Ever since reading her note in the Shalyapin Bar, the Count had felt one step behind Miss Urbanova. The casual reception in her suite, the candlelit dinner for two, the deboning of the fish followed by memories of childhood—he had not anticipated any one of these developments. Certainly he had been caught off guard by the kiss. And now, here she was strolling into her bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse, and letting it slip to the floor with a delicate whoosh.
As a young man, the Count had prided himself on being one step ahead. The timely appearance, the apt expression, the anticipation of a need, to the Count these had been the very hallmarks of the well-bred man. But under the circumstances, he discovered that being a step behind had merits of its own.
For one, it was so much more relaxing. To be a step ahead in matters of romance requires constant vigilance. If one hopes to make a successful advance, one must be mindful of every utterance, attend to every gesture, and take note of every look. In other words, to be a step ahead in romance is exhausting. But to be a step behind? To be seduced? Why, that was a matter of leaning back in one’s chair, sipping one’s wine, and responding to a query with the very first thought that has popped into one’s head.
And yet, paradoxically, if being a step behind was more relaxing than being a step ahead, it was also more exciting. From his relaxed position, the one-step-behinder imagines that his evening with a new acquaintance will transpire like any other—with a little chit, a little chat, and a friendly goodnight at the door. But halfway through dinner there is an unexpected compliment and an accidental brushing of fingers against one’s hand; there is a tender admission and a self-effacing laugh; then suddenly a kiss.
From here the surprises only grow in power and scope. Such as when one discovers (as the blouse falls to the floor) that a back is as decorated with freckles as the skies are decorated with stars. Or when (having slipped modestly under the covers) the sheets are cast aside and one finds oneself on one’s back with a pair of hands pressing on one’s chest and a pair of lips issuing breathless instructions. But while each one of these surprises inspires a new state of wonder, nothing can compare to the awe one experiences when at one in the morning a woman rolling on her side utters unambiguously: “As you go, be sure to draw the curtains.”
Suffice it to say that once the Count’s clothes had been gathered, the curtains were dutifully drawn. What’s more, before he had tiptoed to the door half dressed, he took a moment to ensure that the actress’s ivory blouse had been picked off the floor and hung on its hanger. After all, as the Count himself had observed just hours before: the best-bred dogs belong in the surest hands.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind you . . .
The Count wasn’t sure he had ever heard it before, exactly. In tone it was delicate and unobtrusive; and yet, it had a definitive suggestion of dismissal—which was apt to put one in a philosophical frame of mind.
Even if a person generally frowned upon rude and abrupt behavior, under the circumstances he might have to admit a certain rough justice upon finding himself in an empty hallway with his shoes in his hand and his shirt untucked—as the woman he’s just left falls soundly asleep. For if a man has had the good fortune to be plucked from the crowd by an impetuous beauty, shouldn’t he expect to be sent on his way without ceremony?
Well, maybe so. But standing in the empty corridor across from a half-eaten bowl of borscht, the Count felt less like a philosopher than a ghost.
Yes, a ghost, thought the Count, as he moved silently down the hall. Like Hamlet’s father roaming the ramparts of Elsinore after the midnight watch . . . Or like Akaky Akakievich, that forsaken spirit of Gogol’s who in the wee hours haunted the Kalinkin Bridge in search of his stolen coat . . .
Why is it that so many ghosts prefer to travel the halls of night? Ask the living and they will tell you that these spirits either have some unquenched desire or an unaddressed grievance that stirs them from their sleep and sends them out into the world in search of solace.
But the living are so self-centered.
Of course they would judge a spirit’s nocturnal wanderings as the product of earthly memories. When, in fact, if these restless souls wanted to harrow the bustling avenues of noon, there is nothing to stop them from doing so.
No. If they wander the halls of night, it is not from a grievance with or envy of the living. Rather, it is because they have no desire to see the living at all. Any more than snakes hope to see gardeners, or foxes the hounds. They wander about at midnight because at that hour they can generally do so without being harried by the sound and fury of earthly emotions. After all those years of striving and struggling, of hoping and praying, of shouldering expectations, stomaching opinions, navigating decorum, and making conversation, what they seek, quite simply, is a little peace and quiet. At least, that is what the Count told himself as he drifted down the hall.
While, as a rule, the Count always took the stairs, when he approached the second-floor landing that night, on some ghostly whim he called for the elevator, assuming he would have it to himself. But when the doors slid open, there was the one-eyed cat.
“Kutuzov!” he exclaimed in surprise.
Taking in every detail of the Count’s appearance, the cat responded exactly as the Grand Duke had responded under similar circumstances many years before—that is, with a stern look and a disappointed silence.
“Ahem,” said the Count, as he stepped onto the elevator while trying to tuck in his shirt without dropping his shoes.
Parting with the cat on the fifth floor, the Count trudged up the steps of the belfry in woeful acknowledgment that the celebration of his anniversary had been a fiasco. Having set out to gamely etch his mark on the wall, the wall had etched its mark on him. And as experience had taught the Count many years before, when this happens, it is best to wash one’s face, brush one’s teeth, and pull one’s covers over one’s head.
But as the Count was about to open the door to his rooms, on the back of his neck he felt a breath of air that was distinctly reminiscent of a summer breeze. Turning to his left, the Count stood motionless. There it was again, coming from the other end of the floor. . . .
Intrigued, the Count walked down the hall only to find that all the doors were tightly shut. At the hallway’s end, there seemed to be nothing but a confusion of pipes and flues. But in the farthest corner, in the shadow of the largest pipe, he discovered a wall-mounted ladder that led to a hatch in the roof—which someone had left open. Putting on his shoes, the Count quietly climbed up the ladder and out into the night.
The summer breeze that had beckoned the Count now wrapped him in its full embrace. Warm and forgiving, it called up feelings of summer nights from earlier in his life—from when he was five and ten and twenty on the streets of St. Petersburg or the pastures of Idlehour. Nearly overcome by the surge of old sentiments, he needed to pause a moment before continuing to the western edge of the roof.
Before him lay the ancient city of Moscow, which, after waiting patiently for two hundred years, was once again the seat of Russian governance. Despite the hour, the Kremlin shimmered with electric light from every window, as if its newest denizens were still too drunk with power to sleep. But if the lights of the Kremlin shimmered brightly, like all earthly lights before them they were diminished in their beauty by the majesty of the constellations overhead.