A Gentleman in Moscow (22 page)

“I'll be just a minute,” she told them, then crossed over to the Count.

Naturally, after such a long separation the Count's instinct was to embrace little Nina like a bear; but she seemed to dissuade his impulse with her posture.

“It is good to see you, Nina.”

“And you, Alexander Ilyich.”

The old friends took each other in for a moment; then Nina made a gesture toward the white jacket hanging over the arm of the chair.

“I see you are still presiding over tables at the Boyarsky.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, though unsure from her businesslike tone whether he should take the remark as a compliment or criticism. . . . He was tempted in turn to ask (with a glint in his eye) if she had had an “hors d'oeuvre” at the Piazza, but thought better of it.

“I gather you are on the verge of an adventure,” he said instead.

“I suppose there will be adventurous aspects,” she replied. “But mostly there will be a good deal of work.”

The four of them, she explained, were leaving the next morning with
ten other cadres of local Komsomol youth for the Kady District—an ancient agricultural center in the heart of the Ivanovo Province—to aid the
udarniks
, or “shock workers,” in the collectivization of the region. At the end of 1928, only 10 percent of the farms in Ivanovo had been operating as collectives. By the end of 1931, nearly all of them would be.

“For generations the kulaks have farmed the land for themselves, organizing the local peasant labor to their own ends. But the time has come for the common land to serve the common good. It is a historical necessity,” she added matter-of-factly, “an inevitability. After all, does a teacher only teach his own children? Does a physician only care for his parents?”

As Nina began this little speech, the Count was taken aback for a moment by her tone and terminology—by her exacting assessment of kulaks and the “inevitable” need for collectivization. But when she tucked her hair behind her ears, he realized that her fervor shouldn't have come as a surprise. She was simply bringing to the Komsomol the same unwavering enthusiasm and precise attention to detail that she had brought to the mathematics of Professor Lisitsky. Nina Kulikova always was and would be a serious soul in search of serious ideas to be serious about.

Nina had told her comrades that she would only be a minute, but as she elaborated on the work that lay ahead, she seemed to forget that they were still standing on the other side of the potted palm.

With an inward smile, the Count noted over her shoulder that the handsome captain, having volunteered to wait for Nina, was sending the others on ahead—a reasonable gambit under any ideology.

“I should go,” she said, after drawing her remarks to a close.

“Yes. Absolutely,” replied the Count. “You must have a great deal to see to.”

In sober acknowledgment, she shook his hand; and when she turned, she barely seemed to notice that two of her comrades had already left—as if having a handsome fellow wait for her was something to which she had already become accustomed.

As the two young idealists left the hotel, the Count watched through the revolving doors. He watched as the young man spoke to Pavel, and Pavel signaled a taxi. But when the taxi appeared and the young man opened the door, Nina gestured across Theatre Square, indicating that
she was headed in another direction. The handsome captain made a similar gesture, presumably offering to accompany her, but Nina shook his hand just as soberly as she had shaken the Count's and then walked across the square in the general direction of historical necessity.

“Isn't that more of a cream than a pearl?”

Together, the Count and Marina were staring at a spool that she had just taken from a drawer filled with threads in every possible shade of white.

“I am so sorry, Your Excellency,” Marina replied. “Now that you bring it to my attention, it does seem more creamy than pearly.”

The Count looked up from the spool into Marina's stationary eye, which was filled with concern; but her wandering eye seemed filled with mirth. Then she laughed like a schoolgirl.

“Oh, give me that,” he said.

“Here,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Let me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come now.”

“I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself, thank you.”

But to the Count's credit, he was not simply making a peevish point. He was, in fact, perfectly capable of doing it himself.

It stands to reason that if you wish to be a good waiter you must be master of your own appearance. You must be clean, well groomed, and graceful. But you must also be neatly dressed. You certainly can't wander around the dining room with fraying collars or cuffs. And God forbid you should presume to serve with a dangling button—for next thing you knew, it would be floating in a customer's vichyssoise. So, three weeks after joining the staff of the Boyarsky, the Count had asked Marina to teach him Arachne's art. To be conservative, the Count had set aside an hour for the lesson. It ended up taking eight hours over the course of four weeks.

Who knew that there was such a plethora of stitches? The backstitch, cross-stitch, slip stitch, topstitch, whipstitch. Aristotle, Larousse, and Diderot—those great encyclopedists who spent their lives segmenting,
cataloging, and defining all manner of phenomena—would never have imagined that there were so many, and each one suited to a different purpose!

With his creamy thread in hand, the Count settled himself into a chair; and when Marina held out her pincushion, he surveyed the needles as a child surveys chocolates in a box.

“This one,” he said.

Licking the thread and closing an eye (just as Marina had taught him), the Count threaded the needle faster than saints enter the gates of heaven. Forming a double loop, tying off a knot, and snipping the thread from the spool, the Count sat upright and set about his work as Marina set about hers (the repair of a pillowcase).

As with any sewing circle since the beginning of time, the two in this one were accustomed to sharing observations from their day as they stitched. Most of these observations were met with a
Hmm
, or an
Is that so?
without a break in the rhythm of the work; but occasionally, some item that warranted greater attention would bring the stitching to a stop. Just so, having exchanged remarks on the weather, and Pavel's handsome new topcoat, Marina's needle suddenly froze in midstitch when the Count mentioned that he had run into Nina.

“Nina Kulikova?” she asked in surprise.

“None other.”

“Where?”

“In the lobby. She had been having lunch with three of her comrades.”

“Did you speak?”

“At some length.”

“What did she have to say for herself?”

“It seems they are off to Ivanovo to rationalize kulaks and collectivize tractors, and what have you.”

“Never mind that, Alexander. How
was
she?”

Here the Count stopped his stitching.

“She was every bit herself,” he said after a moment. “Still full of curiosity and passion and self-assurance.”

“Wonderful,” Marina said with a smile.

The Count watched as she resumed her stitching.

“And yet . . .”

Marina stopped again and met his gaze.

“And yet?”

. . .

“It's nothing.”

“Alexander. There is clearly something on your mind.”

. . .

“It's just that to hear Nina talk of her upcoming journey, she is so passionate, so self-assured, and perhaps so single-minded, that she seems almost humorless. Like some dauntless explorer, she seems ready to place her flag in a polar ice cap and claim it in the name of Inevitability. But I can't help suspecting that all the while, her happiness may be waiting in another latitude altogether.”

“Come now, Alexander. Little Nina must be nearly eighteen. Surely, when you were that age you and your friends spoke with passion and self-assurance.”

“Of course we did,” said the Count. “We sat in cafés and argued about ideas until they mopped the floors and doused the lights.”

“Well, there you are.”

“It's true that we argued about ideas, Marina; but we never had any intention of doing anything about them.”

Marina rolled one of her eyes.

“Heaven forbid you should do something about an idea.”

“No, I am serious. Nina is so determined, I fear that the force of her convictions will interfere with the joys of her youth.”

Marina put her sewing in her lap.

“You have always been fond of little Nina.”

“Of course I have.”

“And in part, that is because she is such an independent spirit.”

“Precisely.”

“Then you must trust in her. And even if she is single-minded to a fault, you must trust that life will find her in time. For eventually, it finds us all.”

The Count nodded for a moment, reflecting on Marina's position. Then returning to his task, he looped through the button's holes, wound the shank, tied off the knot, and snapped the thread with his teeth. Poking
Marina's needle back into its cushion, he noted it was already 4:05, a fact that confirmed once again how quickly time flies when one is immersed in a pleasant task accompanied by pleasant conversation.

Wait a moment . . . , thought the Count.

Already 4:05?

“Great Scott!”

Thanking Marina, the Count grabbed his jacket, dashed to the lobby, and vaulted up the stairs two by two. When he arrived at suite 311, he found the door ajar. Looking left and looking right, he slipped inside and closed the door.

On the side table before an ornate mirror were the two-foot tiger lilies that had passed him earlier in the day. After taking a quick look around, the Count crossed the empty sitting room and entered the bedchamber, where a willowy figure stood in silhouette before one of the great windows. At the sound of his approach, she turned and let her dress slip to the floor with a delicate whoosh. . . .

After taking a quick look around, the Count crossed the empty sitting room and entered the bedchamber, where a willowy figure stood in silhouette before one of the great windows. At the sound of his approach, she turned and let her dress slip to the floor with a delicate whoosh. . . .

W
hat's this!

When we last left this pair in 1923, did not Anna Urbanova dismiss the Count with a definitive instruction to “draw the curtains”? And when he closed the door behind him with a click, did he not assume the aspect of a ghost before drifting forlornly to the roof? And now, as she slips beneath the bedcovers, this once haughty figure offers a smile suggestive of patience, tenderness, even gratitude—traits that are mirrored almost exactly in the smile of her former adversary as he hangs the white jacket of the Boyarsky on the back of a chair and begins to unbutton his shirt!

What possibly could have happened to reunite these contrary souls? What twisting path could have led them to suite 311 and back into each other's arms?

Well, it was not the path of the Count that twisted. For Alexander Rostov had spent the intervening years traveling up and down the Metropol's staircase from his bedroom to the Boyarsky and back again. No, the path that twisted, turned, veered, and doubled back was not the Count's; it was Anna's.

When we first encountered Miss Urbanova in the Metropol's lobby in 1923, the haughtiness the Count noted in her bearing was not without foundation, for it was a by-product of her unambiguous celebrity. Discovered in a regional theater on the outskirts of Odessa in 1919 by Ivan
Rosotsky, Anna was cast as leading lady in his next two films. Both of these were historical romances that celebrated the moral purity of those who toiled, while disparaging the corruption of those who did not. In the first, Anna played an eighteenth-century kitchen maid for whom a young nobleman abandons the trappings of court. In the second, she was a nineteenth-century heiress who turns her back on her legacy to wed a blacksmith's apprentice. Setting his fables in the palaces of yesteryear, Rosotsky lit them in the hazy aura of dreams, shot them in the soft focus of memories, and capped the first, second, and third acts with close-ups of his starlet: Anna aspiring; Anna distraught; Anna at long last in love. Both of the films were popular with the public, both found favor with the Politburo (which was eager to give the People some respite from the war years through suitably themed diversions), and our young starlet reaped the effortless rewards of fame.

In 1921, Anna was given membership in the All-Russian Film Union and access to its dedicated stores; in 1922 she was given use of a dacha near Peterhof; and in 1923 she was given the mansion of a former fur merchant furnished with gilded chairs, painted armoires, and a Louis Quatorze dresser—all of which could easily have been props in one of Rosotsky's films. It was at her soirées in this house that Anna mastered the ancient art of descending a staircase. With one hand on the banister and the train of a long silk dress behind her, she descended step by step while painters, authors, actors, and senior members of the Party waited at the foot of the stair.
*

But art is the most unnatural minion of the state. Not only is it created by fanciful people who tire of repetition even more quickly than they tire
of being told what to do, it is also vexingly ambiguous. Just when a carefully crafted bit of dialogue is about to deliver a crystal-clear message, a hint of sarcasm or the raising of an eyebrow can spoil the entire effect. In fact, it can give credence to a notion that is the exact opposite of that which was intended. So, perhaps it is understandable that governing authorities are bound to reconsider their artistic preferences every now and then, if for no other reason than to keep themselves fit.

Sure enough, at the Moscow premiere of Rosotsky's fourth film with Anna as leading lady (in which, playing the part of a princess mistaken for an orphan, she falls in love with an orphan mistaken for a prince), it was noted by the savvy in the orchestra section that General Secretary Stalin, who was known so endearingly in his youth as Soso, was not smiling as wholeheartedly at the screen as he had in the past. Instinctively, they restrained their own enthusiasm, which tempered the enthusiasm of those in the mezzanine, which in turn tempered those in the balcony—until everyone in the house could sense that something was afoot.

Two days after the premiere, an open letter was written to
Pravda
by an up-and-coming apparatchik (who had been sitting just a few seats behind Soso). The film was entertaining in its way, he conceded, but what was one to make of Rosotsky's incessant return to the era of princes and princesses? Of waltzing and candlelight and marble stairs? Had not his fascination with the past begun to smell suspiciously of nostalgia? And once again, does not his story line seem centered on the trials and triumphs of the individual? A predilection that he reinforces by his rather excessive reliance on the close-up? Yes, we have another beautiful woman in another beautiful gown, but where is the historical immediacy? And where the collective struggle?

Four days after the letter appeared in
Pravda
, Soso took a moment before addressing the Plenum to approach this new film critic and compliment him on his turns of phrase. Two weeks after the Plenum, the substance of the letter (and a few of its turns of phrase) were echoed in three more newspapers and a journal of the arts. The film received limited distribution to second-rate theaters, where it was met with muted applause. By that autumn, not only was Rosotsky's next project up in the air, his political reliability had come into question. . . .

An ingénue in film but not in life, Anna understood that Rosotsky's fall
from grace was a stone that could quickly drag her to the depths. She began avoiding public appearances in his company, while openly praising the aesthetics of other directors; and this stratagem might well have succeeded in securing her a new avenue of stardom but for an unfortunate development across the Atlantic: the talking picture. While Anna's face was still one of the most alluring on screen, audiences who for years had imagined her speaking in dulcet tones were not prepared to hear her husky tenor. Thus, in the spring of 1928, at the sprightly age of twenty-nine, Anna Urbanova was what the Americans would have called a has-been.

Alas, while the copper plate on the bottom of a priceless antique may allow a good comrade to sleep soundly, it is the nature of objects with serial numbers set down in ledgers that they may be reclaimed and put to new use at the stroke of a pen. In a matter of months, the gilded chairs, painted armoires, and Louis Quatorze dresser were all gone—as was the fur merchant's mansion and the Peterhof dacha—and Anna found herself with two trunks of clothing in the street. In her purse she still had train fare to her hometown outside Odessa. Instead, she moved into a one-room apartment with her sixty-year-old dresser, for Anna Urbanova had no intention of going home ever again.

The second time the Count saw Anna was in November 1928, about eight months after she had lost her mansion. He was just pouring water into the glass of an Italian importer when she walked through the door of the Boyarsky wearing a red sleeveless dress and high-heeled shoes. As the Count apologized to the importer and attempted to mop his lap with a napkin, he overheard the actress explain to Andrey that she would be joined by a guest at any moment.

Andrey led her to a table for two in the corner.

Forty minutes later her guest arrived.

From his vantage point on the other side of the Boyarsky's centerpiece (an arrangement of sunflowers), the Count could tell that the actress and her guest knew each other only by reputation. He was a good-enough-looking fellow, a few years younger than Anna and wearing a tailored jacket, but plainly something of a cad. For having taken his seat, even as he apologized for being late he was already scanning the menu; and when she assured him that it was quite all right, he was already signaling their
waiter. For her part, Anna appeared to be perfectly charming. She related her stories with a sparkle in her eye and listened to his with a ready laugh; and she was the very image of patience whenever their conversation was interrupted by someone who had approached the table to fawn over his latest picture.

A few hours later, when the Boyarsky was empty and the kitchen was closed, the Count passed through the lobby just as Anna and her guest emerged from the Shalyapin Bar. As he paused to put on his overcoat, Anna gestured to the elevator, clearly inviting him upstairs for one more drink. But he continued putting his arms through his sleeves. It was a pleasure meeting, he assured her with a glance at his watch; unfortunately, he was expected elsewhere. Then he made a beeline for the door.

As the young director crossed the lobby, the Count was of the opinion that Anna looked every bit as radiant as she had in 1923. But the moment the director disappeared into the street, the actress's smile and shoulders drooped. Then having passed a hand across her brow, she turned from the door—only to meet the gaze of the Count.

In an instant, she drew back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strolled toward the staircase. But having mastered the art of descending the stairs to a gathering of admirers, she had yet to master the art of ascending the stairs alone. (Perhaps no one has.) On the third step, she stopped. She stood motionless. Then she turned, came back down, and crossed to where the Count was standing.

“Whenever I am in this lobby with you,” she said, “it seems that I am destined to be humiliated.”

The Count looked surprised.

“Humiliated? You have no cause to feel humiliated, as far as I can see.”

“I gather you're blind.”

She looked toward the revolving door as if it were still spinning from the young director's exit.

“I invited him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start.”

“I have never had an early start in my life,” said the Count.

Offering her first genuine smile of the evening, she waved a hand at the stairs.

“Then you might as well come on up.”

At the time, Anna was staying in room 428. It was not the finest room
on the fourth floor, nor was it the worst. Off the small bedroom, it had a small sitting area with a small couch, a small coffee table, and two small windows looking over the trolley tracks on Teatralny Proyezd. It was the room of one who hoped to make an impression when she could not easily afford to do so. On the coffee table were two glasses, a serving of caviar, and a bottle of vodka in a bucket of melting ice.

As they looked over this little
mise-en-scène
, she shook her head.

“That'll cost me a pretty penny.”

“Then we mustn't let it go to waste.”

The Count drew the bottle from the ice and poured them both a glass.

“To old times,” he said.

“To old times,” she conceded with a laugh. And they emptied their glasses.

When one experiences a profound setback in the course of an enviable life, one has a variety of options. Spurred by shame, one may attempt to hide all evidence of the change in one's circumstances. Thus, the merchant who gambles away his savings will hold on to his finer suits until they fray, and tell anecdotes from the halls of the private clubs where his membership has long since lapsed. In a state of self-pity, one may retreat from the world in which one has been blessed to live. Thus, the long-suffering husband, finally disgraced by his wife in society, may be the one who leaves his home in exchange for a small, dark apartment on the other side of town. Or, like the Count and Anna, one may simply join the Confederacy of the Humbled.

Like the Freemasons, the Confederacy of the Humbled is a close-knit brotherhood whose members travel with no outward markings, but who know each other at a glance. For having fallen suddenly from grace, those in the Confederacy share a certain perspective. Knowing beauty, influence, fame, and privilege to be borrowed rather than bestowed, they are not easily impressed. They are not quick to envy or take offense. They certainly do not scour the papers in search of their own names. They remain committed to living among their peers, but they greet adulation with caution, ambition with sympathy, and condescension with an inward smile.