When the Count reached the lobby, before he could continue to the barbershop his eyes were drawn to a willowy figure coming through the hotel’s doors. But then all eyes in the lobby were drawn to her. A tall woman in her midtwenties with arched eyebrows and auburn hair, she was indisputably striking. And as she approached the front desk, she walked with a breezy sureness as seemingly unaware of the feathers projecting from her hat as of the bellhops dragging her luggage behind her. But what guaranteed her position as the natural center of attention were the two borzois she had on leash.
In an instant the Count could see that they were magnificent beasts. Their coats silver, their loins lean, their every sense alert, these dogs had been raised to give chase in the cold October air with a hunting party hot on their heels. And at day’s end? They were meant to sit at the feet of their master before a fire in a manor house—not adorn the hands of a willow in the lobby of a grand hotel. . . .
The injustice of this was not lost on the dogs. As their mistress addressed Arkady at the front desk, they tugged every which way, sniffing about for familiar landmarks.
“Stop it!” the willow commanded in a surprisingly husky voice. Then she yanked in a manner that showed she had no more familiarity with the wolfhounds on her leashes than she had with the birds that had feathered her hat.
The Count gave the situation the shake of the head it deserved. But as he turned to go, he noticed with some amusement that a slender shadow suddenly jumped from behind a wingback chair to the edge of one of the potted palms. It was none other than Field Marshal Kutuzov attaining higher ground to take measure of his foes. When the dogs turned their heads in unison with their ears upright, the one-eyed cat slipped behind the trunk of the tree. Then having satisfied himself that the dogs were securely tethered, the cat alit from the palm to the floor and without even bothering to arch his back opened his little jaws and hissed.
With a terrific volley of barking, the dogs leapt to the extent of their leashes, tugging their mistress from the front desk as the ledger pen clattered to the floor.
“Whoa,” she shouted. “Whoa!”
Apparently unfamiliar with equine commands, the wolfhounds leapt again and, freeing themselves from the willow’s grip, scrambled toward their prey.
Kutuzov was off like a shot. Slipping under the western embankment of lobby chairs, the one-eyed cat dashed toward the front door, as if intending to escape into the street. Without a moment’s hesitation, the dogs gave chase. Opting for a pincer movement, they split at the potted palms and pursued the cat on opposite sides of the chairs in the hopes of cutting him off at the door. A lamp that blocked the path of the first hound was knocked to the floor in a shower of sparks, while a standing ashtray that blocked the second was sent head over heels, discharging a cloud of dust.
But just as the dogs were closing ranks, Kutuzov—who like his namesake had the advantage of familiar terrain—suddenly reversed course. Cutting in front of a coffee table, he dashed under the eastern embankment of lobby chairs and headed back toward the staircase.
It took only a few seconds for the borzois to recognize the cat’s tactic; but if attentiveness is measured in minutes, discipline in hours, and indomitability in years, then the attaining of the upper hand on the field of battle is measured in the instant. For just as the wolfhounds registered the cat’s reversal and attempted to turn, the lobby’s expansive oriental carpet came to an end, and the dogs’ momentum sent them skidding across the marble floor into the luggage of an arriving guest.
With an advantage over his adversaries of a hundred feet, Kutuzov skipped up the first few steps of the staircase, paused for a moment to admire his handiwork, then disappeared around the corner.
You may accuse a dog of eating without grace or of exhibiting a misplaced enthusiasm for the tossing of sticks, but you may never accuse one of giving up hope. Despite the fact that the cat had a decisive lead and knew every nook and cranny of the hotel’s upper floors, once the dogs regained their footing, they charged across the lobby in full chorus with every intention of mounting the stairs.
But the Hotel Metropol was not a hunting ground. It was a residence par excellence, an oasis for the worn and weary. So, with a slight curl of the tongue, the Count gave an upward sloping whistle in G major. At the sound, the dogs broke pursuit and began restlessly circling at the foot of the stairs. The Count gave two more whistles in quick succession and the dogs, resigning themselves to the fact that the day was lost, trotted to the Count and heeled at his feet.
“Well, my boys,” he said, giving them a good scratching behind the ears, “where do you hail from?”
“Arf,” replied the dogs.
“Ah,” said the Count. “How lovely.”
After smoothing her skirt and straightening her hat, the willowy one gracefully crossed the lobby to the Count, where, thanks to a pair of French heels, she met him eye to eye. At such proximity the Count could see that she was even more beautiful than he had suspected; and haughtier too. His natural sympathies remained with the dogs.
“Thank you,” she said (with a smile that presumed to launch armadas). “I’m afraid that they are quite ill bred.”
“On the contrary,” replied the Count, “they appear to be perfectly bred.”
The willow made a second effort at her smile.
“What I meant to say is that they are ill behaved.”
“Yes, perhaps ill behaved; but that is a matter of handling, not breeding.”
As the willow studied the Count, he noted that the arches over her eyebrows were very much like the marcato notation in music—that accent which instructs one to play a phrase a little more loudly. This, no doubt, accounted for the willow’s preference for issuing commands and the resulting huskiness of her voice. But as the Count was coming to this conclusion, the willow was apparently coming to a conclusion of her own, for she now dispensed with any intent to charm.
“Handling does seem to have a way of eclipsing breeding,” she said acerbically. “And for that very reason, I should think that even some of the best-bred dogs belong on the shortest leashes.”
“An understandable conclusion,” replied the Count. “But I should think the best-bred dogs belong in the surest hands.”
One hour later, with his hair neatly trimmed and his chin cleanly shaved, the Count entered the Shalyapin and selected a small table in the corner at which to wait for Mishka, who was in town for the inaugural congress of RAPP.
It was only as he settled in that he realized the willowy beauty, now in a long blue dress, was sitting on the banquette directly opposite his own. She had spared the bar the spectacle of trying to manage her dogs, but in their place she had brought along a round-faced fellow with a receding hairline for whom puppylike devotion seemed to come a little more naturally. While the Count was smiling at his own observation, he happened to meet the willow’s gaze. As was only fitting, the two adults immediately acted as if they hadn’t seen each other, the one by turning to her puppy and the other by turning to the door. And as luck would have it, there was Mishka right on time—but with a brand-new jacket and a well-groomed beard. . . .
The Count came out from behind the table in order to embrace his friend. Then, rather than reclaim his seat, he offered the banquette to Mishka—an action that seemed at once courteous and opportune, since it allowed the Count to turn his back on the willow.
“Well now,” said the Count with a clap of the hands. “What shall it be, my friend? Champagne? Chateau d’Yquem? A dish of beluga before supper?” But with a shake of the head, Mishka asked for a beer and explained that he could not stay for dinner, after all.