Stepping from the curb, our lone figure gave way to a young officer driving a motorcycle with a girl in a bright orange dress in his sidecar; he passed between the two captured German fighter planes on display in the defoliated square; then skirting the Metropol’s main entrance, he wound around the corner and disappeared down the alley at the back of the hotel.
Antics, Antitheses, an Accident
At 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 t
he 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.
Here is how it was played:
The two of them would be sitting somewhere in the hotel—say, reading in their study on a Sunday morning. At the stroke of twelve, the Count would set his book down and excuse himself to pay his weekly visit to the barber. After descending one flight in the belfry and traversing the hall to the main stair, he would continue his journey down five flights to the subfloor, where, having passed the flower shop and newsstand, he would enter the barbershop only to discover—Sofia reading quietly on the bench by the wall.
Naturally, this resulted in the calling of the Lord’s name in vain and the dropping of whatever happened to be in one’s hand (three books and a glass of wine so far this year).
Setting aside the fact that such a game could prove fatal to a man approaching his sixties, one had to marvel at the young lady’s expertise. She could seemingly transport herself from one end of the hotel to the other in the blink of an eye. Over the years, she must have mastered all of the hotel’s hidden hallways, back passages, and connecting doors, while developing an uncanny sense of timing. But what was particularly impressive was her otherworldly repose upon discovery. For no matter how far or how fast she had traveled, there was not a hint of exertion about her. Not a patter of the heart, not a panting of the breath, not a drop of perspiration on her brow. Nor would she emit a giggle or exhibit the slightest smirk. On the contrary. With an expression that was studious, shy, and well behaved, she would acknowledge the Count with a friendly nod, and looking back at her book, turn the page, demurely.
The notion that a child so composed would conspire to the releasing of geese was simply preposterous. One might as well accuse her of toppling the Tower of Babel or knocking the nose off the Sphinx.
True, she had been in the kitchen eating her supper when the chef du cuisine first received word that a certain Swiss diplomat, who had ordered the roast goose, had questioned the freshness of the poultry. And admittedly, she was devoted to her Uncle Emile. Even so, how was a thirteen-year-old girl to spirit three adult fowl to the fourth floor of an international hotel at seven in the morning without detection? The very idea, concluded the Count as he opened the door to his rooms, confounded one’s reason, offended the laws of nature, and flew in the face of common—
“Iesu Christi!”
Sofia, who the moment before had been in the lobby, was seated at the Grand Duke’s desk, leaning diligently over her tome.
“Oh, hello, Papa,” she said without looking up.
. . .
“Apparently, it is no longer considered polite to look up from one’s work when a gentleman enters a room.”
Sofia turned in her chair.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I was immersed in my reading.”
“Hmm. And what might that be?”
“It is an essay on cannibalism.”
“An essay on cannibalism!”
“By Michel de Montaigne.”
“Ah. Yes. Well. That’s time well spent, I’m sure,” conceded the Count.
But as he headed toward the study, he thought, Michel de Montaigne . . . ? Then he shot a glance at the base of their bureau.
. . .
“Is that Anna Karenina?”
Sofia followed his gaze.
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“But what is she doing down there?”
“She was the closest in thickness to Montaigne.”
“The closest in thickness!”
“Is something wrong?”
. . .
“All I can say is that Anna Karenina would never have put you under a bureau just because you happened to be as thick as Montaigne.”
“The very idea is preposterous,” the Count was saying. “How is a thirteen-year-old girl to spirit three fully grown geese up two flights of stairs without the slightest detection? Besides, I ask you: Is such behavior even in her character?”
“Certainly not,” said Emile.
“No, not in the least,” agreed Andrey.
The three men shook their heads in shared indignation.
One of the advantages of working together for many years is that the daily rigmarole can be dispensed with quickly, leaving ample time for discussions of weightier concerns—such as rheumatism, the inadequacy of public transit, and the petty behavior of the inexplicably promoted. After two decades, the members of the Triumvirate knew a thing or two about the small-minded men who sat behind stacks of paper, and the so-called gourmands from Geneva who couldn’t tell a goose from a grouse.
“It’s outrageous,” said t
he Count.
“Unquestionably.”
“And to summon me half an hour before our daily meeting, at which there is never a shortage of important matters to discuss.”
“Quite so,” agreed Andrey. “Which reminds me, Alexander . . .”
“Yes?”
“Before we open tonight, could you have someone sweep out the dumbwaiter?”
“Certainly. Is it a mess?”
“I’m afraid so. It has somehow become littered with feathers. . . .”
In saying this, Andrey used one of his legendary fingers to scratch his upper lip while Emile pretended to sip at his tea. And the Count? He opened his mouth with every intention of making the perfect rejoinder—the sort of remark that having cut one man to the quick would be quoted by others for years to come.
But there was a knock at the door, and young Ilya entered with his wooden spoon.
Over the course of the Great Patriotic War, Emile had lost the seasoned members of his crew one by one, even the whistling Stanislav. With every able-bodied man eventually in the army, he had been forced to staff his kitchen with adolescents. Thus, Ilya, who had been hired in 1943, had been promoted on the basis of seniority to sous-chef in 1945, at the ripe old age of nineteen. As a reflection of qualified confidence, Emile had bestowed upon him a spoon in place of a knife.
“Well?” said Emile, looking up with impatience.