A Gentleman in Moscow (37 page)

“How did this happen, Alexander? Why do they allow these movies to be made? Do they not realize they are hammering a wedge beneath their own foundation stones?”

But no single star of the genre captivated Osip more than Humphrey
Bogart. With the exception of
Casablanca
(which Osip viewed as a woman's movie), they had watched all of Bogart's films at least twice. Whether in
The Petrified Forest
,
To Have and Have Not
, or, especially,
The Maltese Falcon
, Osip appreciated the actor's hardened looks, his sardonic remarks, his general lack of sentiment. “You notice how in the first act he always seems so removed and indifferent; but once his indignation is roused, Alexander, there is no one more willing to do what is necessary—to act clear-eyed, quick, and without compunction. Here truly is a Man of Intent.”

In the Yellow Room, Osip took two mouthfuls of Emile's braised veal with caviar sauce, a gulp of Georgian wine, and looked up just in time to see the image of the Golden Gate Bridge.

In the minutes that followed, once again the services of Sam Spade were enlisted by the alluring, if somewhat mysterious, Miss Wonderly. Once again, Spade's partner was gunned down in an alley just hours before Floyd Thursby met a similar fate. And once again Joel Cairo, the Fat Man, and Brigid O'Shaughnessy, having surreptitiously joined forces, drugged Spade's whiskey and headed for the wharf, their elusive quest finally within reach. But even as Spade was nursing his head, a stranger in a black coat and hat stumbled into his office, dropped a bundle to the floor, and collapsed dead on the couch!

“Do you think Russians are particularly brutish, Osip?” asked the Count.

“What's that?” Osip whispered, as if there were others in the audience whom he didn't want to disturb.

“Do you think we are essentially more brutish than the French, or the English, or these Americans?”

“Alexander,” Osip hissed (as Spade was washing the stranger's blood from his hands). “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I mean, do you think we are more apt than others to destroy that which we have created?”

Osip, who had not yet torn his eyes from the screen, now turned to stare at the Count in disbelief. Then he abruptly rose, stomped to the projector, and froze the film at the very moment that Spade, having placed the roughly wrapped bundle on his desk, was taking his penknife from his pocket.

“Is it possible that you don't see what is happening?” he demanded while pointing at the screen. “Having traveled from the Orient to the docks of San Franchesko, Captain Jacoby has been shot five times. He has jumped from a burning ship, stumbled through the city, and used his final breaths to bring comrade Spadsky this mysterious package wrapped in paper and bound in string. And you choose this moment to engage in metaphysics!”

The Count, who had turned around, was holding up a hand to cut the glare from the projection.

“But, Osip,” he said, “we have watched him open the bundle on at least three occasions.”

“What difference does that make? You have read
Anna Karenina
at least ten times, but I'd wager you still cry when she throws herself under the train.”

“That's something else altogether.”

“Is it?”

There was silence. Then with an expression of exasperation, Osip turned off the projector. He flicked on the lights and returned to the table.

“All right, my friend. I can see that you are vexed by something. Let's see if we can make sense of it, so we can get on with our studies.”

Thus, the Count described for Osip the conversation he'd had with Mishka. Or rather, he relayed Mishka's views on the burning of Moscow, and the toppling of statues, and the silencing of poets, and the slaughter of fourteen million head of cattle.

Osip, having already aired his frustrations, now listened to the Count attentively, occasionally nodding his head at Mishka's various points.

“All right,” he said, once the Count had finished. “So, what is it exactly that is bothering you, Alexander? Does your friend's assertion shock you? Does it offend your sensibilities? I understand that you are worried about his state of mind; but isn't it possible that he is right in his opinions while being wrong in his sentiments?”

“What do you mean?”

“It is like the Maltese Falcon.”

“Osip. Please.”

“No, I am quite serious. What is the black bird if not a symbol of
Western heritage itself? A sculpture fashioned by knights of the Crusades from gold and jewels as tribute to a king, it is an emblem of the church and the monarchies—those rapacious institutions that have served as the foundation for all of Europe's art and ideas. Well, who is to say that their love of that heritage isn't as misguided as the Fat Man's for his falcon? Perhaps that is
exactly
what must be swept aside before their people can hope to progress.”

His tone grew softer.

“The Bolsheviks are not Visigoths, Alexander. We are not the barbarian hordes descending upon Rome and destroying all that is fine out of ignorance and envy. It is the opposite. In 1916, Russia was a barbarian state. It was the most illiterate nation in Europe, with the majority of its population living in modified serfdom: tilling the fields with wooden plows, beating their wives by candlelight, collapsing on their benches drunk with vodka, and then waking at dawn to humble themselves before their icons. That is, living exactly as their forefathers had lived five hundred years before. Is it not possible that our reverence for all the statues and cathedrals and ancient institutions was precisely what was holding us back?”

Osip paused, taking a moment to refill their glasses with wine.

“But where do we stand now? How far have we come? By marrying American tempo with Soviet aims, we are on the verge of
universal
literacy. Russia's long-suffering women, our second serfdom, have been elevated to the status of equals. We have built whole new cities and our industrial production outpaces that of most of Europe.”

“But at what cost?”

Osip slapped the table.

“At the greatest cost! But do you think the achievements of the Americans—envied the world over—came without a cost? Just ask their African brothers. And do you think the engineers who designed their illustrious skyscrapers or built their highways hesitated for one moment to level the lovely little neighborhoods that stood in their way? I guarantee you, Alexander, they laid the dynamite and pushed the plungers themselves. As I've said to you before, we and the Americans will lead the rest of this century because we are the only nations who have learned to
brush the past aside instead of bowing before it. But where they have done so in service of their beloved individualism, we are attempting to do so in service of the common good.”

When he parted company with Osip at ten, rather than climbing the stairs to the sixth floor, the Count headed to the Shalyapin in the hopes of finding it empty. But as he entered the bar, he discovered a raucous group composed of journalists, members of the diplomatic corps, and two of the young hostesses in their little black dresses—and at the center of the commotion, for the third night in a row, was the American general's aide-de-camp. Hunched over with his arms outstretched, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, he was relaying his tale like a wrestler on the mat.

“. . . Sidestepping the Monsignor, old Porterhouse slowly advanced upon the second goose, waiting for his prey to look him in the eye. That's the secret, you see: the looking in the eye. That's the moment Porterhouse lets his adversaries imagine for a second that they are his equals. Having taken two steps to the left, Porterhouse suddenly took three to the right. Thrown off balance, the goose met the old boy's gaze—and that's when Porterhouse leapt!”

The aide-de-camp leapt.

The two hostesses shrieked.

Then giggled.

When the aide-de-camp stood back to his full height, he was holding a pineapple. With one hand around its throat and the other under its tail, the captain displayed the fruit for all to see, just as the general had displayed the second goose.

“And it was at this fateful juncture that the good general's sash unsashed and his robe disrobed, revealing a regulation pair of U.S. Army–issue briefs—at the sight of which, Madame Veloshki fainted.”

As the audience applauded, the aide-de-camp gave a bow. Then he set the pineapple gently on the bar and lifted his drink.

“Madame Veloshki's response seems perfectly understandable,” said one of the journalists. “But what did
you
do when you saw the old man's briefs?”

“What did I do?” exclaimed the aide-de-camp. “Why, I saluted them, of course.”

As the others laughed, he emptied his drink.

“Now, gentlemen, I suggest we head out into the night. I can tell you from personal experience that over at the National can be heard the sorriest samba in the Northern Hemisphere. The drummer, who is blind in one eye, can't hit his cymbals. And the bandleader hasn't the slightest sense of a Latin tempo. The closest he has come to South America is when he fell down a flight of mahogany stairs. But he has excellent intentions and a toupee that has descended from heaven.”

With that, the motley assembly stumbled into the night, leaving the Count to approach the bar in relative peace and quiet.

“Good evening, Audrius.”

“Good evening, Count Rostov. What is your pleasure?”

“A glass of Armagnac, perhaps.”

A moment later, as the Count gave the brandy in his snifter a swirl, he found himself smiling at the aide-de-camp's portrayal—which in turn led him to reflect on the personality of Americans in general. In his persuasive fashion, Osip had argued that during the Depression, Hollywood had undermined the inevitable forces of revolution by means of its elaborate chicanery. But the Count wondered if Osip didn't have his analysis upside down. Certainly, it seemed true that glittering musicals and slapstick comedies had flourished during the 1930s in America. But so too had jazz and skyscrapers. Were these also narcotics designed to put a restless nation to sleep? Or were they signs of a native spirit so irrepressible that even a Depression couldn't squelch it?

As the Count gave another swirl of his brandy, a customer sat three stools to his left. To the Count's surprise, it was the aide-de-camp.

Ever attentive, Audrius leaned with his forearm on the bar. “Welcome back, Captain.”

“Thank you, Audrius.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Same as before, I suppose.”

As Audrius turned away to prepare the drink, the captain drummed his hands on the bar and looked idly about. When he met the Count's gaze, he gave a nod and a friendly smile.

“You're not headed for the National?” the Count couldn't help but ask.

“It seems my friends were in such a hurry to accompany me that they left me behind,” the American replied.

The Count gave a sympathetic smile. “I'm sorry to hear it.”

“No. Please don't be. I'm quite fond of being left behind. It always gives me a whole new perspective on wherever it was I thought I was leaving. Besides, I'm off first thing in the morning to head home for a spell, so it's probably for the best.”

He extended his hand to the Count.

“Richard Vanderwhile.”

“Alexander Rostov.”

The captain gave another friendly nod and then, having looked away, suddenly looked back.

“Weren't you my waiter last night at the Boyarsky?”

“Yes, I was.”

The captain let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank God. Otherwise, I would have had to cancel my drink.”

As if on cue, Audrius placed it on the bar. The captain took a sip and gave another sigh, this one of satisfaction. Then he studied the Count for a moment.

“Are you Russian?”

“To the core.”

“Well then, let me say at the outset that I am positively enamored with your country. I love your funny alphabet and those little pastries stuffed with meat. But your nation's notion of a cocktail is rather unnerving. . . .”