A Gentleman in Moscow (34 page)

A
t 1:30, in the manager's office of the Metropol Hotel, Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov took the chair across the desk from the man with the narrow head and superior demeanor.

When the Count had received the Bishop's summons in the Piazza, he had assumed the matter must be urgent because the messenger had waited for him to finish his demitasse and then led him promptly to the executive suite. But once the Count had been ushered through the manager's door, the Bishop barely glanced up from the papers he was signing. Rather, he waved his pen toward the empty chair in the manner of one who wishes to indicate that he will be with you in a moment.

“Thank you,” said the Count, accepting this perfunctory offer of a chair with a perfunctory bow of the head.

Not one to sit idly about, the Count made use of the empty minutes by surveying the office, which had undergone something of a transformation since Jozef Halecki had occupied it. While the desk of the former manager remained, it was no longer impressively bare. Along with six piles of paper, it now boasted a stapler, a penholder, and
two
telephones (presumably so the Bishop could put the Central Committee on hold while he dialed up the Politburo). In place of the burgundy chaise where the old Pole had allegedly reclined, there were now three gray filing cabinets with stainless-steel locks standing at attention. And the delightful hunting scenes that had once adorned the mahogany panels had been replaced, of course, with portraits of Messrs. Stalin, Lenin, and Marx.

Having inscribed his signature on twelve sheets of paper to his perfect satisfaction, the Bishop established a seventh pile at the edge of his desk, replaced the pen in its stand, and for the first time looked the Count in the eye.

“I gather you are an early riser, Alexander Ilyich,” he said after a moment of silence.

“Men of purpose usually are.”

The corner of the Bishop's mouth rose ever so slightly.

“Yes, of course. Men of purpose.”

He reached across his desk to straighten his newest pile of papers.

“And you breakfast in your room at around seven . . . ?”

“That's right.”

“Then at eight, it is your habit to read the papers in the lobby.”

Confound the fellow
, thought the Count. He interrupts the conclusion of a perfectly delightful lunch with a hand-delivered summons. Clearly, there is something on his mind. But must it always be on the bias with him? Has he no facility with the direct question? No appreciation for it? Were they to sit there reviewing the Count's typical day minute by minute—when the Triumvirate was scheduled to meet in less than an hour?

“Yes,” confirmed the Count a little impatiently. “I read the morning papers in the morning.”

“But in the lobby. You come down to the lobby.”

“Without fail, I walk down the stairs to read in the comfort of the lobby.”

The Bishop sat back in his chair and offered the briefest of smiles.

“Then perhaps you are aware of the incident that occurred this morning in the fourth-floor corridor at a quarter to eight. . . .”

For the record, the Count had risen shortly after seven. Having completed fifteen squats and fifteen stretches, having enjoyed his coffee, biscuit, and a piece of fruit (today a tangerine), having bathed, shaved, and dressed, he kissed Sofia on the forehead and departed from their bedroom with the intention of reading the papers in his favorite lobby chair. Descending one flight, he exited the belfry and traversed the hall to the main stair, as was his habit. But as he turned on the fifth-floor landing, he heard sounds of commotion coming from below.

The immediate impression was of fifteen voices shouting in twenty languages. These were accompanied by the slamming of a door, the shattering of a plate, and a rather insistent squawking that seemed distinctly avian in character. When he reached the fourth floor at approximately 7:45, the Count, in fact, discovered a genuine state of upheaval.

Nearly every door was open and every guest in the hall. Among those
assembled were two French journalists, a Swiss diplomat, three Uzbek fur traders, a representative of the Roman Catholic Church, and a repatriated opera tenor with his family of five. Still in their pajamas, most of the members of this convention were waving their arms and expressing themselves emphatically—as three adult geese scurried between their legs, honking and beating their wings.

Several of the women were acting as terrorized as if they had been descended upon by Harpies. The wife of the tenor was cowering behind her husband's prodigious torso, and Kristina, one of the hotel's chambermaids, was backed against a wall, clutching an empty tray to her chest while at her feet lay a confusion of cutlery and kasha.

When the tenor's three sons displayed their fortitude by giving chase to the three different birds in three different directions, the ambassador from the Vatican advised the tenor on the proper behavior of children. The tenor, who spoke only a few words of Italian, informed the prelate (
fortissimo
) that he was not a man to be toyed with. The Swiss diplomat, who spoke both Russian and Italian fluently, exemplified his nation's reputation for neutrality by listening to both men with his mouth shut. When the prelate stepped forward to make his point more pontifically, one of the geese, which had been cornered by the tenor's eldest son, shot through his legs into his apartment—at which point, a young woman, who was decidedly not a representative of the Roman Catholic Church, came racing into the hallway wrapped only in a blue kimono.

By this point, the commotion had apparently awakened the guests on the fifth floor, as several came tromping down the stairs to see what all the fuss was about. At the forefront of this contingent was the American general—a no-nonsense figure who hailed from what is reportedly known as “The Great State of Texas.” Having quickly assessed the situation, the general grabbed one of the geese by the throat. The speed with which he captured the bird gave those assembled a boost of confidence. Several even cheered him on. That is, until he wrapped his second hand around the goose's neck with the clear intention of snapping it. This elicited a scream from the young woman in the blue kimono, tears from the tenor's daughter, and a stern reproach from the Swiss diplomat. Stymied at the very instant of decisive action, the general expressed his exasperation
with the fecklessness of civilians, walked into the prelate's apartment, and tossed the goose out the window.

Committed to restoring order, the general returned a moment later and deftly seized a second goose. But when he held up this bird to assure the assembly of his peaceful intent, the tie at his waist unraveled and his robe flew open, revealing a seasoned pair of olive green briefs, prompting the wife of the tenor to faint.

As the Count watched these proceedings from the landing, he became aware of a presence at his side. Turning, he found it was the general's aide-de-camp, a gregarious fellow who had become something of a fixture in the Shalyapin. Taking in the scene at a glance, the aide-de-camp issued a sigh of satisfaction and then remarked to no one in particular:

“How I love this hotel.”

So, was the Count “aware” of what took place in the fourth-floor corridor at a quarter to eight? One might just as well ask if Noah was aware of the Flood, or Adam the Apple. Of course he was aware. No man on earth was
more
aware. But what aspect of his awareness could possibly warrant the interruption of a demitasse?

“I am familiar with this morning's events,” confirmed the Count, “as I happened to be rounding the landing at the very moment they occurred.”

“So you witnessed the mayhem
in
person . . . ?
”

“Yes. I saw the antics unfolding firsthand. Even so, I am not entirely certain as to why I am here.”

“You are in the dark, as it were.”

“In point of fact, I am flummoxed. Mystified.”

“Of course.”

Following a moment of silence, the Bishop offered his most ecclesiastical smile. Then, as if it were perfectly normal to wander about an office in the middle of a conversation, he rose and crossed to the wall, where he gingerly straightened the portrait of Mr. Marx, who, having slipped on his hook, was admittedly undermining the ideological authority of the room.

Turning back, the Bishop continued.

“I can see why in describing these unfortunate events you chose to
discard
mayhem
in favor of
antics
. For
antics
do seem to suggest a certain childishness . . .”

The Count considered this for a moment.

“You don't suspect the tenor's boys?”

“Hardly. After all, the geese had been locked in a cage in the pantry of the Boyarsky.”

“Are you suggesting that Emile had something to do with it?”

The Bishop ignored the Count's question and resumed his place behind the desk.

“The Metropol Hotel,” he informed the Count unnecessarily, “is host to some of the world's most eminent statesmen and prominent artistes. When they pass through our doors, they have the right to expect unparalleled comfort, unsurpassed service, and mornings free of mayhem. Needless to say,” he concluded, reaching for his pen, “I shall get to the bottom of this.”

“Well,” replied the Count, rising from his chair, “if getting to the bottom is what is called for, I am sure there is no man better suited for the job.”

A certain childishness
, muttered the Count as he exited the executive suite.
Mornings of mayhem . . .

Did the Bishop think him a fool? Did he imagine for one second that the Count couldn't see what he was angling at? What he was insinuating? That little Sofia was somehow involved?

Not only could the Count tell
exactly
what the Bishop was driving at, he could have countered with a few insinuations of his own—and in iambic pentameter, no less. But the notion of Sofia's involvement was so unfounded, so preposterous, so outrageous, it did not
deserve
a response.

Now, the Count could not deny that Sofia had a certain playful streak, just as any child of thirteen should. But she was no gadabout. No gadfly. No ne'er-do-well. In fact, as the Count was returning from the manager's office, there she was sitting in the lobby bent over some weighty textbook. It was a tableau familiar to any member of the Metropol staff. For hours on end she sat in that very chair memorizing capitals, conjugating verbs, and solving for
x
or
y
. With an equal sense of dedication she studied her sewing with Marina and her sauces with Emile. Why, ask anyone who knew Sofia
to describe her and they would tell you that she was studious, shy, and well behaved; or in a word,
demure
.

As he mounted the stairs to the upper floors, the Count enumerated the relevant facts like a jurist: In eight years, Sofia had not thrown a single tantrum; every day she had brushed her teeth and headed off to school without a fuss; and whether it was time to bundle up, buckle down, or eat her peas, she had done so without complaint. Even that little game of her own invention, which she had grown so fond of playing, was founded on a quality of poise that was beyond her years.