A Gentleman in Moscow

  For thousands of years, the peppered moths of Manchester had white wings with black flecking. This coloring provided the species with perfect camouflage whenever they landed on the light gray bark of the region’s trees. In any generation there might be a few aberrations—such as moths with pitch-black wings—but they were snapped off the trees by the birds before they had a chance to mate.

  But when Manchester became crowded with factories in the early 1800s, the soot from the smokestacks began to settle on every conceivable surface, including the bark of the trees; and the lightly speckled wings that had served to protect the majority of peppered moths suddenly exposed them remorselessly to their predators—even as the darker wings of the aberrations rendered them invisible. Thus, the pitch-black varieties that had represented less than 10 percent of the Manchester moth population in 1800, represented over 90 percent by the end of the century. Or so explained the Count’s father, with the pragmatic satisfaction of the scientifically minded.

  But the lesson did not sit well with the young Count. If this could happen so easily to moths, he thought, then what was to stop it from happening to children? What would happen to him and his sister, for instance, should they be exposed to excess chimney smoke or sudden extremes of weather? Couldn’t they become victims of accelerated evolution? In fact, so disconcerted by this notion became the Count that when Idlehour was deluged by rainstorms that September, giant black moths harrowed his dreams.

  Some years later, the Count would come to understand that he had been looking at the matter upside down. The pace of evolution was not something to be frightened by. For while nature doesn’t have a stake in whether the wings of a peppered moth are black or white, it genuinely hopes that the peppered moth will persist. And that is why nature designed the forces of evolution to play out over generations rather than eons—to ensure that moths and men have a chance to adapt.

  Like Viktor Stepanovich, the Count reflected. A husband and father of two, he must make ends meet. So he waves his baton in the Piazza, ostensibly putting the classical repertoire behind him. Then one afternoon, when he happens to stumble upon a young pianist with promise, in what little time he has to spare, he teaches her the nocturnes of Chopin on a borrowed piano. Just so, Mishka has his “project”; and this young architect, unable to build buildings, takes pride and pleasure from the careful drafting of hotel interiors in his sketchbook.

  For a moment, the Count considered going over to the young man, but he seemed to be applying his skills with such satisfaction that it would be a crime to interrupt him. So, instead, the Count emptied his glass, tapped the bar twice, and headed upstairs for bed.

  Of course, the Count was perfectly right. For when life makes it impossible for a man to pursue his dreams, he will connive to pursue them anyway. Thus, even as the Count was brushing his teeth, Viktor Stepanovich was setting aside an arrangement that he had been working on for his orchestra in order to sort through the Goldberg Variations—in search of one that might be just right for Sofia. While in the village of Yavas, in a rented room not much larger than the Count’s, by the light of a candle, Mikhail Mindich was sitting hunched over a table, sewing another signature of sixteen pages. And down in the Shalyapin? The young architect continued to take pride and pleasure in his work. But contrary to the Count’s supposition, he was not adding a rendering of the bar to his collection of hotel interiors. In fact, he was working in a different sketchbook altogether.

  On the first of this book’s many pages was the design for a skyscraper two hundred stories tall—with a diving board on the roof from which the tenants could parachute to a grassy park below. On another page was a cathedral to atheism with fifty different cupolas, several of which could be launched like rockets to the moon. And on another was a giant museum of architecture showcasing life-size replicas of all the grand old buildings that had been razed in the city of Moscow to make way for the new.

  But at this particular moment, what the architect was working on was a detailed drawing of a crowded restaurant that looked very much like the Piazza. Only, under the floor of this restaurant was an elaborate mechanics of axles, cogs, and gears; and jutting from an outside wall was a giant crank, at the turn of which, each of the restaurant’s chairs would pirouette like a ballerina on a music box, then spin around the space until they came to a stop at an entirely different table. And towering over this tableau, peering down through the glass ceiling, was a gentleman of sixty with his hand on the crank, preparing to set the diners in motion.

  1952

  America

  On a Wednesday evening in late June, the Count and Sofia walked arm in arm into the Boyarsky, where it was their custom to dine on the Count’s night off.

  “Good evening, Andrey.”

  “Bonsoir, mon ami. Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Your table awaits.”

  As Andrey ushered them into the dining room with a gesture of his hand, the Count could see it was another busy night. On the way to table ten, they passed the wives of two commissars seated at table four. Dining alone at table six was an eminent professor of literature—who they say had single-handedly wrestled the works of Dostoevsky to the ground. And at table seven was none other than the beguiling Anna Urbanova in the company of the beguiled.

  Having successfully returned to the silver screen in the 1930s, in 1948 Anna had been lured back to the stage by the director of the Maly Theatre. This was a stroke of good fortune for the fifty-year-old actress, for while the silver screen showed a distinct preference for young beauties, the theater seemed to understand the virtues of age. After all, Medea, Lady Macbeth, Irina Arkadina—these were not roles for the blue-eyed and blushing. They were roles for women who had known the bitterness of joy and the sweetness of despair. But Anna’s return to the stage also proved fortunate for the Count because instead of visiting the Metropol a few days a year, she was now in residence for months at a time, which allowed our seasoned astronomer to chart the newest of her constellations with the utmost care. . . .

  Once the Count and Sofia had been seated, the two carefully studied their menus (working backward from entrées to appetizers as was their custom), placed their orders with Martyn (who, at the Count’s recommendation, had been promoted to the Boyarsky in 1942), and then finally turned their attention to the business at hand.

  Surely, the span of time between the placing of an order and the arrival of appetizers is one of the most perilous in all human interaction. What young lovers have not found themselves at this juncture in a silence so sudden, so seemingly insurmountable that it threatens to cast doubt upon their chemistry as a couple? What husband and wife have not found themselves suddenly unnerved by the fear that they might not ever have something urgent, impassioned, or surprising to say to each other again? So it is with good reason that most of us meet this dangerous interstice with a sense of foreboding.

  But the Count and Sofia? They looked forward to it all day long—because it was the moment allotted for Zut.

  A game of their own invention, Zut’s rules were simple. Player One proposes a category encompassing a specialized subset of phenomena—such as stringed instruments, or famous islands, or winged creatures other than birds. The two players then go back and forth until one of them fails to come up with a fitting example in a suitable interval of time (say, two and a half minutes). Victory goes to the first player who wins two out of three rounds. And why was the game called Zut? Because according to the Count, Zut alors! was the only appropriate exclamation in the face of defeat.

  Thus, having searched throughout their day for challenging categories and carefully considered the viable responses, when Martyn reclaimed the menus father and daughter faced each other at the ready.

  Having lost the previous match, the Count had the right to propose the first category and did so with confidence: “Famous foursomes.”

  “Well chosen,” said Sofia.

  “Thank you.”

  T
hey both took a drink of water, then the Count began.

  “The four seasons.”

  “The four elements.”

  “North, South, East, and West.”

  “Diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades.”

  “Bass, tenor, alto, and soprano.”

  Sofia reflected.

  . . .

  “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—the Four Evangelists.”

  “Boreas, Zephyrus, Notos, and Euros—the Four Winds.”

  . . .

  . . .

  With an inward smile, the Count began counting the seconds; but he counted prematurely.

  “Yellow bile, black bile, blood, and phlegm—the Four Humors,” said Sofia.

  “Très bien!”

  “Merci.”

  Sofia took a sip of water in order to obscure the hint of gloating on her lips. But now it was she who was celebrating prematurely.

  “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  “Ah,” said Sofia with the sigh of one receiving the coup de grâce, just as Martyn arrived with the Château d’Yquem. Having presented the bottle, the waiter pulled the cork, poured a taste, and served the table.

  “Round two?” asked Sofia when Martyn had departed.

  “With pleasure.”

  “Animals that are black and white—such as the zebra.”

  “Excellent,” said the Count.

  For a moment, he rearranged his silverware. He took a sip of wine and slowly returned his glass to the table.

  “Penguin,” he said.

  “Puffin.”

  “Skunk.”

  “Panda.”

  The Count reflected; then smiled.

  “Killer whale.”

  “The peppered moth,” countered Sofia.

  The Count sat up in indignation.

  “But that’s my animal!”

  “It is not your animal; but it is your turn. . . .”

  The Count frowned.

  . . .

  “Dalmatian!” he exclaimed.

  Now it was Sofia who arranged her silver and sipped her wine.

  . . .

  . . .

  “Time is passing . . . ,” said the Count.

  . . .

  . . .

  “Me,” said Sofia.

  “What!”

  With a tilt of her head she held out the white stripe from her long black hair.

  “But you’re not an animal.”

  Sofia smiled sympathetically then said: “You’re up.”

  . . .

  . . .

  Is there a black-and-white fish? the Count asked himself. A black-and-white spider? A black-and-white snake?

  . . .

  . . .

  “Tick, tock, tick, tock,” said Sofia.

  “Yes, yes. Wait a moment.”

  . . .

  . . .

  I know there is another black-and-white animal, thought the Count. It is something reasonably common. I’ve seen it myself. It’s on the very tip of my—

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Alexander Rostov?”

  The Count and Sofia both looked up in surprise. Standing before them was the eminent professor from table six.

  “Yes,” said the Count, rising from the table. “I am Alexander Rostov. This is my daughter, Sofia.”

  “I am Professor Matej Sirovich from Leningrad State University.”

  “Of course you are,” said the Count.

  The professor gave a quick bow of the head in gratitude.

  “Like so many others,” he continued, “I am an admirer of your verse. Perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for a glass of cognac after your meal?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I am in suite 317.”

  “I will be there within the hour.”

  “Please, don’t rush.”

  The professor smiled and gently backed away from the table.

  Resuming his seat, the Count casually placed his napkin in his lap. “Matej Sirovich,” he informed Sofia, “is one of our most revered professors of literature; and apparently, he would like to discuss poetry with me over a glass of cognac. What do you think of that?”

  “I think your time is up.”

  The Count lowered his eyebrows.

  “Yes. Well. I had an answer sitting right on the tip of my tongue. I should have expressed it in another moment, if we hadn’t been interrupted. . . .”

  Sofia nodded, in the friendly manner of one who has no intention of considering the merits of an appeal.

  “All right,” conceded the Count. “One round apiece.”

  The Count took a kopek from the ticket pocket of his vest and laid it on his thumbnail so that they could determine by toss who would get to choose the tie-breaking category. But before he could flip the coin, Martyn appeared with their first course: Emile’s interpretation of the Olivier salad for Sofia and goose-liver pâté for the Count.

  Since they never played while they ate, the two turned their attention to an enjoyable discussion of the day’s events. It was while the Count was spreading the last of his pâté on a corner of toast that Sofia observed, rather casually, that Anna Urbanova was in the restaurant.

  “What’s that?” asked the Count.

  “Anna Urbanova, the actress. She’s seated over there at table seven.”

  “Is she?”

  The Count raised his head to look across the dining room with the curiosity of the idle; then returned to his spreading.

  “Why don’t you ever invite her to join us for dinner?”

  The Count looked up with an expression of mild shock.

  “Invite her to dinner! Shall I invite Charlie Chaplin as well?” The Count gave a laugh and a shake of the head: “It is customary to be acquainted with someone before you invite them to dinner, my dear.” Then he finished off the pâté, just as he had finished off the conversation.

  “I think you’re worried that I would be scandalized in some way,” continued Sofia. “But Marina thinks it’s because—”

  “Marina!” exclaimed the Count. “Marina has an opinion on why I would or wouldn’t invite this . . . this Anna Urbanova to dine with us?”

  “Naturally, Papa.”

  The Count leaned back in his chair.

  “I see. So what is this opinion that Marina so naturally has?”

  “She thinks it’s because you like to keep your buttons in their boxes.”

  “My buttons in their boxes!”

  “You know: your blue buttons in one box, your black buttons in another, your red buttons in a third. You have your relationships here, your relationships there, and you like to keep them distinct.”

  “Is that so. I had no idea that I was known to treat people like buttons.”

  “Not all people, Papa. Just your friends.”

  “What a relief.”

  “May I?”

  It was Martyn, gesturing at the empty plates.

  “Thank you,” snapped the Count.

  Sensing that he had interrupted a heated exchange, Martyn quickly cleared the first course, returned with two servings of veal Pojarski, topped up the wine glasses, and disappeared without a word. The Count and Sofia both breathed in the woody fragrance of the mushrooms then began to eat in silence.

  “Emile has outdone himself,” the Count said after a few bites.

  “He has,” Sofia agreed.

  The Count took a generous swallow of the Château d’Yquem, which was a 1921 and perfectly suited to the veal.

  “Anna thinks it’s because you’re set in your ways.”

  The Count commenced to cough into his napkin, as he had determined long ago that this was the most effective means of removing wine from his windpipe.
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  “Are you all right?” asked Sofia.

  The Count put his napkin in his lap and waved a hand in the general direction of table seven.

  “And how, may I ask, do you know what this Anna Urbanova thinks?”

  “Because she told me so.”

  “So the two of you are acquainted.”

  “But, of course we are. We have known each other for years.”

  “Well, that’s just perfect,” said the Count in a huff. “Why don’t you invite her to dinner. In fact, if I am such a button in a box, perhaps you, Marina, and Miss Urbanova should all have dinner on your own.”

  “Why, that’s exactly what Andrey suggested!”

  “How is everything tonight?”

  “Speak of the devil!” shouted the Count as he dumped his napkin on his plate.

  Taken aback, Andrey looked from the Count to Sofia with concern.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “The food at the Boyarsky is superior,” replied the Count, “and the service is excellent. But the gossip? It is truly unsurpassed.”

  The Count stood.

  “I think you have some piano practice to see to, young lady,” he said to Sofia. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I am expected upstairs.”

  As the Count marched down the hallway, he could not help but observe to himself that there was a time, not long before, when a gentleman could expect a measure of privacy in his personal affairs. With reasonable confidence, he could place his correspondence in a desk drawer and leave his diary on a bedside table.

  Although, on the other hand, since the beginning of time men in pursuit of wisdom had routinely retreated to mountaintops, caves, and cabins in the woods. So, perhaps that is where one must eventually head, if one has any hopes of achieving enlightenment without the interference of meddlers. Case in point: As the Count headed for the stairwell, who did he happen to bump into waiting for an elevator? None other than that renowned expert on human behavior, Anna Urbanova.

  “Good evening, Your Excellency . . .” she said to the Count with a suggestive smile. But then her eyebrows rose in inquiry when she noted the expression on his face. “Is everything all right?”