A Gentleman in Moscow (17 page)

Having followed Andrey across the dining room, through the kitchen, and down a long, winding stair, the Count found himself in a place that even Nina had never been: the wine cellar of the Metropol.

With its archways of brick and its cool, dark climate, the Metropol's wine cellar recalled the somber beauty of a catacomb. Only, instead of sarcophagi bearing the likenesses of saints, receding into the far reaches of the chamber were rows of racks laden with bottles of wine. Here was assembled a staggering collection of Cabernets and Chardonnays, Rieslings and Syrahs, ports and Madeiras—a century of vintages from across the continent of Europe.

All told, there were almost ten thousand cases. More than a hundred thousand bottles. And every one of them without a label.

“What has happened!” gasped the Count.

Andrey nodded in grim acknowledgment.

“A complaint was filed with comrade Teodorov, the Commissar of Food, claiming that the existence of our wine list runs counter to the ideals of the Revolution. That it is a monument to the privilege of the nobility, the effeteness of the intelligentsia, and the predatory pricing of speculators.”

“But that's preposterous.”

For the second time in an hour, the unshrugging Andrey shrugged.

“A meeting was held, a vote was taken, an order was handed down. . . . Henceforth, the Boyarsky shall sell only red and white wine with every bottle at a single price.”

With a hand that was never meant to serve such a purpose, Andrey gestured to the corner, where beside five barrels of water a confusion of labels lay on the floor. “It took ten men ten days to complete the task,” he said sadly.

“But who on earth would file such a complaint?”

“I am not certain; though I have been told it may have originated with your friend. . . .”

“My friend?”

“Your waiter from downstairs.”

The Count looked at Andrey in amazement. But then a memory presented itself—a memory of a Christmas past when the Count had leaned from his chair to correct a certain waiter's recommendation of a Rioja to accompany a Latvian stew. How smugly the Count had observed at the time that there was no substitute for experience.

Well, thought the Count, here is your substitute.

With Andrey a few paces behind him, the Count began walking the cellar's center aisle, much as a commander and his lieutenant might walk through a field hospital in the aftermath of battle. Near the end of the aisle, the Count turned down one of the rows. With a quick accounting of columns and shelves, the Count determined that in this row alone, there were over a thousand bottles—a thousand bottles virtually identical in shape and weight.

Picking up one at random, he reflected how perfectly the curve of the glass fit in the palm of the hand, how perfectly its volume weighed upon the arm. But inside? Inside this dark green glass was what exactly? A Chardonnay to complement a Camembert? A Sauvignon Blanc to go with some chèvre?

Whichever wine was within, it was decidedly not identical to its neighbors. On the contrary, the contents of the bottle in his hand was the product of a history as unique and complex as that of a nation, or a man. In its color, aroma, and taste, it would certainly express the idiosyncratic geology and prevailing climate of its home terrain. But in addition, it would express all the natural phenomena of its
vintage
. In a sip, it would
evoke the timing of that winter's thaw, the extent of that summer's rain, the prevailing winds, and the frequency of clouds.

Yes, a bottle of wine was the ultimate distillation of time and place; a poetic expression of individuality itself. Yet here it was, cast back into the sea of anonymity, that realm of averages and unknowns.

And suddenly, the Count had his own moment of lucidity. Just as Mishka had come to understand the present as the natural by-product of the past, and could see with perfect clarity how it would shape the future, the Count now understood
his
place in the passage of time.

As we age, we are bound to find comfort from the notion that it takes generations for a way of life to fade. We are familiar with the songs our grandparents favored, after all, even though we never danced to them ourselves. At festive holidays, the recipes we pull from the drawer are routinely decades old, and in some cases even written in the hand of a relative long since dead. And the objects in our homes? The oriental coffee tables and well-worn desks that have been handed down from generation to generation? Despite being “out of fashion,” not only do they add beauty to our daily lives, they lend material credibility to our presumption that the passing of an era will be glacial.

But under certain circumstances, the Count finally acknowledged, this process can occur in the comparative blink of an eye. Popular upheaval, political turmoil, industrial progress—any combination of these can cause the evolution of a society to leapfrog generations, sweeping aside aspects of the past that might otherwise have lingered for decades. And this must be especially so, when those with newfound power are men who distrust any form of hesitation or nuance, and who prize self-assurance above all.

For years now, with a bit of a smile, the Count had remarked that this or that was behind him—like his days of poetry or travel or romance. But in so doing, he had never really believed it. In his heart of hearts, he had imagined that, even if unattended to, these aspects of his life were lingering somewhere on the periphery, waiting to be recalled. But looking at the bottle in his hand, the Count was struck by the realization that, in fact, it
was
all behind him. Because the Bolsheviks, who were so intent upon recasting the future from a mold of their own making, would not rest until every last vestige of his Russia had been uprooted, shattered, or erased.

Returning the bottle to its slot, the Count went to join Andrey at the
foot of the stairs. But as he passed among the shelves, it occurred to him that it was
almost
all behind him. For he had one last duty to attend to.

“Just a moment, Andrey.”

Starting at the end of the cellar, the Count began weaving back and forth through the rows systematically, scanning the racks from top to bottom, until Andrey must have thought he'd lost his reason. But in the sixth row he came to a stop. Reaching down to a shelf at the height of his knee, the Count carefully took a bottle from among the thousands. Holding it up with a wistful smile, he ran his thumb over the insignia of the two crossed keys that was embossed on the glass.

On the twenty-second of June 1926—the tenth anniversary of Helena's death—Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov would drink to his sister's memory. Then he would shed this mortal coil, once and for all.

I
t is a fact of human life that one must eventually choose a philosophy. Or such was the opinion of the Count, as he stood before his old windows in suite 317, having slipped inside with the help of Nina's key.

Whether through careful consideration spawned by books and spirited debate over coffee at two in the morning, or simply from a natural proclivity, we must all eventually adopt a fundamental framework, some reasonably coherent system of causes and effects that will help us make sense not simply of momentous events, but of all the little actions and interactions that constitute our daily lives—be they deliberate or spontaneous, inevitable or unforeseen.

For most Russians, the philosophical consolations had been found for centuries under the eaves of the church. Whether they favored the unflinching hand of the Old Testament or the more forgiving hand of the New, their submission to the will of God helped them to understand, or at least accept the inescapable course of events.

In keeping with the fashion of the times, most of the Count's schoolmates had turned their backs on the church; but they had only done so in favor of alternative consolations. Some who preferred the clarity of science adhered to the ideas of Darwin, seeing at every turn the mark of natural selection; while others opted for Nietzsche and his eternal recurrence or Hegel and his dialectic—each system quite sensible, no doubt, when one had finally arrived at the one-thousandth page.

But for the Count, his philosophical leanings had always been essentially meteorological. Specifically, he believed in the inevitable influence of clement and inclement weathers. He believed in the influence of early frosts and lingering summers, of ominous clouds and delicate rains, of fog and sunshine and snowfall. And he believed, most especially, in the reshaping of destinies by the slightest change in the thermometer.

By way of example, one need only look down from this window. Not
three weeks before—with the temperature hovering around 45˚ Fahrenheit—Theatre Square had been empty and gray. But with an increase in the average temperature of just five degrees, the trees had begun to blossom, the sparrows had begun to sing, and couples young and old were lingering on the benches. If such a slight change in temperature was all it took to transform the life of a public square, why should we think the course of human history any less susceptible?

Napoleon would have been the first to admit that after assembling an intrepid corps of commanders and fifteen divisions, after assessing the enemy's weaknesses, studying his terrain, and carefully formulating a plan of attack, one must finally contend with temperature. For the reading on the thermometer will not only govern the pace of advance, but will also determine the adequacy of supplies, and either bolster or betray the courage of one's men. (Ah, Napoleon, perhaps you would never have prevailed in your quest for Mother Russia; but ten degrees warmer and at least you might have reached home with half your forces intact, instead of losing another three hundred thousand men between the gates of Moscow and the banks of the Neman River.)

But if examples from the field of battle are not to your taste, then consider instead a party in late autumn to which you and a loose-knit band of friends and acquaintances have been invited to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of the charming Princess Novobaczky. . . .

At five o'clock, when you look from your dressing room window, the weather seems certain to weigh upon the festivities. For with the temperature at 34˚, clouds as far as the eye can see, and the onset of a drizzling rain, the Princess's guests will be arriving at her party cold, wet, and a little worse for wear. But by the time you set out at six, the temperature has dropped just enough that what begins to land on your shoulders is not a gray, autumnal rain, but the season's first snowfall. Thus, the very precipitation that might have soured the evening, instead lends it an aura of magic. In fact, so mesmerizing is the manner in which the snowflakes spiral through the air that you are run from the road when a troika passes at full gallop—with a young officer of the Hussars standing at the reins like a centurion in his chariot.

Having spent an hour freeing your carriage from a ditch, you arrive at the Princess's late but, as luck would have it, so does a portly old friend
from your days at the academy. In fact, you get to watch as he alights from his droshky, throws back his shoulders, fills out his chest, and then tests the formality of the footmen—by slipping on a patch of ice and landing on his rump. Helping him up, you hook your arm under his and lead him into the house just as the rest of the party is spilling from the drawing room.

In the dining room, you make a quick circle of the table in search of your name, assuming that—given your reputation as a raconteur—you will once again be placed beside some awkward cousin. But lo and behold, you have been seated at the right hand of the guest of honor. While on the Princess's left . . . is none other than the dashing young Hussar who had run you from the road.

With a glance, you can see that he fancies himself the natural recipient of the Princess's attention. Clearly, he expects to regale her with tales of the regiment while occasionally refilling her glass with wine. When the meal is over, he will offer his arm and lead her into the ballroom, where he will display his talents at the mazurka. And when the orchestra plays Strauss, he will not need to waltz the Princess across the floor, because he will be on the terrace in her arms.

But just as the young lieutenant is about to tell his first anecdote, the doors to the kitchen open and three footmen appear bearing platters. All eyes turn to see what Mrs. Trent has prepared for the occasion, and when the three silver domes are lifted simultaneously there are gasps of appreciation. For in honor of the Princess, she has cooked her specialty: English roast with Yorkshire pudding.

In the history of man, no military commissary has raised envy. Due to a combination of efficiency, disinterest, and the lack of a feminine touch, all of the food in an army kitchen is boiled until the tops rattle off the pots. So, having made do with cabbage and potatoes for three months straight, the young lieutenant is unprepared for the arrival of Mrs. Trent's beef. Seared for fifteen minutes at 450˚ and then roasted for two hours at 350˚, her roast is tender and red at the center yet crispy and brown at the crust. Thus, our young Hussar sets aside his regimental tales in favor of extra helpings and the refilling of his own glass with wine; while in accordance with the established rules of etiquette, it is you who must entertain the Princess with a few amusing stories of your own.

Having cleaned the gravy from his plate with the last crust of the pudding, the young lieutenant finally turns his attention to his hostess; but at that very same moment, the orchestra begins tuning in the ballroom and the guests push back their chairs. So he simply holds out his arm for the Princess, as your portly friend appears at your side.

Now, there is nothing your friend loves better than a good quadrille; and despite his physique, he has been known to hop like a rabbit and prance like a buck. But placing his hand on his tailbone, he explains that his spill on the drive has left him too sore to gallivant. He wonders, instead, if you'd like to play a few hands of cards and you respond it would be your pleasure. But it just so happens that the lieutenant overhears this exchange and, in a boisterous frame of mind, imagines that here is a perfect opportunity to teach some dandies a thing or two about games of chance. Besides, he reasons to himself, the orchestra will be playing for hours and the Princess is going nowhere. So without further thought, he passes her arm to the nearest gentleman and invites himself to join you at the card table—while signaling the butler for another glass of wine.

Well.

Perhaps it was that extra glass of wine. Perhaps it was the lieutenant's tendency to underestimate a well-dressed man. Or perhaps it was simply bad luck. Whatever the cause, suffice it to say that after two hours, it is the lieutenant who has lost one thousand rubles and you who hold his marker.

But however recklessly the fellow drives his troika, you have no wish to put him in a spot. “It is the Princess's birthday,” you say. “In her honor, let us call it even.” And with that, you tear the lieutenant's marker in two and toss the halves on the baize. In appreciation, he sweeps his wine glass to the floor, knocks back his chair, and stumbles out the terrace doors into the night.

Although in the course of the game there were only five players and three observers, the story of the torn IOU quickly makes its way around the ballroom, and suddenly the Princess has sought you out in order to express her gratitude for this act of gallantry. As you bow and reply
It is nothing
, the band strikes up a waltz and you have no choice but to take her in your arms and spirit her across the floor.

The Princess waltzes divinely. She is light on her feet and spins like a top. But with more than forty couples dancing and the fires in the two fireplaces built unusually high, the ambient temperature in the ballroom reaches 80˚, prompting the Princess's cheeks to flush and her bosom to heave. Concerned that she may be feeling faint, naturally, you inquire if she would like some air. . . .

You see?

If Mrs. Trent had not so perfectly mastered the art of roasting, the young lieutenant might have kept his attention on the Princess instead of washing down a third helping of beef with an eighth glass of wine. If the temperature that night had not dropped six degrees in as many hours, the ice might not have formed in the drive, your portly friend might not have fallen, and the card game might not have been played. And if the sight of snow hadn't prompted the footmen to build the fires so high, you might not have ended up on the terrace in the arms of the birthday girl—as a young Hussar returned his supper to the pasture from whence it came.

And what is more, thought the Count with a grave expression, all the sorry events that followed might never have come to pass. . . .

“What is this? Who are you?”

Turning from the window, the Count discovered a middle-aged couple standing in the doorway with the key to the suite in their hands.

“What are you doing here?” the husband demanded.

“I am . . . from the drapers,” the Count replied.

Turning back to the window, he took hold of the curtain and gave it a tug.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything seems in order.”

Then he doffed the cap he wasn't wearing and escaped into the hall.

“Good evening, Vasily.”

“Oh. Good evening, Count Rostov.”

The Count gave the desk a delicate tap.

“Have you seen Nina about?”

“She is in the ballroom, I believe.”

“Ah. Just so.”

The Count was pleasantly surprised to hear that Nina was back in one of her old haunts. Now thirteen, Nina had all but given up her youthful pastimes in favor of books and professors. To have set aside her studies, there must have been quite an Assembly assembled.

But when the Count opened the door, there was no shuffling of chairs or pounding of podiums. Nina was sitting alone at a small table under the central chandelier. The Count noted that her hair was tucked behind her ears, an unfailing indication that something of significance was in the works. Sure enough, on the pad before her was a six by three grid, while on the table sat a set of scales, a measuring tape, and a sprinter's watch.

“Greetings, my friend.”

“Oh, hello, Your Countship.”

“What, pray tell, are you up to?”

“We are preparing for an experiment.”

The Count looked around the ballroom.

“We?”

Nina pointed with her pencil to the balcony.

Looking up, the Count discovered a boy Nina's age crouching in their old perch behind the balustrade. Simply though neatly dressed, the boy had wide eyes and an expression that was earnest and attentive. Along the balustrade were lined a series of objects of different shapes and sizes.