An Actress, an Apparition, an Apiary
At five o’clock on the twenty-first of June, the Count stood before his closet with his hand on his plain gray blazer and hesitated. In a few minutes, he would be on his way to the barbershop for his weekly visit, and then to the Shalyapin to meet Mishka, who would probably be wearing the same brown jacket he’d worn since 1913. As such, the gray blazer seemed a perfectly suitable choice of attire. That is, until one considered that it was an anniversary of sorts—for it had been one year to the day since the Count had last set foot outside of the Metropol Hotel.
But how was one to celebrate such an anniversary? And should one? For while house arrest is a definitive infringement upon one’s liberty, presumably it is also intended to be something of a humiliation. So both pride and common sense would suggest that such an anniversary might best be left unmarked.
And yet . . .
Even men in the most trying of circumstances—like those lost at sea or confined to prison—will find the means to carefully account the passing of a year. Despite the fact that all the splendid modulations of the seasons and those colorful festivities that recur in the course of normal life have been replaced by a tyranny of indistinguishable days, the men in such situations will carve their 365 notches into a piece of wood or scratch them into the walls of their cell.
Why do they go to such lengths to mark time? When, ostensibly, to do so should matter to them least of all? Well, for one, it provides an occasion to reflect on the inevitable progress of the world they’ve left behind: Ah, Alyosha must now be able to climb the tree in the yard; and Vanya must be entering the academy; and Nadya, dear Nadya, will soon be of an age to marry. . . .
But just as important, a careful accounting of days allows the isolated to note that another year of hardship has been endured; survived; bested. Whether they have found the strength to persevere through a tireless determination or some foolhardy optimism, those 365 hatch marks stand as proof of their indomitability. For after all, if attentiveness should be measured in minutes and discipline measured in hours, then indomitability must be measured in years. Or, if philosophical investigations are not to your taste, then let us simply agree that the wise man celebrates what he can.
Thus, the Count donned his finest smoking jacket (custom-made in Paris from a burgundy velvet) and headed down the stairs.
When the Count reached the lobby, before he could continue to the barbershop his eyes were drawn to a willowy figure coming through the hotel’s doors. But then all eyes in the lobby were drawn to her. A tall woman in her midtwenties with arched eyebrows and auburn hair, she was indisputably striking. And as she approached the front desk, she walked with a breezy sureness as seemingly unaware of the feathers projecting from her hat as of the bellhops dragging her luggage behind her. But what guaranteed her position as the natural center of attention were the two borzois she had on leash.
In an instant the Count could see that they were magnificent beasts. Their coats silver, their loins lean, their every sense alert, these dogs had been raised to give chase in the cold October air with a hunting party hot on their heels. And at day’s end? They were meant to sit at the feet of their master before a fire in a manor house—not adorn the hands of a willow in the lobby of a grand hotel. . . .
The injustice of this was not lost on the dogs. As their mistress addressed Arkady at the front desk, they tugged every which way, sniffing about for familiar landmarks.
“Stop it!” the willow commanded in a surprisingly husky voice. Then she yanked in a manner that showed she had no more familiarity with the wolfhounds on her leashes than she had with the birds that had feathered her hat.
The Count gave the situation the shake of the head it deserved. But as he turned to go, he noticed with some amusement that a slender shadow suddenly jumped from behind a wingback chair to the edge of one of the potted palms. It was none other than Field Marshal Kutuzov attaining higher ground to take measure of his foes. When the dogs turned their heads in unison with their ears upright, the one-eyed cat slipped behind the trunk of the tree. Then having satisfied himself that the dogs were securely tethered, the cat alit from the palm to the floor and without even bothering to arch his back opened his little jaws and hissed.
With a terrific volley of barking, the dogs leapt to the extent of their leashes, tugging their mistress from the front desk as the ledger pen clattered to the floor.
“Whoa,” she shouted. “Whoa!”
Apparently unfamiliar with equine commands, the wolfhounds leapt again and, freeing themselves from the willow’s grip, scrambled toward their prey.
Kutuzov was off like a shot. Slipping under the western embankment of lobby chairs, the one-eyed cat dashed toward the front door, as if intending to escape into the street. Without a moment’s hesitation, the dogs gave chase. Opting for a pincer movement, they split at the potted palms and pursued the cat on opposite sides of the chairs in the hopes of cutting him off at the door. A lamp that blocked the path of the first hound was knocked to the floor in a shower of sparks, while a standing ashtray that blocked the second was sent head over heels, discharging a cloud of dust.
But just as the dogs were closing ranks, Kutuzov—who like his namesake had the advantage of familiar terrain—suddenly reversed course. Cutting in front of a coffee table, he dashed under the eastern embankment of lobby chairs and headed back toward the staircase.
It took only a few seconds for the borzois to recognize the cat’s tactic; but if attentiveness is measured in minutes, discipline in hours, and indomitability in years, then the attaining of the upper hand on the field of battle is measured in the instant. For just as the wolfhounds registered the cat’s reversal and attempted to turn, the lobby’s expansive oriental carpet came to an end, and the dogs’ momentum sent them skidding across the marble floor into the luggage of an arriving guest.
With an advantage over his adversaries of a hundred feet, Kutuzov skipped up the first few steps of the staircase, paused for a moment to admire his handiwork, then disappeared around the corner.
You may accuse a dog of eating without grace or of exhibiting a misplaced enthusiasm for the tossing of sticks, but you may never accuse one of giving up hope. Despite the fact that the cat had a decisive lead and knew every nook and cranny of the hotel’s upper floors, once the dogs regained their footing, they charged across the lobby in full chorus with every intention of mounting the stairs.
But the Hotel Metropol was not a hunting ground. It was a residence par excellence, an oasis for the worn and weary. So, with a slight curl of the tongue, the Count gave an upward sloping whistle in G major. At the sound, the dogs broke pursuit and began restlessly circling at the foot of the stairs. The Count gave two more whistles in quick succession and the dogs, resigning themselves to the fact that the day was lost, trotted to the Count and heeled at his feet.
“Well, my boys,” he said, giving them a good scratching behind the ears, “where do you hail from?”
“Arf,” replied the dogs.
“Ah,” said the Count. “How lovely.”
After smoothing her skirt and straightening her hat, the willowy one gracefully crossed the lobby to the Count, where, thanks to a pair of French heels, she met him eye to eye. At such proximity the Count could see that she was even more beautiful than he had suspected; and haughtier too. His natural sympathies remained with the dogs.
“Thank you,” she said (with a smile that presumed to launch armadas). “I’m afraid that they are quite ill bred.”
“On the contrary,” replied the Count, “they appear to be perfectly bred.”
The willow made a second effort at her smile.
“What I meant to say is that they are ill behaved.”
“Yes, perhaps ill behaved; but that is a matter of handling, not breeding.”
As the willow studied the Count, he noted that the arches over her eyebrows were v
ery much like the marcato notation in music—that accent which instructs one to play a phrase a little more loudly. This, no doubt, accounted for the willow’s preference for issuing commands and the resulting huskiness of her voice. But as the Count was coming to this conclusion, the willow was apparently coming to a conclusion of her own, for she now dispensed with any intent to charm.
“Handling does seem to have a way of eclipsing breeding,” she said acerbically. “And for that very reason, I should think that even some of the best-bred dogs belong on the shortest leashes.”
“An understandable conclusion,” replied the Count. “But I should think the best-bred dogs belong in the surest hands.”
One hour later, with his hair neatly trimmed and his chin cleanly shaved, the Count entered the Shalyapin and selected a small table in the corner at which to wait for Mishka, who was in town for the inaugural congress of RAPP.
It was only as he settled in that he realized the willowy beauty, now in a long blue dress, was sitting on the banquette directly opposite his own. She had spared the bar the spectacle of trying to manage her dogs, but in their place she had brought along a round-faced fellow with a receding hairline for whom puppylike devotion seemed to come a little more naturally. While the Count was smiling at his own observation, he happened to meet the willow’s gaze. As was only fitting, the two adults immediately acted as if they hadn’t seen each other, the one by turning to her puppy and the other by turning to the door. And as luck would have it, there was Mishka right on time—but with a brand-new jacket and a well-groomed beard. . . .
The Count came out from behind the table in order to embrace his friend. Then, rather than reclaim his seat, he offered the banquette to Mishka—an action that seemed at once courteous and opportune, since it allowed the Count to turn his back on the willow.
“Well now,” said the Count with a clap of the hands. “What shall it be, my friend? Champagne? Château d’Yquem? A dish of beluga before supper?” But with a shake of the head, Mishka asked for a beer and explained that he could not stay for dinner, after all.
Naturally, the Count was disappointed by the news. After a discreet inquiry, he had learned that the evening’s special at the Boyarsky was roasted duck—the perfect dish for two old friends to share. And Andrey had promised to set aside a particular Grand Cru that not only complemented the duck, but would inevitably lead to a retelling of the infamous night when the Count had become locked in the Rothschilds’ wine cellar with the young Baroness. . . .
But while the Count was disappointed, he could see from his old friend’s fidgeting that he had his own stories to tell. So, as soon as their beers were before them, the Count asked how things were progressing at the congress. Taking a drink, Mishka nodded that here was the topic of the hour—the very conversation that would soon be engrossing all of Russia, if not the world.
“There were no hushed voices today, Sasha. No dozing or fiddling with pencils. For in every corner from every hand there was work being done.”
If offering Mishka the banquette had been gracious and opportune, it also had the added benefit of keeping him in his seat. For were he not trapped behind the table, he would already have leapt to his feet and been pacing the bar. And what was the work being done at this congress? As best as the Count could determine, it included the drafting of “Declarations of Intent,” “Proclamations of Allegiance,” and “Open Statements of Solidarity.” Indeed, the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers didn’t hesitate to express their solidarity. In fact, they expressed it not only with their fellow writers, publishers, and editors, but with the masons and stevedores, the welders and riveters, even the street sweepers.*
So fevered was the first day of the congress that dinner wasn’t served until eleven o’clock. And then at a table set for sixty, they heard from Mayakovsky himself. There were no lecterns, mind you. When the plates had been served, he simply banged on the table and stood on his chair.
In the interests of realism, Mishka tried to stand on the banquette, nearly knocking over his beer. He settled for a seated oration with a finger in the air:
Suddenly—I
shone in all my might,
and morning rang its round.
Always to shine,
to shine everywhere,
to the very depths of the last days,
to shine—
and to hell with everything else!
That is my motto—
and the sun’s!
Naturally, Mayakovsky’s poem prompted unrestrained applause and the smashing of glasses. But then, just as everyone had settled down and was preparing to slice into their chicken, some fellow named Zelinsky was up on his chair.
“For, of course, we must hear from Zelinsky,” muttered Mishka. “As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with Mayakovsky. As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with a bottle of milk.”
Mishka took another sip.
“You remember Zelinsky. No? The one who was a few years behind us at the university? The one who wore a monocle in ’16 and a sailor’s cap the following year? Well, anyway, you know the sort, Sasha—the type who must always have their hands on the wheel. At the end of dinner, say two of you are lingering in your chairs to continue a discussion from earlier in the day—well, there is Zelinsky proclaiming that he knows just the place to carry on the conversation. Next thing you know, there are ten of you being crowded around a table in some basement café. When you go to take a seat, he has a hand on your shoulder, steering you to this end of the table or that. And when someone calls for bread, he has a better idea. They have the best zavitushki in Moscow, he says. And before you know it, he’s snapping his fingers in the air.”
Here Mishka snapped his fingers three times so emphatically that the Count had to wave off the ever-attentive Audrius, who was already halfway across the room.
“And his ideas!” Mishka continued in disdain. “On and on he goes with his declarations, as if he is in a position to enlighten anyone on matters of verse. And what does he have to say to the impressionable young student at his side? That all poets must eventually bow before the haiku. Bow before the haiku! Can you imagine.”
“For my part,” contributed the Count, “I am glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan.”
Mishka stared at the Count for a moment then burst out laughing.
“Yes,” he said, slapping the table and wiping a tear from his eye. “Glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan. I shall have to remember to tell that one to Katerina.”
Mishka smiled in apparent anticipation of telling that one to Katerina.
“Katerina . . . ?” asked the Count.
Mishka casually reached for his beer.
“Katerina Litvinova. Have I not mentioned her before? She’s a talented young poet from Kiev—in her second year at the university. We sit on a committee together.”
Mishka leaned back in order to drink from his glass. The Count leaned back in order to smile at his companion—as the entire picture came into focus.
A new jacket and a well-groomed beard . . .
A discussion after dinner continued from earlier in the day . . .
And a Zelinsky who, having dragged everyone to his favorite little nightspot, steers an impressionable young poet to one end of the table and a Mishka to the other. . . .
As Mishka continued with his description of the previous evening, the irony of the situation did not escape the Count: that during all those years they had lived above the cobbler’s, it was Mishka who had stayed put and the Count who, having apologized that he couldn’t join his friend for dinner, had returned hours later with tales of lively toasts and tête-à-têtes and impromptu outings to candlelit cafés.
Did the Count take some pleasure in hearing about Mishka’s late-night skirmishes? Of course he did. Particularly when he learned that at the end of the evening, as the group was about to climb into t
hree different cabs, Mishka reminded Zelinsky that he had forgotten his hat; and when Zelinsky dashed back inside to retrieve it, Katerina from Kiev leaned from her cab to call: Here, Mikhail Fyodorovich, why don’t you ride with us. . . .
Yes, the Count took pleasure in his old friend’s romantic skirmish; but that is not to suggest that he didn’t feel the sting of envy.
Half an hour later, after the Count had sent Mishka off to a discussion on the future of meter (at which Katerina from Kiev would presumably be in attendance), he headed to the Boyarsky, apparently destined to dine on duck alone. But just as he was leaving, Audrius beckoned.
Sliding a folded piece of paper across the bar, Audrius explained under his breath: “I was instructed to relay this to you.”
“To me? From whom?”
“Miss Urbanova.”
“Miss Urbanova?”
“Anna Urbanova. The movie star.”
Since the Count still showed no sign of understanding, the bartender explained a little more loudly: “The one who was sitting at that table across from you.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
As Audrius returned to his work, the Count unfolded the piece of paper, which bore the following request in a willowy script:
Please allow me a second chance
at a first impression
in suite 208
When the Count knocked on the door of suite 208, it was opened by an older woman who regarded him with impatience.
“Yes?”
“I am Alexander Rostov. . . .”
“You’re expected. Come in. Miss Urbanova will be a moment.”
Instinctively, the Count prepared to offer the woman a witty remark about the weather, but when he stepped inside she stepped out and closed the door, leaving him alone in the entryway.
Decorated in the style of a Venetian palazzo, suite 208 was one of the finest accommodations on the floor and looked no worse for wear now that the tireless typers of directives had finally moved to the Kremlin. With a bedroom and drawing room on either side of a grand salon, its ceilings were painted with allegorical figures gazing down from the heavens. On an ornate side table stood two towering arrangements of flowers—one of calla lilies and the other of long-stemmed roses. The fact that the two arrangements matched each other in extravagance while clashing in color suggested they were from competing admirers. One could only imagine what a third admirer would feel obliged to send. . . .