A Gentleman in Moscow (46 page)

Before the Bishop or the Count could reply, the little man piped up:

“Comrade Ivan Frinovsky, director of the Red October Youth Orchestra of Stalingrad. It is an honor and a privilege to meet you, comrade Urbanova!”

“An honor and a privilege,” echoed Anna with her most disarming smile. “You exaggerate, comrade Frinovsky; but I shan't hold it against you.”

Comrade Frinovsky returned the actress's smile with a blush.

“Here,” she added, “let me help you with your hat.”

For, as a matter of fact, the musical director had folded his hat two times over. Taking it from his hands, Anna gently restored the crown, snapped the brim, and returned the hat in a manner that would be retold by the director a few hundred times in the years to come.

“So, you are the musical director of the Youth Orchestra in Stalingrad?”

“I am,” he said.

“Then perhaps you know comrade Nachevko?”

At the mention of the round-faced Minister of Culture, the director stood up so straight he added an inch to his stature.

“I have never had the honor.”

“Panteleimon is a delightful man,” assured Anna, “and a great supporter of youthful artistry. In fact, he has taken a personal interest in Alexander's daughter, young Sofia.”

“A personal interest . . . ?”

“Oh, yes. Why, just last night at dinner, he was telling me how exciting it will be to watch her talent develop. I sense he has great plans for her here in the capital.”

“I wasn't aware. . . .”

The director looked to the Bishop with the expression of one who has
been put in an uncomfortable position due to no fault of his own. Turning back to the Count, he delicately retrieved his letter. “If your daughter should ever be interested in performing in Stalingrad,” he said, “I hope you will not hesitate to contact me.”

“Thank you, comrade Frinovsky,” said the Count. “That's very gracious of you.”

Looking from Anna to the Count and back again, Frinovsky said, “I am so sorry that we have inconvenienced you at such an unsuitable hour.” Then he placed his hat on his head and hurried to the belfry with the Bishop hot on his heels.

When the Count had quietly closed the door, he turned to Anna, whose expression was unusually grave.

“When did the Minister of Culture start taking a personal interest in Sofia?” he asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she replied. “At the latest.”

If those gathered in the Count's study had good cause to celebrate before the Bishop's visit, they had even more cause to do so after his departure. In fact, as the Count opened a bottle of brandy, Anna found an American jazz record that Richard had slipped among the classical recordings, and cued it on the phonograph. In the minutes that followed, the brandy was poured liberally, Emile's cake was eaten in its entirety, the jazz record was played repeatedly, and each of the gentlemen had his turn scuffing the parquet with the ladies in attendance.

When the last of the brandy was dispensed, Emile—who given the hour was nearly in a state of ecstasy—suggested they all head downstairs for another round, a little more dancing, and to bring the festivities to Viktor Stepanovich, who was still on the bandstand in the Piazza.

Emile's motion was immediately seconded and passed by unanimous vote.

“But before we go,” said Sofia, who was a little flushed, “I would like to make a toast: To my guardian angel, my father, and my friend, Count Alexander Rostov. A man inclined to see the best in all of us.”

“Hear! Hear!”

“And you needn't worry, Papa,” Sofia continued. “For no matter who comes knocking at our door, I have no intention of ever leaving the Metropol.”

After joining in a cheer, the members of the gathering emptied their glasses, stumbled through the closet, and exited into the hall. Opening the door to the belfry, the Count gave a slight bow and gestured for everyone to proceed. But just as the Count was about to follow the others into the stairwell, a woman in late middle age with a satchel on her shoulder and a kerchief in her hair stepped from the shadows at the end of the hall. Though the Count had never seen her before, it was clear from her demeanor that she had been waiting to speak with him alone.

“Andrey,” the Count called into the belfry, “I've forgotten something in the room. You all go ahead. I'll be down in a moment. . . .”

Only when the last sound of voices had receded down the stairs did the woman approach. In the light, the Count could see that she had an almost severe beauty about her—like one for whom there would be no half measures in matters of the heart.

“I'm Katerina Litvinova,” she said without a smile.

It took a moment for the Count to realize that this was none other than Mishka's Katerina, the poet from Kiev whom he had lived with back in the 1920s.

“Katerina Litvinova! How extraordinary. To what do I owe—”

“Is there somewhere we could talk?”

“Why, yes . . . Of course . . .”

The Count led Katerina into the bedroom and then, after a moment's hesitation, took her through the jackets into the study. Apparently, he needn't have hesitated, for she looked around the room as one who had heard descriptions of it before, nodding lightly to herself as her gaze shifted from the bookcase to the coffee table to the Ambassador. Taking her satchel from her shoulder, she suddenly appeared tired.

“Here,” said the Count, offering a chair.

She sat down, putting the satchel in her lap. Then passing a hand over her head, she removed her kerchief, revealing light brown hair cut as short as a man's.

“It's Mishka, isn't it . . . ,” the Count said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A week ago today.”

The Count nodded, as one who had been expecting the news for some time. He didn't ask Katerina how his old friend had died, and she didn't offer to tell him. It was plain enough that he had been betrayed by his times.

“Were you with him?” asked the Count.

“Yes.”

“In Yavas?”

“Yes.”

. . .

“I was under the impression that . . .”

“I lost my husband some time ago.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know. Do you have children . . . ?”

“No.”

She said it curtly, as if in response to a foolish question; but then she continued more softly. “I received word from Mikhail in January. I went to him in Yavas. We have been together these last six months.” After a moment, she added: “He spoke of you often.”

“He was a loyal friend,” said the Count.

“He was a man of devotions,” corrected Katerina.

The Count had been about to remark on Mishka's propensity for getting into scrapes and his love of pacing, but she had just described his old friend better than he ever had. Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich was a man of devotions.

“And a fine poet,” the Count added, almost to himself.

“One of two.”

The Count looked to Katerina as if he didn't understand. Then he offered a wistful smile.

“I've never written a poem in my life,” he said.

Now, it was Katerina who didn't understand.

“What do you mean? What about
Where Is It Now
?”

“It was Mishka who wrote that poem. In the south parlor at Idlehour . . . In the summer of 1913 . . .”

As Katerina still looked confused, the Count elaborated.

“What with the revolt of 1905 and the repressions that followed, when
we graduated it was still a dangerous time for writing poems of political impatience. Given Mishka's background, the Okhrana would have swept him up with a broom. So one night—after polishing off a particularly good bottle of Margaux—we decided to publish the poem under my name.”

“But why yours?”

“What were they going to do to Count Alexander Rostov—member of the Jockey Club and godson of a counselor to the Tsar?” The Count shook his head. “The irony, of course, is that the life which ended up being saved was mine, not his. But for that poem, they would have shot me back in 1922.”

Katerina, who had listened to this story intently, was suddenly holding back tears.

“Ah, but there you have him,” she said.

They were both silent as she regained her composure.

“I want you to know,” said the Count, “how much I appreciate your coming to tell me in person.” But Katerina dismissed his gratitude.

“I came at Mikhail's request. He asked me to bring you something.”

From her satchel she took out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

Taking the package in hand, the Count could tell from its weight that it was a book.

“It is his project,” said the Count with a smile.

“Yes,” she said. Then she added with pointed emphasis: “He slaved over it.”

The Count nodded to express his understanding and to assure Katerina that he did not take the bestowal lightly.

Katerina looked once more around the room with a light shake of the head as if it somehow exemplified the mystery of outcomes; then she said that she should go.

The Count rose to his feet with her, setting Mishka's project on the chair.

“Are you going back to Yavas?” he asked.

“No.”

“Will you be staying in Moscow?”

“No.”

“Where then?”

“Does it matter?”

She turned to go.

“Katerina . . .”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Katerina looked surprised at first by the Count's offer, then ready to dismiss it. But after a moment, she said: “Remember him.”

Then she went out the door.

Returning to his chair, the Count sat in silence. After a few minutes, he took up Mishka's legacy, untied the twine, and folded back the paper. Inside there was a small volume bound in leather. Tooled into the cover was a simple geometric design, at the center of which was the work's title:
Bread and Salt
. From the roughly cut pages and loose threads, one could tell that the binding was the work of a dedicated amateur.

After running his hand over the surface of the cover, the Count opened the book to the title page. There, tucked in the seam, was the photograph that had been taken in 1912 at the Count's insistence, and much to Mishka's chagrin. On the left, the young Count stood with a top hat on his head, a glint in his eye, and moustaches that extended beyond the limits of his cheeks; while on the right stood Mishka, looking as if he were about to sprint from the frame.

And yet, he had kept the picture all these years.

With a sorrowful smile, the Count set the photograph down and then turned the title leaf to the first page of his old friend's book. All it contained was a single quotation in a slightly uneven typeset:

And to Adam he said, “Because you have listened to the voice of your wife, and have eaten of the tree of which I commanded you, ‘You shall not eat of it,' cursed is the ground because of you . . . In the sweat of your face you shall eat
BREAD
till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Genesis
3:17–19

The Count turned to the second page, on which there was also one quotation:

And the tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of
BREAD
.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by
BREAD
alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.'”

Matthew
4:3–4

And then to the third . . .

And he took
BREAD
, and when he had given thanks he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Luke
22:19

As the Count continued turning slowly through the pages, he found himself laughing. For here was Mishka's project in a nutshell: a compendium of quotations from seminal texts arranged in chronological order, but in each of which the word
bread
had been capitalized and printed in bold. Beginning with the Bible, the citations proceeded right through the works of the Greeks and Romans onto the likes of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe. But particular tribute was paid to the golden age of Russian literature:

For the sake of propriety, Ivan Yakovlevich put his tailcoat on over his undershirt and, settling at the table, poured out some salt, prepared two onions, took a knife in his hands, and, assuming a significant air, began cutting the
BREAD
. Having cut the loaf in two, he looked into the middle and, to his surprise, saw something white. Ivan Yakovlevich poked cautiously with his knife and felt with his finger. “Firm!” he said to himself. “What could it be?”

He stuck in his fingers and pulled out—a nose!