Shortly after midnight, when the Boyarsky was closed and the Count had bid goodnight to Andrey and Emile, he climbed the stairs to the third floor, went halfway down the hall, took off his shoes, and then by means of Nina’s key slipped into suite 322 in his stocking feet.
Many years before, under a spell cast by a certain actress, the Count had dwelt for a time among the ranks of the invisible. So, as he tiptoed into the Finns’ bedroom, he called upon Venus to veil him in a mist—just as she had for her son, Aeneas, when he wandered the streets of Carthage—so that his footfalls would be silent, his heartbeat still, and his presence in the room no more notable than a breath of air.
As it was late in June, the Finns had drawn their curtains to block out the glow of the white nights, but a sliver of light remained where the two drapes met. By this narrow illumination, the Count approached the foot of the bed and took in the sleeping forms of the travelers. Thanks be to God, they were about forty years old. Fifteen years younger, they would not have been asleep. Having stumbled back from a late dinner in the Arbat at which they had ordered two bottles of wine, they would now be in each other’s arms. Fifteen years older, they would be tossing and turning, getting up twice a night to visit the loo. But at forty? They had enough appetite to eat well, enough temperance to drink in moderation, and enough wisdom to celebrate the absence of their children by getting a good night’s sleep.
Within a matter of minutes the Count had secured the gentleman’s passport and 150 Finnish marks from the bureau, tiptoed through the sitting room, and slipped back into the hallway, which was empty.
In fact, it was so empty that even his shoes weren’t in it.
“Confound it,” said the Count to himself. “They must have been picked up by the night service for shining.”
After issuing a litany of self-recriminations, the Count took comfort that in all likelihood on the following morning his shoes would simply be returned by the Finns to the main desk, where they would be cast into the hotel’s collection of unidentifiable misplaced possessions. As he climbed the stairs of the belfry he took additional comfort that all else had gone according to plan. By this time tomorrow night . . . , he was thinking as he opened his bedroom door—only to discover the Bishop, sitting at the Grand Duke’s desk.
Naturally enough, the Count’s first instinct at the sight was a feeling of indignation. Not only had this accountant of discrepancies, this stripper of wine labels entered the Count’s quarters without invitation, he had actually rested his elbows on that dimpled surface where once had been written persuasive arguments to statesmen and exquisite counsel to friends. The Count was just opening his mouth to demand an explanation, when he saw that a drawer had been opened, and that a sheet of paper was in the Bishop’s hand.
The letters, the Count realized with a feeling of dread.
Oh, if it had only been the letters. . . .
Carefully written expressions of fondness and fellowship may not have been common between colleagues, but they were hardly suspicious in and of themselves. A man has every right—and some responsibility—to communicate his good feelings to his friends. But it was not one of the recently written letters that the Bishop was holding. It was the first of the Baedeker maps—the one on which the Count had drawn the bright red line connecting the Palais Garnier to the American Embassy by way of the Avenue George V.
Then again, perhaps whether it was a letter or a map mattered not. For when the Bishop had turned at the sound of the door, he had witnessed the transition in the Count’s expression from indignation to horror—a transition that confirmed a state of guilt even before an accusation had been made.
“Headwaiter Rostov,” said the Bishop, as if surprised to see the Count in his own room. “You truly are a man of many interests: Wine . . . Cuisine . . . The streets of Paris . . .”
“Yes,” said the Count while attempting to compose himself. “I have been reading a bit of Proust lately, and thus have been reacquainting myself with the arrangement of the city’s arrondissements.”
“Of course,” said the Bishop.
Cruelty knows that it has no need of histrionics. It can be as calm and quiet as it likes. It can sigh, or lightly shake its head in disbelief, or offer a sympathetic apology for whatever it must do. It can move slowly, methodically, inevitably. Thus, the Bishop, having gently laid the map on the dimpled surface of the Grand Duke’s desk, now rose from the chair, walked across the room, and slipped past the Count without a word.
What went through the mind of the Bishop as he descended the five flights from the attic to the ground floor? What emotion did he feel?
Perhaps it was gloating. Having felt belittled by the Count for over thirty years, perhaps he now felt the pleasure of finally putting this pretentious polymath in his place. Or perhaps it was righteousness. Maybe comrade Leplevsky was so dedicated to the brotherhood of the Proletariat (from which he’d sprung), that the persistence of this Former Person in the new Russia galled his sense of justice. Or maybe it was simply the cold satisfaction of the envious. For those who had difficulty in school or at making friends when they were young will forever recognize with a bitter glance those for whom life has seemed to come easy.
Gloating, righteousness, satisfaction, who can say? But the emotion the Bishop felt upon opening the door to his office was almost certainly that of shock—for the adversary that he had left in the attic just minutes before was now sitting behind the manager’s desk with a pistol in his hand.
How was this possible?
When the Bishop left the Count’s bedroom, the Count was frozen in place by a torrent of emotions—by feelings of fury, incredulity, self-recrimination, and fear. Rather than burn the map, like a fool he had slipped it in his drawer. Six months of the most careful planning and painstaking execution overturned by a single misstep. And what was worse, he had put Sofia at risk. What price was she to pay for his carelessness?
But if the Count was frozen in place, he was frozen for all of five seconds. For these perfectly understandable sentiments, which threatened to drain the blood from his heart, were swept aside by resolve.
Turning on his heels, the Count went to the head of the belfry and listened until the Bishop had descended the first two flights of stairs. Still in his stocking feet, the Count began to follow in the Bishop’s footsteps; but when he got to the fifth floor, he exited the belfry, sped down the hallway, and ran down the main staircase, just as Sofia had at the age of thirteen.
As if he were still enshrouded in a mist, when the Count alit from the stairs, he ran down the hall and entered the executive offices without being seen by a soul; but upon reaching the Bishop’s door, he discovered it was locked. Even as he was taking the Lord’s name in vain, the Count slapped his hands against his vest with relief. For he still had Nina’s passkey in his pocket. Letting himself in, the Count relocked the door and crossed to the wall where the filing cabinets had taken the place of Mr. Halecki’s chaise. Counting from the portrait of Karl Marx, the Count placed his hand in the center of the second panel to the right, gave a push, and popped it open. Taking the inlaid box from its chamber, the Count set it on the desk and opened the lid.
“Simply marvelous,” he said.
Then sitting in the manager’s chair, the Count removed the two pistols, loaded them, and waited. He guessed that he had only a matter of seconds before the door would open, but he used them as best he could to moderate his breathing, lower his heart rate, and calm his nerves; such that by the time the Bishop’s key turned in the lock, he was as cold as a killer.