A Gentleman in Moscow

  And the tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of BREAD.” But he answered, “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by BREAD alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’”

  Matthew

  4:3–4

  And then to the third . . .

  And he took BREAD, and when he had given thanks he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

  Luke

  22:19

  As the Count continued turning slowly through the pages, he found himself laughing. For here was Mishka’s project in a nutshell: a compendium of quotations from seminal texts arranged in chronological order, but in each of which the word bread had been capitalized and printed in bold. Beginning with the Bible, the citations proceeded right through the works of the Greeks and Romans onto the likes of Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe. But particular tribute was paid to the golden age of Russian literature:

  For the sake of propriety, Ivan Yakovlevich put his tailcoat on over his undershirt and, settling at the table, poured out some salt, prepared two onions, took a knife in his hands, and, assuming a significant air, began cutting the BREAD. Having cut the loaf in two, he looked into the middle and, to his surprise, saw something white. Ivan Yakovlevich poked cautiously with his knife and felt with his finger. “Firm!” he said to himself. “What could it be?”

  He stuck in his fingers and pulled out—a nose!

  “The Nose”

  Nikolai Gogol

  (1836)

  When a man isn’t meant to live upon the earth, the sunshine doesn’t warm him as it does others, and BREAD doesn’t nourish him and make him strong.

  A Sportsman’s Sketches

  Ivan Turgenev

  (1852)

  The past and the present merged together. He was dreaming he had reached the promised land flowing with milk and honey, where people ate BREAD they had not earned and went clothed in gold and silver. . . .

  Oblomov

  Ivan Goncharov

  (1859)

  “It’s all nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there was nothing to be troubled about! Just some physical disorder. One glass of beer, a piece of dry BREAD, and see—in an instant the mind gets stronger, the thoughts clearer, the intentions firmer!”

  Crime and Punishment

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (1866)

  I, the vile Lebedev, do not believe in the carts that deliver BREAD to mankind! For carts that deliver BREAD to all mankind, without any moral foundations for their action, may quite cold-bloodedly exclude a considerable part of mankind from enjoying what they deliver.

  The Idiot

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (1869)

  And do you know, do you know that mankind can live without the Englishman, it can live without Germany, it can live only too well without the Russian man, it can live without science, without BREAD, and it only cannot live without beauty. . . .

  Demons

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (1872)

  All this happened at the same time: a boy ran up to a pigeon and, smiling, looked at Levin; the pigeon flapped its wings and fluttered off, sparkling in the sun amidst the air trembling with snowdust, while the smell of baked BREAD wafted from the window as the rolls appeared in it. All this together was so extraordinarily good that Levin laughed and wept from joy.

  Anna Karenina

  Leo Tolstoy

  (1877)

  Do you see these stones in this bare, scorching desert? Turn them into BREAD and mankind will run after you like sheep, grateful and obedient. . . . But you did not want to deprive man of freedom and rejected the offer, for what sort of freedom is it, you reasoned, if obedience is bought with loaves of BREAD?

  From “The Grand Inquisitor”

  The Brothers Karamazov

  Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (1880)

  As the Count turned the pages, he smiled in recognition of the characteristic feistiness that Mishka’s project expressed. But following the quote from “The Grand Inquisitor,” there was a second citation from The Brothers Karamazov from a scene the Count had all but forgotten. It related to the little boy, Ilyushechka—the one who was hounded by his schoolmates until falling dangerously ill. When the boy finally dies, his heartstricken father tells the saintly Alyosha Karamazov that his son had made one final request:

  Papa, when they put the dirt on my grave, crumble a crust of BREAD on it so the sparrows will come, and I’ll hear that they’ve come and be glad that I’m not lying alone.

  Upon reading this, Alexander Rostov finally broke down and wept. Certainly, he wept for his friend, that generous yet temperamental soul who only briefly found his moment in time—and who, like this forlorn child, was disinclined to condemn the world for all its injustices.

  But, of course, the Count also wept for himself. For despite his friendships with Marina and Andrey and Emile, despite his love for Anna, despite Sofia—that extraordinary blessing that had struck him from the blue—when Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich died, there went the last of those who had known him as a younger man. Though, as Katerina had so rightfully observed, at least he remained to remember.

  Taking a deep breath, the Count attempted to restore his composure, determined to read through the final pages of his old friend’s final discourse. The progression of citations, which had spanned over two thousand years, did not continue much further. For rather than extending into the present, the survey ended in June 1904, with the sentences that Mishka had cut from Chekhov’s letter all those years ago:

  Here in Berlin, we’ve taken a comfortable room in the best hotel. I am very much enjoying the life here and haven’t eaten so well and with such an appetite in a long time. The BREAD here is amazing, I’ve been stuffing myself with it, the coffee is excellent, and the dinners are beyond words. People who have never been abroad don’t know how good BREAD can be. . . .

  Given the hardships of the 1930s, the Count supposed he could understand why Shalamov (or his superiors) had insisted upon this little bit of censorship—having presumed that Chekhov’s observation could only lead to feelings of discontent or ill will. But the irony, of course, was that Chekhov’s observation was no longer even accurate. For surely, by now, the Russian people knew better than anyone in Europe how good a piece of bread could be.

  When the Count closed Mishka’s book, he did not head straight downstairs to join the others. Instead, he remained in his study, lost in thought.

  Given the circumstances, an observer might understandably have drawn the conclusion that as the Count sat there he was dwelling on memories of his old friend. But, in fact, he was no longer thinking about Mishka. He was thinking about Katerina. In particular, he was thinking—with a sense of foreboding—that in the course of twenty years this firefly, this pinwheel, this wonder of the world had become a woman who, when asked where she was going, could answer without the slightest hesitation: Does it matter?

  BOOK FIVE

  1954

  Applause and Acclaim

  Paris . . . ?”

  Or so asked Andrey in the manner of one who cannot quite believe what he has heard.

  “Yes,” said Emile.

  “Paris . . . France?”

  Emile furrowed his brow. “Are you drunk? Have you been knocked on the head?”

  “But how?” asked the maître d’.

  Emile sat back in his chair and nodded. For here was a question that was worthy of a man of intelligence.

  It is a well-known fact that of all the species on earth Homo sapiens is among the most adaptable. Settle a tribe of them in a desert and they will wrap themselves in cotton, sleep in tents, and travel on the backs of camels; settle them in the Arctic and they will wrap themselves in sealskin, sleep in igloos, and travel by dog-drawn sled. And if y
ou settle them in a Soviet climate? They will learn to make friendly conversation with strangers while waiting in line; they will learn to neatly stack their clothing in their half of the bureau drawer; and they will learn to draw imaginary buildings in their sketchbooks. That is, they will adapt. But certainly one aspect of adaptation for those Russians who had seen Paris before the Revolution was the acceptance that they would never, ever see Paris again. . . .

  “Here he is now,” said Emile as the Count came through the door. “Ask him yourself.”

  Having taken his seat, the Count confirmed that six months hence, on the twenty-first of June, Sofia would be in Paris, France. And when asked how this could possibly have come about, with a shrug the Count responded: “VOKS.” That is, the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries.

  It was now Emile’s turn to express disbelief: “Do we have cultural relations with foreign countries?”

  “Apparently, we are now sending our artists all around the world. In April we are sending the ballet to New York; in May we are sending a dramatic ensemble to London; and in June we are sending the orchestra of the Moscow Conservatory to Minsk, Prague, and Paris—where Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier.”

  “It’s incredible,” said Andrey.

  “Fantastical,” said Emile.

  “I know.”

  The three men laughed, until Emile pointed his chopper at his colleagues:

  “But well deserved.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  The three were quiet, each lost for a moment in their respective memories of the City of Light.

  “Do you think it has changed?” wondered Andrey.

  “Yes,” said Emile. “As much as the pyramids.”

  And here, the three members of the Triumvirate might have waded into the rose-colored past, but for the fact that the door to Emile’s office swung open and in walked the newest member of the Boyarsky’s daily meeting: the Bishop.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. There was business at the front desk that demanded my immediate attention. In the future, please don’t feel the need to congregate until I have arrived.”

  Emile grunted, semiaudibly.

  Ignoring the chef, the Bishop turned to the Count.

  “Headwaiter Rostov, isn’t this your day of rest? You shouldn’t feel the need to be in attendance at the daily meeting when you are not scheduled to work.”

  “Well informed is well prepared,” said the Count.

  “Of course.”

  Some years before, the Bishop had helpfully explained to the Count that while the Metropol’s employees each had their narrow little tasks, the manager alone had to ensure a standard of excellence for the entire hotel. And to be fair, the Bishop’s personality made him perfectly suited to the task. For whether in the guest rooms, the lobby, or the linen closet on the second floor, no detail was too small, no flaw too immaterial, no moment too inopportune to receive the benefit of the Bishop’s precious, persnickety, and mildly dismissive interference. And that was certainly the case within the walls of the Boyarsky.

  The daily meeting commenced with a detailed description of the evening’s special offerings. Naturally, the Bishop had dispensed with the tradition of tasting the specials, on the grounds that the chef knew perfectly well what his food tasted like, and to prepare samples for the staff was both indiscriminate and wasteful. Instead, Emile was instructed to write out a description of the specials by hand.

  With another grunt, the chef slid his menu across the table. After inscribing a series of circles, arrows, and x’s, the Bishop’s pencil paused.

  “I should think that beets would accompany the pork quite as well as apples,” he reflected. “And if I am not mistaken, Chef Zhukovsky, you still have a bushel of beets in the pantry.”

  As the Bishop inserted this improvement into Emile’s menu, the chef cast a furious glance across the table at the man he now referred to as Count Blabbermouth.

  Handing the corrected menu back to the chef, the Bishop now turned his attention to the maître d’, who slid the Book across the table. Despite the fact that it was one of the last days of 1953, the Bishop opened the Book to the first page and turned through the weeks of the year one by one. Finally arriving at the present, he scrutinized the evening’s reservations with the tip of his pencil. Then he provided seating instructions to Andrey and slid the Book back. As a final piece of business, the Bishop alerted the maître d’ to the fact that the flowers in the dining room’s centerpiece had begun to wilt.

  “I noted that as well,” said Andrey. “But I am afraid our flower shop has not been carrying the inventory necessary to ensure a frequent refreshing of the arrangement.”

  “If you cannot secure flowers of sufficient freshness from Florist Eisenberg, then perhaps it is time to switch to a silk arrangement. That would obviate the necessity for refreshing the arrangement and should have the added benefit of proving more economical.”

  “I shall speak with Florist Eisenberg today,” said Andrey.

  “Of course.”

  Once the Bishop had concluded the meeting and Emile had gone off grumbling in search of his bushel of beets, the Count accompanied Andrey to the main staircase.

  “À tout à l’heure,” said the maître d’, as he headed down to the flower shop.

  “À bientôt,” said the Count as he headed up to his rooms.

  But as soon as Andrey had disappeared from sight, the Count was back on the second-floor landing. Spying around the corner to confirm that his friend was gone, the Count hurried to the Boyarsky. Having locked the door behind him, he peeked into the kitchen to confirm that Emile and his staff were otherwise engaged. Only then did he approach the maître d’s podium, open the drawer, cross himself twice, and pull out the 1954 edition of the Book.

  Within minutes he had reviewed all the reservations in January and February. He paused at one event scheduled for the Yellow Room in March and at another scheduled for the Red Room in April, but neither would do. As he moved further into the future, the pages of the Book became increasingly bare. Whole weeks passed without a single entry. The Count began flipping the pages with a quicker pace, and even a hint of desperation—that is, until he landed on the eleventh of June. Having studied the marginal notes written in Andrey’s delicate script, the Count tapped the entry twice. A combined dinner of the Presidium and the Council of Ministers—two of the most powerful bodies in the Soviet Union.

  Returning the Book to its drawer, the Count climbed the stairs to his bedroom, pushed his chair aside, sat on the floor, and for the first time in almost thirty years opened one of the hidden doors in the legs of the Grand Duke’s desk. For while the Count may have resolved to take action on the night of Katerina’s visit six months before, it was only with news of the Conservatory’s goodwill tour that the clock had begun to tick.

  When the Count arrived at the Shalyapin at six o’clock that night, the denizens of the bar were celebrating the misadventures of “Pudgy” Webster, a gregarious if somewhat hapless American who had recently arrived in the capital. Twenty-nine years old and still suffering from that affliction for which he had been nicknamed as a boy, Pudgy had been sent to Russia by his father—the owner of the American Vending Machine Company of Montclair, New Jersey—with strict instructions that he not come home until he had sold a thousand machines. After three weeks, he had finally secured his first meeting with a Party official (the assistant to the manager of the skating rink in Gorky Park), and had thus been convinced by several journalists to sponsor a round of champagne.

  Taking a stool at the other end of the bar, the Count accepted a flute from Audrius with a grateful nod and the smile of one who has his own cause for celebration. The designs of men are notoriously subservient to happenstance, hesitation, and haste; but had the Cou
nt been given the power to engineer an optimal course of events, he could not have done a better job than Fate was doing on its own. So with a smile on his lips, he raised his glass.

  But to toast Fate is to tempt Fate; and sure enough, even as the Count set his flute down on the bar, a gust of frozen air brushed against the nape of his neck, followed by an urgent whisper.

  “Your Excellency!”

  Turning on his stool, the Count was surprised to find Viktor Stepanovich standing behind him with frost on his shoulders and snow on his cap. A few months before, Viktor had joined a chamber orchestra and thus was rarely at the hotel in the evening. What’s more, he was panting as if he had just sprinted across the city.

  “Viktor!” exclaimed the Count. “What is it? You look in a state.”

  Viktor ignored the remark and began to speak with uncharacteristic impatience.

  “I know that you are protective of your daughter, Your Excellency, and rightfully so. Such is the prerogative of any parent, and the duty of one who is raising a tender heart. But with all due respect, I think you are making a terrible mistake. She will be graduating in six months, and her chances of receiving a worthy position will only be hampered by your decision.”

  “Viktor,” said the Count, rising from his stool. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Viktor studied the Count.

  “You did not instruct Sofia to withdraw her name?”

  “Withdraw her name from what?”

  “I just received a call from Director Vavilov. He informed me that she has declined the invitation to travel with the Conservatory’s orchestra.”

  “Declined the invitation! I assure you, my friend, that I had no idea. In fact, I agree with you hares, hounds, and horses that the brightness of her future depends upon her performing on that tour.”

  The two men looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  “She must have acted of her own accord,” said the Count after a moment.

  “But to what end?”

  He shook his head.