A Gentleman in Moscow (27 page)

This is all well and good, allowed the Count. But what is rarely related is the fact that Life is every bit as devious as Death. It too can
wear a hooded coat. It too can slip into town, lurk in an alley, or wait in the back of a tavern.

Hadn't it paid such a visit to Mishka? Hadn't it found him hiding behind his books, lured him out of the library, and taken his hand on a secluded spot overlooking the Neva?

Hadn't it found Andrey in Lyon and beckoned him to the big top?

Emptying his glass, the Count rose from his chair and stumbled into the bookcase as he reached for the brandy.

“
Excusez-moi
,
monsieur
.”

The Count poured himself a tad, just a drop, no more than a sip, and fell back into his seat. Then waving a finger gently in the air, he continued:

“The collectivization of collectives, Helena, and the dekulaking of kulaks—in all probability, these are quite probable. They're even likely to be likely. But
inevitable
?”

With a knowing smile, the Count shook his head at the very sound of the word.

“Allow me to tell you what is inevitable. What is inevitable is that Life will pay Nina a visit too. She may be as sober as St. Augustine, but she is too alert and too vibrant for Life to let her shake a hand and walk off alone. Life will follow her in a taxi. It will bump into her by chance. It will work its way into her affections. And to do so, it will beg, barter, collude, and if necessary, resort to chicanery.

“What a world,” the Count sighed at last, before falling asleep in his chair.

On the following morning, with his eyes a little blurry and his head a little sore, the Count poured a second cup of coffee, settled himself in his chair, and leaned to his side in order to retrieve Mishka's letter from his jacket.

But it wasn't there.

The Count distinctly remembered tucking the letter in the inside pocket when he was leaving the lobby the day before; and it had definitely been there when he had repaired the button in Marina's office. . . .

It must have fallen out, he thought, when he draped the jacket over the
back of Anna's chair. So, after finishing his coffee, the Count went down to suite 311—only to find the door open, the closets empty, and the bottom of the dustbins bare.

But Mishka's half-read letter had not fallen from the Count's jacket in Anna's room. Having emptied his pockets at half past three, when the Count had stumbled reaching for the brandy, he had knocked the letter into the gap between the bookcase and the wall, where it was destined to remain.

Though perhaps this was just as well.

For while the Count had been so moved by Mishka's bittersweet walk along Nevsky Prospekt and his romantic lines of verse, the lines of verse were not written by Mishka at all. They were from the poem that Mayakovsky had delivered while standing on his chair back in 1923. And what had prompted Mishka to quote them had nothing to do with the day that Katerina had first taken his hand. What had prompted the citation, and the writing of the letter, for that matter, was the fact that on the fourteenth of April, Vladimir Mayakovsky, the poet laureate of the Revolution, had shot himself through the heart with a prop revolver.

O
n the morning of the twenty-second of June, even as the Count was looking through his pockets for Mishka's letter, Nina Kulikova and her three confederates were boarding a train headed east for Ivanovo full of energy, excitement, and a clear sense of purpose.

Since the launch of the First Five-Year Plan in 1928, tens of thousands of their comrades in the urban centers had been working tirelessly to build power stations, steel mills, and manufacturing plants for heavy machinery. As this historic effort unfolded, it would be essential for the country's grain-producing regions to do their part—by meeting the increased demand for bread in the cities with leaps in agricultural production.

But to pave the way for this ambitious effort, it was deemed necessary to exile a million kulaks—those profiteers and enemies of the common good, who also happened to be the regions' most capable farmers. The remaining peasants, who viewed newly introduced approaches to agriculture with resentment and suspicion, proved antagonistic to even the smallest efforts at innovation. Tractors, which were meant to usher in the new era by the fleet, ended up being in short supply. These challenges were compounded by uncooperative weather resulting in a collapse of agricultural output. But given the imperative of feeding the cities, the precipitous decline in the harvest was met with increased quotas and requisitions enforced at gunpoint.

In 1932, the combination of these intractable forces would result in widespread hardship for the agricultural provinces of old Russia, and death by starvation for millions of peasants in Ukraine.
*

But, as noted, all of this was still in the offing. And when Nina's train finally arrived in the far reaches of Ivanovo, where the fields of young wheat bent in the breeze for as far as the eye could see, she was almost overwhelmed by the beauty of the landscape, and by the sense that her life had just begun.

L
et us concede that the early thirties in Russia were unkind.

In addition to starvation in the countryside, the famine of '32 eventually led to a migration of peasants to the cities, which, in turn, contributed to overcrowded housing, shortages of essential goods, even hooliganism. At the same time, the most stalwart workers in the urban centers were wearying under the burden of the continuous workweek; artists faced tighter constraints on what they could or could not imagine; churches were shuttered, repurposed, or razed; and when revolutionary hero Sergei Kirov was assassinated, the nation was purged of an array of politically unreliable elements.

But then, on the seventeenth of November 1935, at the First All-Union Conference of Stakhanovites, Stalin himself declared:
Life has improved, comrades. Life is more joyous. . . .

Yes, generally speaking such a remark falling from the lips of a statesman should be swept from the floor with the dust and the lint. But when it fell from the lips of Soso, one had good reason to lend it credence. For it was often through secondary remarks in secondary speeches that the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party signaled the shifts in his thinking.

In point of fact, a few days before giving this speech, Soso had seen a photograph in the
Herald Tribune
of three healthy young Bolshevik girls standing before a factory gate—dressed in the tunic and kerchief long favored by the Party. Normally, such a picture would have warmed the cockles of his heart. But in the context of the Western press, it struck the Secretary of Secretaries that this simple attire might suggest to the world that after eighteen years of Communism, Russian girls still lived like peasants. Thus, the fateful sentences were slipped into the speech—and the direction of the country veered.

For upon reading in
Pravda
that life had improved, the attentive
apparatchiks understood that a turning point had been reached—that given the Revolution's unqualified success, the time had come for the Party not only to countenance but to encourage a little more glamour, a little more luxury, a little more laughter. Within a matter of weeks, the Christmas tree and Gypsy music, both long in exile, were given a warm welcome home; Polina Molotova, wife of the foreign minister, was entrusted with the launch of the first Soviet perfumes; the New Light Factory (with the help of some imported machinery) was charged with producing champagne at the rate of ten thousand bottles a day; members of the Politburo traded in their military uniforms for tailored suits; and those hardworking girls exiting their factories were now encouraged to look not like peasants, but like the girls along the Champs-Élysées.
*

So, not unlike that fellow in Genesis who said
Let there be this
, or
Let there be that
, and there was this or that, when Soso said
Life has improved, comrades
, life—in fact—improved!

Case in point: At this very moment, two young ladies are strolling down Kuznetsky Most wearing brightly colored dresses fitted at the waist and hemmed at the calf. One of them even sports a yellow hat with a brim that slopes seductively over a long-lashed eye. With the rumble of the brand-new Metro underfoot, they pause before three of the great windows at TsUM, the Central Universal Department Store, which respectively showcase a pyramid of hats, a pyramid of watches, and a pyramid of high-heeled shoes.

Granted, the girls still live in crowded apartments and wash their pretty dresses in a common sink, but do they look through the store's windows with resentment? Not in the least. With envy, perhaps, or wide-eyed wonder, but not resentment. For the doors of TsUM are no longer closed to them. Having long served foreigners and high Party officials, the store
had been opened to the citizenry in '36—as long as they could pay the cashier in foreign currencies, silver, or gold. In fact, on TsUM's lower level there is a nicely appointed office where a discreet gentleman will give you store credit for half the value of your grandmother's jewelry.

You see? Life
is
more joyous.

So, having admired the contents of the windows and imagined the day when they too might have an apartment with closets in which to stow their hats, watches, and shoes, our fetching pair resumes their stroll, all the while chatting about the two well-connected young men they are on their way to meet for dinner.

At Teatralny Proyezd, they wait at the curb for a break in the flow of automobiles. Then skipping across the street, they enter the Metropol Hotel where, as they pass the concierge's desk en route to the Piazza, they are admired by a distinguished-looking man with a touch of gray in his hair. . . .

“Ah, the end of spring,” observed the Count to Vasily (who was sorting through the night's reservations). “By the hems of the skirts on those young ladies, I'd wager it must be almost 70˚ along Tverskaya, despite being seven o'clock at night. In another few days, the boys will be stealing posies from the Alexander Gardens and Emile will be scattering peas across his plates. . . .”

“No doubt,” said the concierge, in the manner of a librarian agreeing with a scholar.

Earlier that day, in fact, the first strawberries of the season had arrived in the kitchen and Emile had slipped a handful to the Count for his breakfast the following morning.

“Without question,” concluded the Count, “summer is now at the gates and the days that ensue are sure to be long and carefree. . . .”

“Alexander Ilyich.”

At the unexpected sound of his own name, the Count turned to find another young lady standing right behind him, though this one was in a pair of pants. Five and a half feet tall, she had straight blond hair, light blue eyes, and a rare sense of self-possession.

“Nina!” he exclaimed. “What a sight for sore eyes. We haven't heard from you in ages. When did you get back to Moscow?”

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“Certainly . . .”

Sensing that something personal must have prompted the visit, the Count followed Nina a few paces from the concierge's desk.

“It is my husband—” she began.

“Your husband,” the Count interjected. “You've gotten married!”

“Yes,” she said. “Leo and I have been married for six years. We worked together in Ivanovo—”

“Why, I remember him!”

Frustrated by the Count's interruptions, Nina shook her head.

“You would not have met.”

“You're quite right. We did not meet, per se; but he was here with you in the hotel just before you left.”

The Count couldn't help but smile to recall the handsome Komsomol captain who had sent the others on ahead so that he could wait for Nina alone.

Nina tried for a moment to recollect this visit with her husband to the Metropol; but then waved a hand as if to say whether or not they had been in the hotel all those years ago was of no consequence.

“Please, Alexander Ilyich. I don't have much time. Two weeks ago, we were recalled from Ivanovo to attend a conference on the future of agricultural planning. On the first day of the meetings, Leo was arrested. After some effort, I tracked him to the Lubyanka, but they wouldn't let me see him. Naturally, I began to fear the worst. But yesterday, I received word that he has been sentenced to five years corrective labor. They are putting him on a train tonight for Sevvostlag. I'm going to follow him there. What I need is for someone to watch over Sofia while I get myself settled.”

“Sofia?”

The Count followed Nina's glance across the lobby to where a girl of five or six with black hair and ivory skin was in a high-back chair, her feet dangling a few inches from the floor.

“I can't take her with me now as I will need to find work and a place to live. It may take a month or two. But once I have established myself, I'll come back for her.”

Nina had explained these developments as one reports a series of
scientific outcomes—a succession of facts that warranted our fear and indignation as much as would the laws of gravity or motion. But the Count could no longer contain some sense of shock, if only due to the speed at which the particulars were unfolding: a husband, a daughter, an arrest, the Lubyanka, corrective labor . . .

Interpreting the Count's expression as one of hesitation, Nina—that most self-reliant of souls—gripped the Count by the arm.

“I have no one else to turn to, Alexander.” Then after a pause she added: “Please.”

Together, the Count and Nina crossed the lobby to this child of five or six with black hair, white skin, and dark blue eyes. Had the Count been introduced to Sofia under different circumstances, he might have observed with quiet amusement the signs of Nina's rugged practicality on display: that Sofia wore simple clothes; that her hair was almost as short as a boy's; and that the linen doll she hugged by the neck didn't even have a dress.

Nina knelt so that she could see her daughter eye to eye. She put a hand on Sofia's knee and began to speak in a tenor the Count had never heard her speak in before. It was the tenor of tenderness.

“Sonya, this is your Uncle Sasha whom I have told you so much about.”

“The one who gave you the pretty binoculars?”

“Yes,” said Nina with a smile. “The very same.”

“Hello, Sofia,” said the Count.

Nina then explained that while Mama went to prepare their new home, Sofia would be staying for a few weeks in this lovely hotel. Nina told her that until Mama returned, she must be strong and respectful and listen to her uncle.

“And then we will take the long train to Papa,” the girl said.

“That's right, my sweet. Then we will take the long train to Papa.”

Sofia was doing her best to match her mother's fortitude; but she did not yet have her mother's command over her own emotions. So while she did not question, or plead, or act dismayed, when she nodded to show that she understood, tears fell down her cheeks.

Nina used her thumb to wipe the tears away from one side of her daughter's face as Sofia used the back of her hand to wipe them away
from the other. Nina looked Sofia in the eye until she was sure the tears had stopped. Then nodding once, she gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead and led the Count a few yards away.

“Here,” she said, handing him a canvas pack with shoulder straps, the sort that might have been worn on the back of a soldier. “These are her things. And you should probably take this too.” Nina handed him a small photograph without a frame. “It may be better to keep it to yourself. I don't know. You will have to decide.”

Nina gripped the Count on the arm again; then she walked across the lobby at the pace of one who hopes to leave herself no room for second thoughts.

The Count watched her exit the hotel and head across Theatre Square, just as he had eight years before. When she was gone, he looked down at the photograph in his hand. It was a picture of Nina and her husband, Sofia's father. From Nina's face, the Count could tell that the picture had been taken some years before. He could also tell that he had only been half right. For while he had seen her husband all those years ago in the lobby of the Metropol, Nina had not married the handsome captain—she had married the hapless young fellow with the sailor's cap who had so eagerly retrieved her coat.