“What a brute.”
“Yes,” agreed the Count, “and a glimpse of things to come. But, in a way, I have that fellow to thank for my life with you.”
“How do you mean?”
The Count explained how a few days after the incident in the barbershop, her mother had popped up at his table in the Piazza to ask, in essence, the very same question that Sofia had just asked: Where did they go? And with that simple inquiry, their friendship had commenced.
Now it was Sofia who took a drink from her wine.
“Do you ever regret coming back to Russia?” she asked after a moment. “I mean after the Revolution.”
The Count studied his daughter. If when Sofia had stepped out of Anna’s room in her blue dress, the Count had felt she was crossing the threshold into adulthood, then here was a perfect confirmation. For in both tone and intent, when Sofia posed this question she did not do so as a child asks a parent, but as one adult asks another about the choices he has made. So the Count gave the question its due consideration. Then he told her the truth:
“Looking back, it seems to me that there are people who play an essential role at every turn. And I don’t just mean the Napoleons who influence the course of history; I mean men and women who routinely appear at critical junctures in the progress of art, or commerce, or the evolution of ideas—as if Life itself has summoned them once again to help fulfill its purpose. Well, since the day I was born, Sofia, there was only one time when Life needed me to be in a particular place at a particular time, and that was when your mother brought you to the lobby of the Metropol. And I would not accept the Tsarship of all the Russias in exchange for being in this hotel at that hour.”
Sofia rose from the table to give her father a kiss on the cheek. Then returning to her chair, she leaned back, squinted, and said: “Famous threesomes.”
“Ha-ha!” exclaimed the Count.
Thus, as the candles were consumed by their flames and the bottle of Margaux was drunk to its lees, reference was made to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; Purgatory, Heaven, and Hell; the three rings of Moscow; the three Magi; the three Fates; the Three Musketeers; the gray ladies from Macbeth; the riddle of the Sphinx; the heads of Cerberus; the Pythagorean theorem; forks, spoons, and knives; reading, writing, and arithmetic; faith, hope, and love (with the greatest of these being love).
“Past, present, future.”
“Beginning, middle, end.”
“Morning, noon, and night.”
“The sun, the moon, the stars.”
And with this particular category, perhaps the game could have gone on all night long, but for the fact that the Count tipped over his own king with a bow of the head when Sofia said:
“Andrey, Emile, and Alexander.”
At ten o’clock, when the Count and Sofia snuffed the candles and returned to their bedroom, there was a delicate knock at the door. The two looked at each other with the wistful smiles of those who know the hour has come.
“Enter,” said the Count.
It was Marina, in her hat and coat.
“I’m sorry if I’m late.”
“No, no. You’re right on time.”
As Sofia took a jacket from the closet, the Count picked up her suitcase and knapsack from the bed. Then the three of them headed down the belfry to the fifth floor, where they exited, crossed the hallway, and continued their descent on the main staircase.
Earlier that day, Sofia had already said her good-byes to Arkady and Vasily; nonetheless, they came out from behind their desks to see her off, and they were joined a moment later by Andrey in his tuxedo and Emile in his apron. Even Audrius appeared from behind the bar of the Shalyapin, leaving his customers unattended for a change. This little assembly gathered around Sofia in a circle of well-wishing, while feeling that touch of envy which is perfectly acceptable among family and friends, from one generation to the next.
“You’ll be the belle of Paris,” one of them said.
“We can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“Someone get her suitcase for her.”
“Yes, her train is leaving within the hour!”
When Marina went outside to call for a taxi, as if by prior agreement Arkady, Vasily, Audrius, Andrey, and Emile all fell a few paces back—so that the Count and Sofia could have a few final words alone. Then father and daughter embraced, and Sofia, despite being uncertain of acclaim, passed through the endlessly spinning doors of the Metropol Hotel.
Returning to the sixth floor, the Count spent a moment looking around his bedroom from corner to corner, finding that it already seemed unnaturally quiet.
So this is an empty nest, he thought. What a sad state of affairs.
Pouring himself a glass of brandy and taking a good swallow, he sat down at the Grand Duke’s desk and wrote five letters on the hotel’s stationery. When he was done, the Count put the letters in the drawer, he brushed his teeth, he donned his pajamas, and then, despite the fact that Sofia was gone, he slept on the mattress under the bedsprings.
An Association
With the coming of the Second World War, many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the freedom of the Americas. Lisbon became the great embarkation point. But not everybody could get to Lisbon directly, and so, a tortuous, roundabout refugee trail sprang up. Paris to Marseilles, across the Mediterranean to Oran, then by train, or auto, or foot, across the rim of Africa to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones, through money, or influence, or luck, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon, and from Lisbon to the New World. But the others wait in Casablanca—and wait—and wait—and wait. . . .
I’ve got to hand it to you, Alexander,” whispered Osip. “This was an excellent choice. I’d quite forgotten how exciting it is.”
“Shhh,” said the Count. “It’s beginning. . . .”
Having initiated their studies in 1930 with monthly meetings, over the years the Count and Osip had met with less frequency. In the way of these things, the two men began meeting quarterly, then semiannually, then suddenly they weren’t meeting at all.
Why? you might ask.
But does there need to be a reason? Do you still dine with all of the friends with whom you dined twenty years ago? Suffice it to say that the two shared a fondness for each other and despite their best intentions, life intervened. So, when Osip happened to visit the Boyarsky with a colleague one night in early June, as he was leaving the restaurant he approached the Count in order to remark that it had been too long.
“Yes, it has,” agreed the Count. “We should get together for a film.”
“The sooner the better,” said Osip with a smile.
And the two men might have left it at that, but as Osip turned to join his colleague at the door, the Count was struck by a notion.
“What is an intention when compared to a plan?” he said, catching Osip by the sleeve. “If the sooner the better, then why not next week?”
Turning back, Osip considered the Count for a moment.
“You know, you’re absolutely right, Alexander. How about the nineteenth?”
“The nineteenth would be perfect.”
“What shall we watch?”
Without hesitation the Count said, “Casablanca.”
“Casablanca . . . ,” Osip groaned.
“Isn’t Humphrey Bogart your favorite?”
“Of course he is. But Casablanca isn’t a Humphrey Bogart movie. It’s just a love story in which he happens to appear.”
“On the contrary, I suggest to you that Casablanca is the Humphrey Bogart movie.”
“You just think that because he wears a white dinner jacket for half the film.”
“That’s preposterous,” the Count replied a little stiffly.
“Maybe it’s a little preposterous,” conceded Osip, “but I don’t want to watch Casablanca.”
Not one to be outmaneuvered by another man’s childishness, the Count pouted.
“All right,” Osip sighed. “But if you get to pick the film, I get to pick the food.”