A Gentleman in Moscow

  An ingénue in film but not in life, Anna understood that Rosotsky’s fall from grace was a stone that could quickly drag her to the depths. She began avoiding public appearances in his company, while openly praising the aesthetics of other directors; and this stratagem might well have succeeded in securing her a new avenue of stardom but for an unfortunate development across the Atlantic: the talking picture. While Anna’s face was still one of the most alluring on screen, audiences who for years had imagined her speaking in dulcet tones were not prepared to hear her husky tenor. Thus, in the spring of 1928, at the sprightly age of twenty-nine, Anna Urbanova was what the Americans would have called a has-been.

  Alas, while the copper plate on the bottom of a priceless antique may allow a good comrade to sleep soundly, it is the nature of objects with serial numbers set down in ledgers that they may be reclaimed and put to new use at the stroke of a pen. In a matter of months, the gilded chairs, painted armoires, and Louis Quatorze dresser were all gone—as was the fur merchant’s mansion and the Peterhof dacha—and Anna found herself with two trunks of clothing in the street. In her purse she still had train fare to her hometown outside Odessa. Instead, she moved into a one-room apartment with her sixty-year-old dresser, for Anna Urbanova had no intention of going home ever again.

  The second time the Count saw Anna was in November 1928, about eight months after she had lost her mansion. He was just pouring water into the glass of an Italian importer when she walked through the door of the Boyarsky wearing a red sleeveless dress and high-heeled shoes. As the Count apologized to the importer and attempted to mop his lap with a napkin, he overheard the actress explain to Andrey that she would be joined by a guest at any moment.

  Andrey led her to a table for two in the corner.

  Forty minutes later her guest arrived.

  From his vantage point on the other side of the Boyarsky’s centerpiece (an arrangement of sunflowers), the Count could tell that the actress and her guest knew each other only by reputation. He was a good-enough-looking fellow, a few years younger than Anna and wearing a tailored jacket, but plainly something of a cad. For having taken his seat, even as he apologized for being late he was already scanning the menu; and when she assured him that it was quite all right, he was already signaling their waiter. For her part, Anna appeared to be perfectly charming. She related her stories with a sparkle in her eye and listened to his with a ready laugh; and she was the very image of patience whenever their conversation was interrupted by someone who had approached the table to fawn over his latest picture.

  A few hours later, when the Boyarsky was empty and the kitchen was closed, the Count passed through the lobby just as Anna and her guest emerged from the Shalyapin Bar. As he paused to put on his overcoat, Anna gestured to the elevator, clearly inviting him upstairs for one more drink. But he continued putting his arms through his sleeves. It was a pleasure meeting, he assured her with a glance at his watch; unfortunately, he was expected elsewhere. Then he made a beeline for the door.

  As the young director crossed the lobby, the Count was of the opinion that Anna looked every bit as radiant as she had in 1923. But the moment the director disappeared into the street, the actress’s smile and shoulders drooped. Then having passed a hand across her brow, she turned from the door—only to meet the gaze of the Count.

  In an instant, she drew back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strolled toward the staircase. But having mastered the art of descending the stairs to a gathering of admirers, she had yet to master the art of ascending the stairs alone. (Perhaps no one has.) On the third step, she stopped. She stood motionless. Then she turned, came back down, and crossed to where the Count was standing.

  “Whenever I am in this lobby with you,” she said, “it seems that I am destined to be humiliated.”

  The Count looked surprised.

  “Humiliated? You have no cause to feel humiliated, as far as I can see.”

  “I gather you’re blind.”

  She looked toward the revolving door as if it were still spinning from the young director’s exit.

  “I invited him for a nightcap. He said he had an early start.”

  “I have never had an early start in my life,” said the Count.

  Offering her first genuine smile of the evening, she waved a hand at the stairs.

  “Then you might as well come on up.”

  At the time, Anna was staying in room 428. It was not the finest room on the fourth floor, nor was it the worst. Off the small bedroom, it had a small sitting area with a small couch, a small coffee table, and two small windows looking over the trolley tracks on Teatralny Proyezd. It was the room of one who hoped to make an impression when she could not easily afford to do so. On the coffee table were two glasses, a serving of caviar, and a bottle of vodka in a bucket of melting ice.

  As they looked over this little mise-en-scène, she shook her head.

  “That’ll cost me a pretty penny.”

  “Then we mustn’t let it go to waste.”

  The Count drew the bottle from the ice and poured them both a glass.

  “To old times,” he said.

  “To old times,” she conceded with a laugh. And they emptied their glasses.

  When one experiences a profound setback in the course of an enviable life, one has a variety of options. Spurred by shame, one may attempt to hide all evidence of the change in one’s circumstances. Thus, the merchant who gambles away his savings will hold on to his finer suits until they fray, and tell anecdotes from the halls of the private clubs where his membership has long since lapsed. In a state of self-pity, one may retreat from the world in which one has been blessed to live. Thus, the long-suffering husband, finally disgraced by his wife in society, may be the one who leaves his home in exchange for a small, dark apartment on the other side of town. Or, like the Count and Anna, one may simply join the Confederacy of the Humbled.

  Like the Freemasons, the Confederacy of the Humbled is a close-knit brotherhood whose members travel with no outward markings, but who know each other at a glance. For having fallen suddenly from grace, those in the Confederacy share a certain perspective. Knowing beauty, influence, fame, and privilege to be borrowed rather than bestowed, they are not easily impressed. They are not quick to envy or take offense. They certainly do not scour the papers in search of their own names. They remain committed to living among their peers, but they greet adulation with caution, ambition with sympathy, and condescension with an inward smile.

  As the actress poured some more vodka, the Count looked about the room.

  “How are the dogs?” he asked.

  “Better off than I am.”

  “To the dogs then,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “To the dogs.”

  And so it began.

  Over the next year and a half, Anna would visit the Metropol every few months. In advance, she would reach out to some director she’d known. Admitting with some relief that her days of appearing in films were behind her, she’d invite him to be her guest at the Boyarsky. Having learned her lesson in 1928, she no longer arrived at the restaurant first. By means of a small gratuity to the girl in the coatroom, she ensured that she would arrive two minutes after her guest. Over dinner, she would confess that she was one of the director’s greatest fans. She would recall favorite elements from several of his films and then dwell on a particular scene—one that was easily overlooked because it involved a secondary character and just a few lines of dialogue, but that had been rendered with such obvious nuance and care. And when Anna had walked her guest to the lobby, she would not suggest a nightcap in the Shalyapin; she certainly wouldn’t invite him for one in her room. She would say, instead, what a pleasure it had been to see him, and then bid him goodnight.

  Donning his coat, the director would pause. Watching the elevator doors close, he would acknowledge that Anna U
rbanova’s days of stardom were probably behind her—and yet, he would find himself wondering if she might not be perfect for that little role in the second act.

  And having let herself into her room on the fourth floor, Anna would change into a simple dress (after hanging her gown in the closet), make herself comfortable with a book, and wait for the Count to arrive.

  In the aftermath of one such dinner with an old director friend, Anna was cast for a single scene as a middle-aged worker in a factory that was struggling to meet its quota. With two weeks left in the quarter, the workers gather to compose a letter to the Party leadership that details the causes of their inevitable shortfall. But as they begin to enumerate the various obstacles they have faced, Anna—her hair drawn back in a kerchief—rises to give a short, impassioned speech in favor of pushing on.

  As the camera draws closer to this unnamed character, one can see that she is a woman who is no longer young or ravishing, but who remains proud and unbent. And her voice?

  Ah, her voice . . .

  From the very first words of her speech, the audience can tell that here was no idler. For her voice was that of a woman who has breathed the dust of unpaved roads; who has screamed during childbirth; who has called out to her sisters on the factory floor. In other words, it was the voice of my sister, my wife, my mother, my friend.

  Needless to say, it is her speech that prompts the women to redouble their efforts until they have exceeded their quota. But more important, when the film is premiered, there is a round-faced fellow with a receding hairline in the fifteenth row who’d once held Anna in awe; and while he’d only been the director of the Moscow Department of Cinematographic Arts when he had the pleasure of meeting her in the Shalyapin back in 1923, he was now a senior official in the Ministry of Culture and rumored to be the likely successor to its current chief. So moved was he by her speech in the factory that he would soon be asking every director within earshot whether they hadn’t seen her astounding performance; and whenever she was in Moscow, he would send an arrangement of lilies to her room. . . .

  Ah, you may say with a knowing smile. So that is how it happened. That is how she regained her footing. . . . But Anna Urbanova was a genuine artist trained on the stage. What is more, as a member of the Confederacy of the Humbled, she had become an actress who appeared on time, knew her lines, and never complained. And as official preference shifted toward movies with a sense of realism and a spirit of perseverance, there was often a role for a woman with seasoned beauty and a husky voice. In other words, there were many factors within and without Anna’s control that contributed to her resurgence.

  Perhaps you are still skeptical. Well then, what about you?

  No doubt there have been moments when your life has taken a bit of a leap forward; and no doubt you look back upon those moments with self-assurance and pride. But was there really no third party deserving of even a modicum of credit? Some mentor, family friend, or schoolmate who gave timely advice, made an introduction, or put in a complimentary word?

  So, let us not dissect the hows and whys. It is enough to know that Anna Urbanova was once again a star with a house on the Fontanka Canal and copper ovals nailed to her furniture; though now when she has guests, she greets them at the door.

  Suddenly, at 4:45 in the afternoon, wheeling before the Count was the five-starred constellation of Delphinus.

  If one drew a line with one’s finger through its two lowest stars and followed its trajectory across the heavens, one would reach Aquila, the Eagle; while if one drew a line through its uppermost stars, one would reach Pegasus, Bellerophon’s flying stallion; and if one drew a line in the opposite direction, one would reach what appeared to be a brand-new star—a sun that may have flared out a thousand years ago, but the light of which had just reached the Northern Hemisphere in order to provide guidance to weary travelers, sojourners, and adventurers for another millennia to come. . . .

  “What are you doing?”

  Anna rolled back toward the Count.

  “I think you have a new freckle,” he said.

  “What!”

  Anna tried to look over her own shoulder.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured. “It’s nice.”

  “Where is it?”

  “A few degrees east of Delphinus.”

  “Delphinus?”

  “You know. The constellation of the dolphin. You have it between your shoulder blades.”

  “How many freckles do I have?”

  “How many stars are in the sky . . . ?”

  “Good God.”

  Anna rolled flat on her back.

  The Count lit a cigarette and took a puff.

  “Don’t you know the story of Delphinus?” he asked, handing her the cigarette.

  “Why would I know the story of Delphinus?” she replied with a sigh.

  “As a fisherman’s daughter.”

  . . .

  “Why don’t you tell it to me.”

  “All right. There was a wealthy poet named Arion. A great player of the lyre and the inventor of the dithyramb.”

  “The dithyramb?”

  “An ancient type of verse. Anyway, one day he was returning from the island of Sicily when his crew decided to relieve him of his fortune. Specifically, they gave him the option of killing himself or being thrown into the sea. As Arion weighed these unattractive alternatives, he sang a sorrowful song; and so beautiful was his singing, that a pod of dolphins gathered around the ship; and when he finally leapt into the sea, one of the dolphins carried him safely to shore. As a reward, Apollo placed this charitable creature among the stars to shine for all eternity.”

  “That’s lovely.”

  The Count nodded, retrieving the cigarette from Anna and rolling on his back.

  “It’s your turn,” he said.

  “My turn for what?”

  “To tell a tale of the sea.”

  “I don’t know any tales of the sea.”

  “Oh, come now. Your father must have told you one or two. There isn’t a fisherman in Christendom who doesn’t tell tales of the sea.”

  . . .

  “Sasha, I have a bit of a confession. . . .”

  “A confession?”

  “I wasn’t raised on the Black Sea.”

  “But what about your father? And meeting him at dusk by the shore to mend his nets?”

  “My father was a peasant from Poltava.”

  . . .

  “But why would you fabricate such a ridiculous story?”

  “I think I thought it would appeal to you.”

  “You think you thought?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Count reflected for a moment.

  “What about the deboning of the fish!”

  “I worked in a tavern in Odessa after I ran away from home.”

  The Count shook his head.

  “How dispiriting.”

  Anna rolled on her side to face the Count.

  “You told me that preposterous story about the apples of Nizhny Novgorod.”

  “But that story’s true!”

  “Oh, come on. Apples as big as cannonballs? In every color of the rainbow?”

  The Count was silent for a moment. Then he tamped out the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table.

  “I should be going,” he said, and began climbing out of bed.

  “All right,” she said, pulling him back. “I remember one.”

  “One what?”

  “A sea story.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “No. I’m serious. It’s a story my grandmother used to tell me.”

  “A sea story.”

  “With a young adventurer, and a deserted island, and a fortune in gold . . .”

  Begrudgingly, the Count lay back on the pillows and gestured for her
to begin.

  Once upon a time, Anna related, there was a rich merchant with a fleet of ships and three sons, the youngest of whom was rather small in stature. One spring, the merchant gave his older sons ships laden down with furs, carpets, and fine linens, instructing one to sail east and one to sail west in search of new kingdoms with which to trade. When the youngest son asked where his boat was, the merchant and the older boys laughed. In the end, the merchant gave his youngest son a rickety sloop with raggedy sails, a toothless crew, and empty sacks for ballast. When the young man asked his father in which direction he should sail, the merchant replied that he should sail until the sun never set in December.

  So the son sailed southward with his scurvy crew. After three times three months on the open seas, they reached a land where the sun never set in December. There, they landed on an island that appeared to have a mountain of snow, but which turned out to have a mountain of salt. Salt was so plentiful in his homeland that housewives cast it over their shoulders for good luck without a second thought. Nonetheless, the young man instructed his crew to fill the sacks in the hull with the salt, if for no other reason than to add to the ship’s ballast.

  Sailing truer and faster than before, they soon came upon a great kingdom. The king received the merchant’s son in his court and asked what he had to trade. The young man replied that he had a hull full of salt. Remarking that he had never heard of it, the king wished him well and sent him on his way. Undaunted, the young man paid a visit to the king’s kitchens, where he discreetly sprinkled salt onto the mutton, into the soup, over the tomatoes, and into custard.

  That night, the king was amazed at the flavor of his food. The mutton was better, the soup was better, the tomatoes were better, even the custard was better. Calling his chefs before him, he excitedly asked what new technique they were using. Befuddled, the chefs admitted they had done nothing different; although they had been visited in the kitchen by the young stranger from the sea. . . .