by Amor Towles
Securing the straps of the knapsack and swinging it onto her back, Sofia pulled the cap tightly onto her head, opened the bathroom door, and listened. The strings were beginning to swell, signaling the end of the third movement. Leaving the bathroom, she turned away from the dressing rooms and headed toward the back of the building. The music grew louder as she passed directly behind the stage. Then with the first notes of the final movement, she passed through the exit at the rear of the hall and went barefoot into the night.
Walking quickly, but not running, Sofia circled the Salle Pleyel to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where the well-lit entrance of the concert hall was located. Crossing the street, she stepped into a doorway and took off the Italian’s cap. From under the brim, she pulled out the little map that her father had cut from the Baedeker and folded into the size of a matchbook. Opening it, she oriented herself and then began following the red line half a block along Faubourg Saint-Honoré, down the Avenue Hoche to the Arc de Triomphe, and then left onto the Champs-Élysées, headed toward the Place de la Concorde.
In drawing this zigzagging line from the doors of the Salle Pleyel to the American Embassy, the Count had not chosen the most direct route. That would have been ten blocks straight along Faubourg Saint-Honoré. But the Count had wanted to get Sofia away from the concert hall as quickly as possible. This slight detour would add only a few minutes to Sofia’s journey, but it would allow her to disappear into the anonymity of the Champs-Élysées; and she should still have enough time to reach the embassy before her absence was discovered.
But when the Count had made this calculation, what he had failed to take into account was the impact upon a twenty-one-year-old girl of seeing the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre lit up at night for the very first time. True, Sofia had seen them both the day before, along with plenty of other sights; but just as the Count had imagined, she had seen them through the window of a bus. It was a different thing altogether to see them at the onset of summer, having received an ovation, changed one’s appearance, and escaped into the night. . . .
For while in the classical tradition there was no Muse of architecture, I think we can agree that under the right circumstances, the appearance of a building can impress itself upon one’s memory, affect one’s sentiments, and even change one’s life. Just so, risking minutes that she did not have to spare, Sofia came to a stop at the Place de la Concorde and turned slowly in place, as if in a moment of recognition.
On the night before she had left Moscow, when Sofia had expressed her distress at what her father wanted her to do, he had attempted to console her with a notion. He had said that our lives are steered by uncertainties, many of which are disruptive or even daunting; but that if we persevere and remain generous of heart, we may be granted a moment of supreme lucidity—a moment in which all that has happened to us suddenly comes into focus as a necessary course of events, even as we find ourselves on the threshold of a bold new life that we had been meant to lead all along.
When her father had made this claim, it had seemed so outlandish, so overblown that it had not assuaged Sofia’s distress in the least. But turning in place on the Place de la Concorde, seeing the Arc de Triomphe, and the Eiffel Tower, and the Tuileries, and the cars and Vespas zipping around the great obelisk, Sofia had an inkling of what her father had been trying to say.
“Was it like this all night?”
Richard Vanderwhile, who was standing in his apartment in the embassy, had just noticed the angle of his bow tie in the bedroom mirror. It was at a slant of twenty-five degrees.
“Your tie is always like that, my dear.”
Richard turned to his wife in shock.
“Always! Why on earth haven’t you ever said anything?”
“Because I think it makes you look rakish.”
Giving the nod of one who could make do with “rakish,” Richard took another look in the mirror, then pulled the tie loose, hung his tuxedo jacket on the back of his chair, and was about to suggest a nightcap when there was a knock at the door. It was Richard’s attaché.
“What is it, Billy?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, sir. But there is a young man asking for you.”
“A young man?”
“Yes. Apparently, he is seeking asylum. . . .”
Richard raised his eyebrows.
“Asylum from what?”
“I’m not certain, sir. But he isn’t wearing any shoes.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vanderwhile exchanged looks.
“Well then, I guess you had better show him in.”
The attaché returned a minute later with a young man in a newsboy’s cap who was, in fact, barefoot. In the manner of the polite but anxious, the young man took off his cap and held it at his waist in both hands.
“Billy,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile, “this is not a young man.”
The attaché’s eyes widened.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Richard. “Sofia Rostov.”
Sofia smiled with an expression of relief: “Mr. Vanderwhile.”
Richard told his attaché he could go, then he approached Sofia with a grin and took her by the elbows.
“Let me get a good look at you.” Without letting go of Sofia, Richard turned to his wife. “Didn’t I tell you she was a beauty?”
“You certainly did,” said Mrs. Vanderwhile with a smile.
Although from Sofia’s perspective, it was Mrs. Vanderwhile who was the beauty.
“What a terrific turn of events,” said Richard.
“You weren’t . . . expecting me?” asked Sofia tentatively.
“Of course we were! But your father has grown quite fond of all this cloak-and-dagger business. He assured me that you were coming, but he wouldn’t let me know when, where, or how. And he certainly didn’t tell me you’d be arriving as a barefoot boy.” Richard pointed to Sofia’s knapsack. “Is that all you brought with you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Mrs. Vanderwhile.
Before Sofia could respond, Richard chimed in: “Of course she’s hungry. I’m hungry and I’ve just returned from a dinner. I’ll tell you what, my dear: Why don’t you see if you can scare up some clothes for Sofia, while she and I have a chat. Then we can all rendezvous in the kitchen.”
While Mrs. Vanderwhile went in search of clothes, Richard led Sofia into his study and sat on the edge of his desk.
“I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you in house, Sofia. And I do so hate putting business before pleasure. But once we sit down to eat, I suspect we’ll be swept away with stories of your adventures. So, before we go to the kitchen, your father mentioned that you might have something for me. . . .”
Sofia looked shy and hesitant.
“My father said that you might have something for me first. . . .”
Richard laughed and slapped his hands together.
“Right you are! I’d forgotten all about it.”
Richard crossed the room to one of the bookcases. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached to the uppermost shelf and removed what looked like a large book—but which turned out to be a package wrapped in brown paper. Richard set it down on his desk with a thud.
In turn, Sofia began to reach into her knapsack.
“Before giving anything to me,” Richard cautioned, “you should probably make sure that this is what it’s supposed to be. . . .”
“Oh, yes. I see.”
“Besides,” he added, “I’ve been dying of curiosity.”
Joining Richard at his desk, Sofia untied the strings and pulled back the folds of paper. Inside was an old edition of Montaigne’s Essays.
“Well,” said Richard a little bemused, “you’ve got to give that old Frenchman credit. He’s substantially heavier than Adam Smith or Plato. I really had no idea.”
But then Sofia opened
the book, revealing a rectangular cavity cut into the pages, in which there were eight small stacks of gold coins.
“Naturally,” said Richard.
Sofia closed the book and retied the strings. Then taking off her knapsack, she emptied its contents onto a chair and handed the empty bag to Richard.
“Father said you should cut the seam at the top of the straps.”
There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Vanderwhile poked in her head.
“I’ve got some clothes to show you, Sofia. Are you ready?”
“Perfect timing,” said Richard while giving a nod to Sofia. “I’ll follow you in a minute.”
Left alone, Richard took a penknife from his pocket. He switched out the blade and carefully cut the seam that had been expertly sewn along the top of the shoulder straps. In the narrow gap that ran behind the length of one of the straps had been slipped a tightly rolled piece of paper.
Easing the roll from its hiding place, Richard sat down and spread it across his desk. On the top side there was a diagram entitled “Combined Dinner of Council of Ministers and Presidium, June 11, 1954.” The diagram itself depicted a long U with forty-six names inscribed around its periphery. Under the name of each person was their title and a summation of their personality in three words. On the verso was a detailed description of the evening in question.
Certainly, the Count described the announcement concerning the Obninsk nuclear power plant and the theatric display of its connection to the Moscow grid. But what he emphasized in the course of his report were the evening’s social nuances.
First, the Count observed that when the guests appeared at the dinner, virtually all were surprised by the venue. They had obviously arrived at the hotel expecting they would be dining in one of the Boyarsky’s formal rooms, only to be directed instead to suite 417. The one exception was Khrushchev—who entered the room with the cool satisfaction of one who not only knew where the dinner would be held, but was pleased to see that everything was perfectly in order. The General Secretary erased any doubt as to his personal involvement in the planning of the evening when, having been unusually quiet, he stood at ten minutes to eleven to make a toast that referenced the history of the suite two floors below.
But for the Count, the genius of the evening was in Khrushchev’s casual display of his alignment with Malyshev. In recent months, Malenkov had made no secret of his disagreement with Khrushchev regarding nuclear armament. Malenkov foresaw that a nuclear arms race with the West could only have devastating results, referring to it as an “apocalyptic policy.” But with this little event of political theater, Khrushchev had performed the perfect sleight of hand—switching out the threat of nuclear Armageddon for the uplifting sight of a city sparkling with nuclear power. In a stroke, the conservative hawk had cast himself as a man of the future and his progressive opponent as a reactionary.
Sure enough, with the lights of the city shining brightly and freshly chilled bottles of vodka on the table, Malyshev crossed the room to confer with the General Secretary. As most of the others were still milling about with smiles on their faces, Malyshev quite naturally took the empty chair at Khrushchev’s side. So, when everyone began to resume their places, Malenkov found himself stranded behind Khrushchev and Malyshev; and as the Premier of the Communist Party waited awkwardly for them to finish their conversation so that he could reclaim his seat, no one at the table even batted an eye.
As Richard finished reading the Count’s description, he leaned back in his chair and smiled, thinking he could use a hundred men like Alexander Rostov. And that’s when he noticed the small, slightly curled piece of paper lying on his desk. Picking it up, Richard immediately recognized the Count’s cursive. The note, which had presumably been rolled up in the report, included a straightforward instruction of how to confirm that Sofia had arrived at the embassy safely, followed by a long sequence of seven-digit numbers.
Richard jumped to his feet.
“Billy!”
After a moment the door swung open and the attaché stuck in his head.
“Sir?”
“If it is almost ten in Paris, what time is it almost in Moscow?”
“Midnight.”
“How many girls are on the switchboard?”
“I’m not certain,” admitted the lieutenant, a little flustered. “At this hour, two; maybe three?”
“That’s not enough! Go to the typing pool, the decoding room, the kitchen. Round up everyone with a finger on their hand!”
When the Count arrived in the lobby with his rucksack on his shoulder and sat in his chair between the potted palms, he didn’t fidget. He didn’t get up and walk about, or read the evening edition. Nor did he check the time on the Bishop’s watch.
If asked in advance to imagine what sitting there under these circumstances would feel like, the Count would have predicted a definite sense of anxiety. But as the minutes ticked away, the Count didn’t find the wait distressing at all; he found it surprisingly peaceful. With a patience that was almost otherworldly, he watched the guests of the hotel come and go. He saw the elevator doors open and close. He heard the sound of music and laughter emanating from the Shalyapin Bar.
At that moment, it somehow seemed to the Count that no one was out of place; that every little thing happening was part of some master plan; and that within the context of that plan, he was meant to sit in the chair between the potted palms and wait. And almost exactly at midnight, the Count’s patience was rewarded. For in accordance with the instructions he’d written to Richard, every telephone on the first floor of the Metropol began to ring.
All four telephones at the main desk rang. The two house phones that were on a side table by the elevator rang. The telephones at Vasily’s desk and the bell captain’s station rang. As did the four telephones in the Piazza, the three in the coffeehouse, the eight in the executive offices, and the two on the Bishop’s desk. All told, there must have been thirty phones ringing at once.
What a simple thing in concept, the simultaneous ringing of thirty phones. And yet, it immediately created a sense of pandemonium. Those who were in the lobby began looking from corner to corner. What could bring about the ringing of thirty phones at twelve o’clock at night? Had the Metropol been struck by lightning? Was Russia under attack? Or were the spirits of the past exacting their toll on the present?
Whatever the cause, the sound was utterly disconcerting.
When a single telephone rings, our immediate instinct is to pick up the receiver and say hello. But when thirty ring at once, our instinct is to take two steps back and stare. The limited crew of the night shift found themselves running from phone to phone without the fortitude to answer a single one. The drunken crowd in the Shalyapin began spilling into the lobby, as guests, who had been awakened on the second floor, came marching down the stairs. And in the midst of this commotion, Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov quietly donned the journalist’s hat and coat, shouldered his rucksack, and walked out of the Metropol Hotel.
AFTERWORD
Afterwards . . .
On the twenty-first of June 1954, Viktor Stepanovich Skadovsky left his apartment shortly before midnight in order to keep an appointment.
His wife had urged him not to go. What good could come from an appointment at this hour, she wanted to know. Did he think the police didn’t walk the streets at midnight? The police made a point of walking the streets at midnight. Because since the beginning of time, that’s when fools have kept their appointments!
Viktor responded to his wife that this was nonsense; that she was being melodramatic. But when he left their building, he walked ten blocks to the Garden Ring before boarding a bus, and he took comfort from the indifference with which the others on the bus received him.
Yes, his wife was upset that he had an appointment at midnight. But if she had known the purpose of the appointment, she would have been beside herself. And if, upon le
arning of his intentions, she had demanded to know why on earth he had agreed to do something so foolhardy, he wouldn’t have been able to answer her. He wasn’t certain himself.
It wasn’t simply because of Sofia. Of course, he felt an almost fatherly pride in her achievement as a pianist. The very notion of helping a young artist discover her talent was a fantasy that Viktor had long since abandoned; and to experience it so unexpectedly was beyond description. What’s more, it was the hours of teaching Sofia that had ultimately led him to pursue another abandoned dream: playing the classical repertoire in a chamber orchestra. But even so, it wasn’t simply because of her.
To a greater degree, it was because of the Count. For, however unaccountably, Viktor felt a profound sense of loyalty to Alexander Ilyich Rostov; a sense of loyalty that was grounded in feelings of respect that Viktor could hardly articulate—and that his wife, for all her virtues, would never have understood.
But perhaps most of all, he had agreed to the Count’s request because it felt right to do so; and that feeling of conviction, in itself, was a pleasure that had become increasingly rare.
With that thought, Viktor stepped off the bus, entered the old St. Petersburg Station, and walked across the central hall toward the brightly lit café where he had been instructed to wait.
Viktor was sitting in a booth in the corner—watching an old accordion player move from table to table—when the Count entered the café. He was wearing an American trench coat and a dark gray fedora. Seeing Viktor, he crossed the café, set down his rucksack, shed the coat and hat, and joined him in the booth. When a moment later the waitress appeared, he ordered a cup of coffee and then waited for the coffee to arrive before sliding a little red book across the table.
