seas, he wakes one night to discover familiar constellations overhead.

And when this occurs—this extraordinary realignment of the stars—the man so long out of step with his times experiences a supreme lucidity. Suddenly all that has passed comes into focus as a necessary course of events, and all that promises to unfold has the clearest rhyme and reason.

When the twice-tolling clock struck twelve, even Mishka could see the merit in having another glass of wine; and toasts were made not only to the Grand Duke, but to Helena and the Countess, to Russia and Idlehour, to poetry and pacing, and to every other worthy facet of life that they could think of.

O
ne evening in late December, as he was walking the hallway to the Piazza, the Count distinctly felt a gust of frozen air, despite being fifty yards from the nearest exit to the street. It brushed past him with all the freshness and clarity of a starlit winter's night. After pausing and searching about, he realized that the draft was coming . . . from the coatroom. Which Tanya, the attendant, had left unattended. So, with a look to his left and a look to his right, the Count stepped within.

In the preceding minutes, there must have been such a rush of parties arriving for dinner that the winter air had yet to dissipate from the fabric of their coats. Here was the greatcoat of a soldier with a dusting of snow on its shoulders; here the woolen jacket of a bureaucrat still damp; and here was a black mink coat with a collar of ermine (or was it sable?) that was in all probability worn by the mistress of a commissar.

Raising a sleeve to his face, the Count could detect smoke from a fireplace and the hint of an oriental
eau de cologne
. Setting out from some elegant house on the Boulevard Ring, this young beauty presumably arrived in an automobile as black as her coat. Or perhaps she had opted to walk down Tverskaya Street, where Pushkin's statue stood pensive but undaunted in the freshly fallen snow. Or better yet, she had come by sleigh with the hooves of the horses sounding on the cobbled streets and the crack of the whip matching the driver's
Hyah!

That was how the Count and his sister would brave the cold on Christmas Eve. Promising their grandmother that they would be no later than midnight, the siblings would set out on their troika into the crisp night air to call on their neighbors. With the Count at the reins and the pelt of a wolf on their laps, they would cut across the lower pasture to the village road, where the Count would call:
Who shall it be first? The Bobrinskys? Or the Davidovs?

But whether they ventured to the one, the other, or somewhere else entirely, there would be a feast, a fire, and open arms. There would be bright dresses, and flushed skin, and sentimental uncles making misty-eyed toasts as children spied from the stairs. And music? There would be songs that emptied your glass and called you to your feet. Songs that led you to leap and alight in a manner that belied your age. Songs that made you reel and spin until you lost your bearings not only between the parlor and the salon, but between heaven and earth.

As midnight approached, the Rostov siblings would stumble from their second or third visit in search of their sleigh. Their laughter would echo under the stars and their steps would weave in wide curves back and forth across the straight tracks that they had made upon their arrival—such that in the morning their hosts would find the giant figure of a G clef transcribed by their boots in the snow.

Back in the troika they would charge across the countryside, cutting through the village of Petrovskoye, where the Church of the Ascension stood not far from its monastery's walls. Erected in 1814 in honor of Napoleon's defeat, the church's campanile was rivaled only by that of the Ivan the Great tower in the Kremlin. Its twenty bells had been forged from cannons that the Interloper had been forced to abandon during his retreat, such that every peal seemed to sound:
Long live Russia! Long live the Tsar!

But as they came to the bend in the road where the Count would normally give a snap of the reins to speed the horses home, Helena would place a hand on his arm to signal that he should slow the team—for midnight had just arrived, and a mile behind them the bells of Ascension had begun to swing, their chimes cascading over the frozen land in holy canticle. And in the pause between hymns, if one listened with care, above the pant of the horses, above the whistle of the wind, one could hear the bells of St. Michael's ten miles away—and then the bells of St. Sofia's even farther afield—calling one to another like flocks of geese across a pond at dusk.

The bells of Ascension . . .

When the Count had passed through Petrovskoye in 1918 on his hurried return from Paris, he had come upon a gathering of peasants milling
in mute consternation before the monastery's walls. The Red Cavalry, it seems, had arrived that morning with a caravan of empty wagons. At the instruction of their young captain, a troop of Cossacks had climbed the campanile and heaved the bells from the steeple one by one. When it came time to heave the Great Bell, a second troop of Cossacks was sent up the stairs. The old giant was hoisted from its hook, balanced on the rail, and tipped into the air, where it somersaulted once before landing in the dust with a thud.

When the abbot rushed from the monastery to confront the captain—demanding in the name of the Lord that they cease this desecration at once—the captain leaned against a post and lit a cigarette.

“One should render unto Caesar what is Caesar's,” he said, “and unto God what is God's.” With that, he instructed his men to drag the abbot up the belfry steps and hurl him from the steeple into the arms of his Maker.

Presumably, the bells of the Church of the Ascension had been reclaimed by the Bolsheviks for the manufacture of artillery, thus returning them to the realm from whence they came. Though for all the Count knew, the cannons that had been salvaged from Napoleon's retreat to make the Ascension's bells had been forged by the French from the bells at La Rochelle; which in turn had been forged from British blunderbusses seized in the Thirty Years' War. From bells to cannons and back again, from now until the end of time. Such is the fate of iron ore.

“Count Rostov . . . ?”

The Count looked up from his reverie to find Tanya standing in the doorway.

“Sable I should think,” said the Count, dropping the sleeve. “Yes, most definitely sable.”

December in the Piazza . . .

From the day the Metropol opened its doors, the good people of Moscow had looked to the Piazza to set the tone of the season. For by five o'clock on the first of December, the room had already been festooned in anticipation of the New Year. Evergreen garlands with bright red berries
hung from the fountain. Strings of lights fell from the balconies. And revelers? From all across Moscow they came, such that by eight o'clock, when the orchestra struck up its first festive song, every table was spoken for. By nine, the waiters were dragging chairs in from the corridors so that latecomers could hang their arms over the shoulders of friends. And at the center of every table—whether it was hosted by the high or the humble—was a serving of caviar, for it is the genius of this particular delicacy that it may be enjoyed by the ounce or the pound.

As such, it was with a touch of disappointment that the Count entered the Piazza on this winter solstice to find the room ungarlanded, the balustrades unstrung, an accordion player on the bandstand, and two-thirds of the tables empty.

But then, as every child knows, the drumbeat of the season must sound from within. And there, at her usual table by the fountain, was Nina with a dark green ribbon tied around the waist of her bright yellow dress.

“Merry Christmas,” said the Count with a bow when he reached the table.

Nina stood and curtsied. “The joys of the season to you, sir.”

When they were seated with their napkins in their laps, Nina explained that as she would be meeting her father for dinner a little later, she had taken the liberty of ordering herself an hors d'oeuvre.

“Quite sensible,” said the Count.

At that moment, the Bishop appeared, carrying a small tower of ice creams.

“The hors d'oeuvre?”

“
Oui
,” Nina replied.

Having placed the dish before Nina with a priestly smile, the Bishop turned and asked if the Count would like a menu (as if he didn't know it by heart!).

“No thank you, my good man. Just a glass of champagne and a spoon.”

Systematic in all matters of importance, Nina ate her ice cream one flavor at a time, moving from the lightest to the darkest in shade. Thus, having already dispatched her French vanilla, she was now moving on to a scoop of lemon, which perfectly matched her dress.

“So,” said the Count, “are you looking forward to your visit home?”

“Yes, it will be nice to see everyone,” said Nina. “But when we return to Moscow in January, I shall be starting school.”

“You don't seem very excited by the prospect.”

“I fear it will be dreadfully dull,” she admitted, “and positively overrun with children.”

The Count nodded gravely to acknowledge the indisputable likelihood of children in the schoolhouse; then, as he dipped his own spoon into the scoop of strawberry, he noted that he had enjoyed school very much.

“Everybody tells me that.”

“I loved reading the
Odyssey
and the
Aeneid
; and I made some of the finest friends of my life. . . .”

“Yes, yes,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Everybody tells me that too.”

“Well, sometimes everybody tells you something because it is true.”

“Sometimes,” Nina clarified, “everybody tells you something because they are everybody. But why should one listen to everybody? Did
everybody
write the
Odyssey?
Did
everybody
write the
Aeneid
?” She shook her head then concluded definitively: “The only difference between everybody and nobody is all the shoes.”

Perhaps the Count should have left it at that. But he hated the idea of his young friend beginning her Moscow school days with such a desolatory view. As she progressed through the dark purple scoop (presumably blackberry), he considered how best to articulate the virtues of a formal education.

“While there are certainly some irksome aspects to school,” he conceded after a moment, “I think you will find to your eventual delight that the experience has broadened your horizons.”

Nina looked up.

“What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean by what?”

“By
broadened your horizons
.”

The Count's assertion had seemed so axiomatic that he had not prepared an elaboration. So before responding, he signaled the Bishop for
another glass of champagne. For centuries champagne has been used to launch marriages and ships. Most assume this is because the drink is so intrinsically celebratory; but, in fact, it is used at the onset of these dangerous enterprises because it so capably boosts one's resolve. When the glass was placed on the table, the Count took a swig large enough to tickle his sinuses.

“By broadening your horizons,” he ventured, “what I meant is that education will give you a sense of the world's scope, of its wonders, of its many and varied ways of life.”

“Wouldn't travel achieve that more effectively?”

“Travel?”

“We are talking about horizons, aren't we? That horizontal line at the limit of sight? Rather than sitting in orderly rows in a schoolhouse, wouldn't one be better served by working her way toward an
actual
horizon, so that she could see what lay beyond it? That's what Marco Polo did when he traveled to China. And what Columbus did when he traveled to America. And what Peter the Great did when he traveled through Europe
incognito
!”

Nina paused to take a great mouthful of the chocolate, and when the Count appeared about to reply she waved her spoon to indicate that she was not yet finished. He waited attentively for her to swallow.

“Last night my father took me to
Scheherazade
.”

“Ah,” the Count replied (grateful for the change of subject). “Rimsky-Korsakov at his best.”

“Perhaps. I wouldn't know. The point is: According to the program, the composition was intended to ‘enchant' the listeners with ‘the world of the Arabian Nights.'”

“That realm of Aladdin and the lamp,” said the Count with a smile.

“Exactly. And, in fact, everyone in the theater seemed utterly enchanted.”

“Well, there you are.”

“And yet, not one of them has any intention of
going
to Arabia—even though that is where the lamp is.”

By some extraordinary conspiracy of fate, at the very instant Nina made this pronouncement, the accordion player concluded an old favorite and the
sparsely populated room broke into applause. Sitting back, Nina gestured to her fellow customers with both hands as if their ovation were the final proof of her position.

It is the mark of a fine chess player to tip over his own king when he sees that defeat is inevitable, no matter how many moves remain in the game. Thus, the Count inquired:

“How was your hors d'oeuvre?”

“Splendid.”

The accordion player now began to play a jaunty little melody reminiscent of an English carol. Taking this as his signal, the Count indicated that he would like to make a toast.

“It is a sad but unavoidable fact of life,” he began, “that as we age our social circles grow smaller. Whether from increased habit or diminished vigor, we suddenly find ourselves in the company of just a few familiar faces. So I view it as an incredible stroke of good fortune at this stage in my life to have found such a fine new friend.”