A Gentleman in Moscow (19 page)

“I daresay he has something there,” said the Brit. Then he raised his glass and emptied it. So the Count emptied his, and after a grumble, the German followed suit.

“Number two?” asked the Brit, as Audrius refilled the glasses.

“Act one, scene one of
The Nutcracker
.”

“Tchaikovsky!” the German guffawed.

“You laugh,
mein Herr
. And yet, I would wager a thousand crowns that you can picture it yourself. On Christmas Eve, having celebrated with family and friends in a room dressed with garlands, Clara sleeps soundly on the floor with her magnificent new toy. But at the stroke of
midnight, with the one-eyed Drosselmeyer perched on the grandfather clock like an owl, the Christmas tree begins to grow. . . .”

As the Count raised his hands slowly over the bar to suggest the growth of the tree, the Brit began to whistle the famous march from the opening act.

“Yes, exactly,” said the Count to the Brit. “It is commonly said that the English know how to celebrate Advent best. But with all due respect, to witness the essence of winter cheer one must venture farther north than London. One must venture above the fiftieth parallel to where the course of the sun is its most elliptical and the force of the wind its most unforgiving. Dark, cold, and snowbound, Russia has the sort of climate in which the spirit of Christmas burns brightest. And that is why Tchaikovsky seems to have captured the sound of it better than anyone else. I tell you that not only will every European child of the twentieth century know the melodies of
The
Nutcracker
, they will imagine their Christmas just as it is depicted in the ballet; and on the Christmas Eves of their dotage, Tchaikovsky's tree will grow from the floor of their memories until they are gazing up in wonder once again.”

The Brit gave a sentimental laugh and emptied his glass.

“The story was written by a Prussian,” said the German, as he begrudgingly lifted his drink.

“I grant you that,” conceded the Count. “And but for Tchaikovsky, it would have remained in Prussia.”

As Audrius refilled the glasses, the ever-attentive tender at bar noted the Count's look of inquiry and replied with a nod of confirmation.

“Third,” said the Count. Then in lieu of explanation, he simply gestured to the Shalyapin's entrance where a waiter suddenly appeared with a silver platter balanced on the palm of his hand. Placing the platter on the bar between the two foreigners, he lifted the dome to reveal a generous serving of caviar accompanied by blini and sour cream. Even the German could not help but smile, his appetite getting the better of his prejudices.

Anyone who has spent an hour drinking vodka by the glass knows that size has surprisingly little to do with a man's capacity. There are tiny men for whom the limit is seven and giants for whom it is two. For our German friend, the limit appeared to be three. For if the Tolstoy
dropped him in a barrel, and the Tchaikovsky set him adrift, then the caviar sent him over the falls. So, having wagged a chastising finger at the Count, he moved to the corner of the bar, laid his head on his arms, and dreamed of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Taking this as a signal, the Count prepared to push back his stool, but the young Brit was refilling his glass.

“The caviar was a stroke of genius,” he said. “But how did you manage it? You never left our sight.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

The Brit laughed. Then he studied the Count as if with renewed curiosity.

“Who are you?”

The Count shrugged.

“I am someone you have met in a bar.”

“No. That's not quite it. I know a man of erudition when I meet one. And I heard how the bartender referred to you. Who are you, really?”

The Count offered a self-deprecating smile.

“At one time, I was Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov—recipient of the Order of Saint Andrew, member of the Jockey Club, Master of the Hunt. . . .”

The young Brit held out his hand.

“Charles Abernethy—presumptive heir to the Earl of Westmorland, financier's apprentice, and bowman of the losing Cambridge crew at Henley in 1920.”

The two gentlemen shook hands and drank. And then the presumptive heir to the Earl of Westmorland studied the Count again. “This must have been quite a decade for you. . . .”

“You could put it that way,” said the Count.

“Did you try to leave after the Revolution?”

“On the contrary, Charles; I came back because of it.”

Charles looked at the Count in surprise.

“You came back?”

“I was in Paris when the Hermitage fell. I had left the country before the war due to certain . . . circumstances.”

“You weren't an anarchist, were you?”

The Count laughed.

“Hardly.”

“Then what?”

The Count looked into his empty glass. He hadn't spoken of these events in so many years.

“It is late,” he said. “And the story is long.”

By way of response, Charles refilled their glasses.

So the Count took Charles all the way back to the fall of 1913, when on an inclement night he had set out for the twenty-first birthday of the Princess Novobaczky. He described the ice on the driveway, and Mrs. Trent's roast, and the torn IOU—and how a few degrees here and there had landed him on the terrace in the arms of the Princess while the rash lieutenant retched in the grass.

Charles laughed.

“But, Alexander, that sounds splendid. Surely, it's not the reason you left Russia.”

“No,” admitted the Count, but then he continued with his fateful tale: “Seven months pass, Charles. It is the spring of 1914, and I return to the family estate for a visit. Having paid my respects to my grandmother in the library, I venture outside in search of my sister, Helena, who likes to read under the great elm at the bend in the river. From a hundred feet away, I can tell that she is not herself—that is, I can tell that she is
more
than herself. Upon seeing me she sits up with a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her lips, clearly eager to share some piece of news, which I am now equally eager to hear. But just as I cross the lawn toward her, she looks over my shoulder and smiles even more brightly to see a lone figure approaching on a steed—a lone figure in the uniform of the Hussars. . . .

“You see the dilemma the fox had put me in, Charles. While I had been carousing back in Moscow, he had sought my sister out. He had arranged an introduction and then courted her carefully, patiently,
successfully
. And when he swung down from the saddle and our eyes met, he could barely keep the twist of mirth from his lips. But how was I to explain the situation to Helena? This angel of a thousand virtues? How was I to tell her that the man she has fallen in love with has sought her affections not due to an appreciation of her qualities, but to settle a score?”

“What did you do?”

“Ah, Charles. What did I do? I did nothing. I thought surely his true
nature would find occasion to express itself—much as it had at the Novobaczkys'. So in the weeks that followed, I hovered at the edge of their courtship. I suffered through lunches and teas. I ground my teeth as I watched them stroll through the gardens. But as I bided my time, his self-control surpassed my wildest expectations. He pulled out her chair; he picked blossoms; he read verses; he
wrote
verses! And always when he caught my eye there was that little twist in his smile.

“But then on the afternoon of my sister's twentieth birthday, when he was off on maneuvers and we were paying a visit to a neighbor, we returned at dusk to find his troika in front of our house. From a glance at Helena, I could sense her elation. He has rushed back all the way from his battalion, she was thinking, to wish me well on my day. She nearly jumped from her horse and ran up the steps; and I followed her like a condemned man to the noose.”

The Count emptied his glass and slowly set it back onto the bar.

“But there inside the entry hall, I did not find my sister in his arms. I found her two steps from the door, trembling. Against the wall was Nadezhda, my sister's handmaiden. Her bodice torn open, her arms across her chest, her face scarlet with humiliation, she looked briefly at my sister then ran up the stairs. In horror, my sister stumbled across the hall, collapsed in a chair, and covered her face with her hands. And our noble lieutenant? He grinned at me like a cat.

“When I began to express my outrage, he said: ‘Oh, come now, Alexander. It is Helena's birthday. In her honor, let us call it even.' Then roaring with laughter, he walked out the door without giving my sister a glance.”

Charles whistled softly.

The Count nodded.

“But at this juncture, Charles, I did not do nothing. I crossed the entryway to the wall where a pair of pistols hung beneath the family crest. When my sister grabbed at my sleeve and asked where I was going, I too walked out the door without giving her a glance.”

The Count shook his head in condemnation of his own behavior.

“He had a one-minute head start, but he hadn't used it to put distance between us. He had casually climbed into his troika and set his horses moving at little more than a trot. And there you have him in a nutshell,
my friend: a man who raced toward parties, and trotted from his own misdeeds.”

Charles refilled their glasses and waited.

“Our drive was a grand circle that connected the house to the main road by two opposing arcs lined with apple trees. My horse was still tied at its post. So, when I saw him riding away, I mounted and set off in the opposite direction at a gallop. In a matter of minutes, I had reached the point where the two arcs of the drive met the road. Dismounting, I stood and waited for his approach.

“You can picture the scene—me alone in the drive with the sky blue, the breeze blowing, and the apple trees in bloom. Though he had left the house at little more than a trot, when he saw me, he rose to his feet, raised his whip, and began driving his horses at full speed. There was no question as to what he intended to do. So without a second thought, I raised my arm, steadied my aim, and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet knocked him off his feet. The reins flew free and the horses careened off the drive, rolling the troika, and tossing him into the dust—where he lay unmoving.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes, Charles. I killed him.”

The presumptive heir to the Earl of Westmorland slowly nodded his head.

“Right there in the dust . . .”

The Count sighed and took a drink.

“No. It was eight months later.”

Charles looked confused.

“Eight months later . . . ?”

“Yes. In February 1915. You see, ever since my youth I had been known for my marksmanship, and I had every intention of shooting the brute in the heart. But the road was uneven . . . and he was whipping his reins . . . and the apple blossoms were blowing about in the wind . . . In a word, I missed my mark. I ended up shooting him here.”

The Count touched his right shoulder.

“So, then you didn't kill him. . . .”

“Not at that moment. After binding his wound and righting his
troika, I drove him home. Along the way he cursed me at every turn of the wheel, and deservedly so. For while he survived the gunshot wound, with his right arm now lame, he was forced to surrender his commission in the Hussars. And when his father filed an official complaint, my grandmother sent me to Paris, as was the custom at the time. But later that summer when the war broke out, despite his injury he insisted upon resuming his place at the head of his regiment. And in the Second Battle of the Masurian Lakes, he was knocked from his horse and run through with a bayonet by an Austrian dragoon.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Alexander, I am sorry that this fellow died in battle; but I think I can safely say that you have assumed more than your share of guilt for these events.”

“But there is one more event to relate: Ten years ago tomorrow, while I was biding my time in Paris, my sister died.”

“Of a broken heart . . . ?”

“Young women only die of broken hearts in novels, Charles. She died of scarlet fever.”

The presumptive earl shook his head in bewilderment.

“But don't you see?” explained the Count. “It is a chain of events. That night at the Novobaczkys' when I magnanimously tore his marker, I knew perfectly well that word of the act would reach the Princess; and I took the greatest satisfaction in turning the tables on the cad. But if I had not so smugly put him in his place, he would not have pursued Helena, he would not have humiliated her, I would not have shot him, he might not have died in Masuria, and ten years ago I would have been where I belonged—at my sister's side—when she finally breathed her last.”

Having capped off his snifter of brandy with six glasses of vodka, when the Count emerged from the attic hatch shortly before midnight, he weaved across the hotel's roof. With the wind a little wild and the building shifting back and forth, one could almost imagine one was crossing the deck of a ship on high seas. How fitting, thought the Count, as he paused
to steady himself at a chimney stack. Then picking his way among the irregular shadows that jutted here and there, he approached the building's northwest corner.