In replying It is nothing to Andrey, the Count was not simply resorting to a Gallic figure of speech. In point of fact, the Count deserved as much thanks for his little intervention as a swallow deserves for its trill. For since the age of fifteen, Alexander Rostov had been a master of seating tables.
Whenever he was home for the holidays, his grandmother would inevitably call him into the library, where she liked to knit by the fireplace in a solitary chair.
“Come in, my boy, and sit with me a moment.”
“Certainly, Grandmother,” replied the Count, balancing himself on the edge of the fire grate. “How can I be of assistance?”
“The prelate is coming for dinner on Friday night—as are the Duchess Obolensky, Count Keragin, and the Minsky-Polotovs. . . .”
Here she would let her voice trail off without further explanation; but no further explanation was needed. The Countess was of a mind that dinner should provide one with respite from life’s trials and tribulations. Thus, she could not countenance discussions of religion, politics, or personal sorrows at her table. Further complicating matters, the prelate was deaf in his left ear, partial to Latin epigrams, and prone to stare at décolletage whenever he drank a glass of wine; while the Duchess Obolensky, who was particularly caustic in summer, frowned upon pithy sayings and could not abide discussions of the arts. And the Keragins? Their great-grandfather had been called a Bonapartist by Prince Minsky-Polotov in 1811, and they had not exchanged a word with a Minsky-Polotov since.
“How many will be in attendance?” asked the Count.
“Forty.”
“The usual assembly?”
“More or less.”
“The Osipovs?”
“Yes. But Pierre is in Moscow. . . .”
“Ah,” said the Count with the smile of the chess champion who has been confronted with a new gambit.
The Nizhny Novgorod Province had a hundred prominent families, which over the course of two centuries had intermarried and divorced, borrowed and lent, accepted and regretted, offended, defended, and dueled—while championing an array of conflicting positions that varied by generation, gender, and house. And at the center of this maelstrom was the Countess Rostov’s dining room with its two tables for twenty standing side by side.
“Not to worry, Grand-mère,” assured the Count. “A solution is close at hand.”
Out in the garden, as the Count closed his eyes to begin moving through the individual permutations one by one, his sister enjoyed making light of his task.
“Why do you furrow your brow so, Sasha? However the table is arranged, we always have such delightful conversations when we dine.”
“However the table is arranged!” the Count would exclaim. “Delightful conversations! I’ll have you know, dear sister, that careless seating has torn asunder the best of marriages and led to the collapse of the longest-standing détentes. In fact, if Paris had not been seated next to Helen when he dined in the court of Menelaus, there never would have been a Trojan War.”
A charming rejoinder, no doubt, reflected the Count, from across the years. But where were the Obolenskys and the Minsky-Polotovs now?
With Hector and Achilles.
“Your table is ready, Count Rostov.”
“Ah. Thank you, Andrey.”
Two minutes later, the Count was comfortably seated at his table with a glass of champagne (a small gesture of thanks from Andrey for his timely intervention).
Taking a sip, the Count reviewed the menu in reverse order as was his habit, having learned from experience that giving consideration to appetizers before entrées can only lead to regrets. And here was a perfect example. For the very last item on the menu was the evening’s sole necessity: osso buco—a dish that was best preceded by a light and lively appetizer.
Closing his menu, the Count surveyed the restaurant. Undeniably, he had felt a little low when he had climbed the stairs to the Boyarsky; but here he was with a glass of champagne in hand, osso buco in the offing, and the satisfaction that he had been of service to a friend. Perhaps the Fates—who of all their children loved Reversal most—were set upon lifting his spirits.
“Do you have any questions?”
Thus came an inquiry from behind the Count’s back.
Without hesitation, the Count began to reply that he was ready to order, but as he turned in his chair, he was struck dumb to discover that it was the Bishop who was leaning over his shoulder—in the white jacket of the Boyarsky.
Now admittedly, with the recent return of international guests to the hotel, the Boyarsky had become a little understaffed. So the Count could well appreciate why Andrey had decided to bolster his crew. But of all the waiters at the Piazza, of all the waiters in the world, why would he choose this one?
The Bishop seemed to be following the Count’s train of thought, for his smile became especially smug. Yes, he seemed to be saying, here I am in your famed Boyarsky, one of the chosen few who pass with impunity through the doors of Chef Zhukovsky’s kitchen.
“Perhaps you need more time . . . ?” the Bishop suggested, his pencil poised over his pad.
For an instant, the Count considered sending him on his way and asking for a new table. But the Rostovs had always prided themselves on admitting when their behavior lacked charity.
“No, my good man,” replied the Count. “I am ready to place my order. I will have the fennel and orange salad to start, and the osso buco to follow.”
“Of course,” said the Bishop. “And how will you be having the osso buco?”
The Count almost betrayed his amazement. How will I be having it? Does he expect me to dictate the temperature of a piece of stewed meat?
“As the chef prepares it,” replied the Count magnanimously.
“Of course. And will you be having wine?”
“Absolutely. A bottle of the San Lorenzo Barolo, 1912.”
“Will you be having the red or the white?”
“A Barolo,” the Count explained as helpfully as he could, “is a full-bodied red from northern Italy. As such, it is the perfect accompaniment to the osso buco of Milan.”
“So then, you will be having the red.”
The Count studied the Bishop for a moment. The fellow gives no evidence of being deaf, he reflected; and his accent would suggest that Russian is his native tongue. So surely, by now, he should have been on his way to the kitchen? But as the Countess Rostov liked to remark: If patience wasn’t so easily tested, then it would hardly be a virtue. . . .
“Yes,” said the Count after counting to five. “The Barolo is a red.”
The Bishop continued to stand there with his pencil poised over his pad.
“I apologize,” he said unapologetically, “if I am not being clear. But for your selection of a wine tonight, there are only two options: white and red.”
The two men stared at each other.
“Perhaps you could ask Andrey to stop by for a moment.”
“Of course,” said the Bishop, backing away with an ecclesiastical bow.
The Count drummed the tabletop with his fingers.
Of course, he says. Of course, of course, of course. Of course what? Of course you are there and I am here? Of course you have said something and I have replied? Of course a man’s time on earth is finite and may come to an end at any moment!
“Is something the matter, Count Rostov?”
“Ah, Andrey. It’s about your new man. I’m quite familiar with him from his work downstairs. And in that venue I suppose a certain lack of experience is to be tolerated, or even expected. But here at the Boyarsky . . .”
The Count opened both hands to gesture toward the hallowed room and then looked to the ma?tre d’ with an expectation of understanding.