“Travel?”
“We are talking about horizons, aren’t we? That horizontal line at the limit of sight? Rather than sitting in orderly rows in a schoolhouse, wouldn’t one be better served by working her way toward an actual horizon, so that she could see what lay beyond it? That’s what Marco Polo did when he traveled to China. And what Columbus did when he traveled to America. And what Peter the Great did when he traveled through Europe incognito!”
Nina paused to take a great mouthful of the chocolate, and when the Count appeared about to reply she waved her spoon to indicate that she was not yet finished. He waited attentively for her to swallow.
“Last night my father took me to Scheherazade.”
“Ah,” the Count replied (grateful for the change of subject). “Rimsky-Korsakov at his best.”
“Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. The point is: According to the program, the composition was intended to ‘enchant’ the listeners with ‘the world of the Arabian Nights.’”
“That realm of Aladdin and the lamp,” said the Count with a smile.
“Exactly. And, in fact, everyone in the theater seemed utterly enchanted.”
“Well, there you are.”
“And yet, not one of them has any intention of going to Arabia—even though that is where the lamp is.”
By some extraordinary conspiracy of fate, at the very instant Nina made this pronouncement, the accordion player concluded an old favorite and the sparsely populated room broke into applause. Sitting back, Nina gestured to her fellow customers with both hands as if their ovation were the final proof of her position.
It is the mark of a fine chess player to tip over his own king when he sees that defeat is inevitable, no matter how many moves remain in the game. Thus, the Count inquired:
“How was your hors d’oeuvre?”
“Splendid.”
The accordion player now began to play a jaunty little melody reminiscent of an English carol. Taking this as his signal, the Count indicated that he would like to make a toast.
“It is a sad but unavoidable fact of life,” he began, “that as we age our social circles grow smaller. Whether from increased habit or diminished vigor, we suddenly find ourselves in the company of just a few familiar faces. So I view it as an incredible stroke of good fortune at this stage in my life to have found such a fine new friend.”
With that, the Count reached into his pocket and presented Nina with a gift.
“Here is a little something that I made great use of when I was your age. May it tide you over until you travel incognito.”
Nina smiled in a manner that suggested (rather unconvincingly) that he absolutely shouldn’t have. Then she unwrapped the paper to reveal the Countess Rostov’s hexagonal opera glasses.
“They were my grandmother’s,” said the Count.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Nina was struck dumb. She turned the little binoculars in her hands, admiring the mother-of-pearl scopes and delicate brass fittings. Then she held them to her eyes so she could slowly scan the room.
“You know me better than anyone,” she said after a moment. “I shall treasure them to my dying day.”
That she had not thought to bring a present for the Count struck him as perfectly understandable. After all, she was only a child; and the days of unwrapping surprises were decidedly behind him.
“It’s getting late,” said the Count. “I wouldn’t want you to keep your father waiting.”
“Yes,” she admitted regretfully. “It is time for me to go.”
Then looking back toward the captain’s station, she raised a hand as one who signals for the check. But when the captain approached the table, he did not have the check. Instead, he had a large yellow box tied with dark green ribbon.
“Here,” Nina said, “is a little something for you. But you must promise that you will not open it until the stroke of midnight.”
When Nina left the Piazza to join her father, the Count’s intention had been to settle the check, proceed to the Boyarsky (for an herb-encrusted lamb chop), and then retire to his study with a glass of port to await the chime of twelve. But as the accordion player launched into a second carol, the Count found himself turning his attention to the neighboring table, where a young man seemed to be in the earliest stages of romantic discovery.
In some lecture hall, this lad with a hint of a moustache had presumably admired his fellow student for the sharpness of her intellect and the seriousness of her mien. Eventually, he had worked up the nerve to invite her out, perhaps under the pretense of discussing some matter of ideological interest. And now here she was, sitting before him in the Piazza looking about the room without a smile on her face or a word on her lips.
Attempting to break the silence, the lad remarked on the upcoming conference to unify the Soviet republics—a reasonable gambit given her apparent intensity. Sure enough, the young lady had views on the subject; but as she voiced her opinion on the Transcaucas question, the tenor of the conversation turned decidedly technical. What’s more, the young man, having adopted an expression as serious as hers, was clearly out of his depth. Were he to venture his own opinion now, he would almost certainly be revealed as a poseur, as one who was inadequately informed on the crucial issues of the day. From there, the evening could only get worse, and he would end up dragging his hopes behind him in the manner of the chastened child who drags his stuffed bear thumping up the stairs.
But just as the young lady was inviting him to share his thoughts on the matter, the accordion player began a little number with a Spanish flair. It must have struck a chord, because she interrupted herself in order to look at the musician and wonder aloud where that melody was from.
“It is from the The Nutcracker,” the young man responded without a thought.
“The Nutcracker . . . ,” she repeated.
Given the prevailing sobriety of her expression, it was unclear what she thought of this music from another era. As such, many a veteran would have counseled the young man to proceed with caution—to wait and hear what associations the music held for her. Instead, he acted; and he acted boldly.
“When I was a boy, my grandmother took me every year.”
The young lady turned back from the musician to face her companion.
“I suppose some think the music sentimental,” he continued, “but I never fail to attend the ballet when it is performed in December, even if it means attending alone.”
Well done, lad.
The expression on the girl’s face softened noticeably and her eyes displayed a hint of interest, that here was an unexpected aspect of her new acquaintance, something pure and heartfelt and unapologetic. Her lips parted as she prepared to ask a question—
“Are you ready to order?”
It was the Bishop leaning over their table.
Of course they are not ready to order, the Count wished to shout. As any fool can see!
If the young man were wise, he would send the Bishop packing and ask the young lady to go on with her question. Instead, he dutifully picked up the menu. Perhaps he imagined that the perfect dish would leap off the page and identify itself by name. But for a hopeful young man trying to impress a serious young woman, the menu of the Piazza was as perilous as the Straits of Messina. On the left was a Scylla of lower-priced dishes that could suggest a penny-pinching lack of flair; and on the right was a Charybdis of delicacies that could empty one’s pockets while painting one pretentious. The young man’s gaze drifted back and forth between these opposing hazards. But in a stroke of genius, he ordered the Latvian stew.
While this traditional dish of pork, onions, and apricots was reasonably priced, it was also reasonably exotic; and it somehow harkened back to that world of grandmothers and holidays and sentimental melodies that they had been about to discuss when so rudely interrupted.
“I’ll have the same,” said our serious young lady.