by Amor Towles
“Do you remember, Alexander?”
“As if it were yesterday,” replied the Count with a smile. “You did the honors with the brandy that night, my friend; and Marina was here along with Vasily. . . .”
As if by an act of magic, at the very instant the Count said Vasily’s name, the concierge stepped through the closet door. In military fashion, he clicked his heels and greeted those assembled in rapid succession without showing the slightest indication of surprise as to their whereabouts:
“Miss Urbanova. Sofia. Andrey. Emile.” Then turning to the Count, he said: “Alexander Ilyich, may I have a word . . . ?”
From the manner in which Vasily asked the question, it was clear that he wished to take the Count aside. But as the Count’s study was but a hundred foot square, they could only step about three feet away from the others in order to secure their privacy—an action that was immediately rendered inconsequential when the other four members of the party moved a similar distance in a similar direction.
“I wish to inform you,” said Vasily (in a manner sort of entre nous), “that the hotel’s manager is on his way.”
It was the Count’s turn to express surprise.
“On his way where?”
“On his way here. Or rather . . . there,” said Vasily, pointing back toward the Count’s bedroom.
“But for what possible reason?”
Vasily explained that as he was reviewing the next night’s reservations, he happened to notice the Bishop lingering in the lobby. When a few minutes later a rather petit gentleman wearing a brimmed hat approached the front desk and asked for the Count by name, the Bishop introduced himself, indicated that he had been expecting the visitor, and offered to show him personally to the Count’s room.
“When was this?”
“They were just entering the elevator when I took to the stairs; but they were accompanied by Mr. Harriman from suite 215 and the Tarkovs from room 426. Accounting for the stops at the second and fourth floors, I suspect they should be here any second.”
“Good God!”
The members of the party looked to one another.
“No one make a sound,” said the Count. Entering the closet, he closed the study door behind him, then he opened the door to his bedroom a little more cautiously than he had the last time. Relieved to find the room empty, he shut the closet door, took up Sofia’s copy of Fathers and Sons, sat in his desk chair, and tilted back on two legs just in time to hear the knock on the door.
“Who is it?” called out the Count.
“It is Manager Leplevsky,” called back the Bishop.
The Count let the front legs of his chair drop with a thump and opened the door to reveal the Bishop and a stranger in the hall.
“I hope we are not disturbing you,” said the Bishop.
“Well, it is a rather unusual hour for paying a call. . . .”
“Of course,” said the Bishop with a smile. “But allow me to introduce you to comrade Frinovsky. He was asking after you in the lobby, so I took the liberty of showing him the way, what with your room’s . . . remoteness.”
“How considerate of you,” replied the Count.
When Vasily had noted that comrade Frinovsky was petit, the Count had assumed the concierge was being colorful in his choice of adjectives. But in point of fact, the word small would not have been sufficiently diminutive to suggest comrade Frinovsky’s size. When the Count addressed the visitor, he had to resist the temptation of getting down on his haunches.
“How can I be of service to you, Mr. Frinovsky?”
“I am here in regards to your daughter,” Frinovsky explained, taking his little hat from his head.
“Sofia?” asked the Count.
“Yes, Sofia. I am the director of the Red October Youth Orchestra. Your daughter was recently brought to our attention as a gifted pianist. In fact, I had the pleasure of attending her performance tonight, which accounts for the lateness of my visit. But with the greatest pleasure, I come to confer upon her a position as our second pianist.”
“The Youth Orchestra of Moscow!” exclaimed the Count. “How wonderful. Where are you housed?”
“No. I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear,” explained Frinovsky. “The Red October Youth Orchestra is not in Moscow. It is in Stalingrad.”
After a moment of bewilderment, the Count attempted to compose himself.
“As I said, it is a wonderful offer, Mr. Frinovsky. . . . But I am afraid that Sofia would not be interested.”
Frinovsky looked to the Bishop as if he hadn’t understood the Count’s remark.
The Bishop simply shook his head.
“But it is not a matter of interest,” Frinovsky said to the Count. “A requisition has been made and an appointment has been granted—by the regional undersecretary of cultural affairs.” The director took a letter from his jacket, handed it to the Count, and reached over to point to the undersecretary’s signature. “As you can see, Sofia is to report to the orchestra on the first of September.”
With a feeling of nausea, the Count read over this letter that, in the most technical of language, welcomed his daughter to an orchestra in an industrial city six hundred miles away.
“The Youth Orchestra of Stalingrad,” the Bishop said. “How exciting this must be for you, Alexander Ilyich. . . .”
Looking up from the letter, the Count saw the flash of spite in the Bishop’s smile, and just like that the Count’s feelings of nausea and bewilderment were gone—having been replaced by a cold fury. Standing to his full height, the Count took a step toward the Bishop with every intention of grabbing him by the lapels, or better yet the throat—when the door to the closet opened and Anna Urbanova stepped into the room.
The Count, the Bishop, and the petit musical director all looked up in surprise.
Crossing gracefully to the Count’s side and delicately placing her hand at the small of his back, Anna studied the expressions of the two men in the doorway then addressed the Bishop with a smile.
“Why, Manager Leplevsky, you look as if you’ve never seen a beautiful woman step from a closet before.”
“I haven’t,” sputtered the Bishop.
“Of course,” she said sympathetically. Then she turned her attention to the stranger. “And who have we here?”
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.”
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��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 ch
air.
“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:
