As long as there have been men on earth, reflected the Count, there have been men in exile. From primitive tribes to the most advanced societies, someone has occasionally been told by his fellow men to pack his bags, cross the border, and never set foot on his native soil again. But perhaps this was to be expected. After all, exile was the punishment that God meted out to Adam in the very first chapter of the human comedy; and that He meted out to Cain a few pages later. Yes, exile was as old as mankind. But the Russians were the first people to master the notion of sending a man into exile at home.
As early as the eighteenth century, the Tsars stopped kicking their enemies out of the country, opting instead to send them to Siberia. Why? Because they had determined that to exile a man from Russia as God had exiled Adam from Eden was insufficient as a punishment; for in another country, a man might immerse himself in his labors, build a house, raise a family. That is, he might begin his life anew.
But when you exile a man into his own country, there is no beginning anew. For the exile at home—whether he be sent to Siberia or subject to the Minus Six—the love for his country will not become vague or shrouded by the mists of time. In fact, because we have evolved as a species to pay the utmost attention to that which is just beyond our reach, these men are likely to dwell on the splendors of Moscow more than any Muscovite who is at liberty to enjoy them.
But enough of all that.
Having retrieved a Bordeaux glass from the Ambassador, the Count set it on a chimney top. He wrested the cork from the labelless bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape that he had taken from the Metropol’s cellar back in 1924. Even as he poured the wine, he could tell it was an excellent vintage. Perhaps a 1900 or 1921. With his glass filled, he raised it in the direction of Idlehour.
“To Helena Rostov,” he said, “the flower of Nizhny Novgorod. Lover of Pushkin, defender of Alexander, embroiderer of every pillowcase within reach. A life too brief, a heart too kind.” Then he drank to the bottom of the glass.
Though the bottle was far from empty, the Count did not refill the glass; nor did he toss it over his shoulder. Rather, he placed it with care on the chimney top and then approached the parapet, where he stood to his full height.
Before him sprawled the city, glorious and grandiose. Its legions of lights shimmered and reeled until they mixed with the movement of the stars. In one dizzy sphere they spun, confusing the works of man with the works of heaven.
Placing his right foot on the parapet’s edge, Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov said, “Good-bye, my country.”
As if in reply, the beacon on Mishka’s tower blinked.
It was now the simplest of matters. Like one who stands on a dock in spring preparing to take the first plunge of the season, all that remained was a leap. Starting just six stories off the ground and falling at the speed of a kopek, a teacup, or a pineapple, the entire journey would only take a matter of seconds; and then the circle would be complete. For as sunrise leads to sunset and dust to dust, as every river returns to the sea, just so a man must return to the embrace of oblivion, from whence—
“Your Excellency!”
Turning in dismay at the interruption, the Count discovered Abram standing behind him in a state of excitement. In fact, Abram was in such a state of excitement that he showed not the slightest surprise at finding the Count poised on the spot where the roof met the ether.
“I thought I heard your voice,” said the old handyman. “I’m so glad you’re here. You must come with me at once.”
“Abram, my friend,” the Count began to explain, but the old man continued unabated:
“You will not believe it, if I tell you. You will have to see it for yourself.” Then without waiting for a response, he hurried with surprising agility toward his encampment.
The Count let out a sigh. Assuring the city that he would be back in a moment, he followed Abram across the roof to the brazier, where the old man stopped and pointed to the northeast corner of the hotel. And there, against the brightly lit backdrop of the Bolshoi, one could just make out a frenzy of tiny shadows darting through the air.
“They’ve returned!” Abram exclaimed.
“The bees . . . ?”
“Yes. But that is not all. Sit, sit.” Abram gestured toward the plank of wood that had so often served as the Count’s chair.
As the Count stood the plank on end, Abram bent over his makeshift table. On it was a tray from one of the hives. He cut into the comb with a knife, spread the honey on a spoon, and handed it to the Count. Then he stood back with a smile of anticipation.
“Well?” he prompted. “Go ahead.”
Dutifully, the Count put the spoon in his mouth. In an instant, there was the familiar sweetness of fresh honey—sunlit, golden, and gay. Given the time of year, the Count was expecting this first impression to be followed by a hint of lilacs from the Alexander Gardens or cherry blossoms from the Garden Ring. But as the elixir dissolved on his tongue, the Count became aware of something else entirely. Rather than the flowering trees of central Moscow, the honey had a hint of a grassy riverbank . . . the trace of a summer breeze . . . a suggestion of a pergola. . . . But most of all, there was the unmistakable essence of a thousand apple trees in bloom.
Abram was nodding his head.
“Nizhny Novgorod,” he said.
And it was.
Unmistakably so.
“All these years, they must have been listening to us,” Abram added in a whisper.
The Count and the handyman both looked toward the roof’s edge where the bees, having traveled over a hundred miles and applied themselves in willing industry, now wheeled above their hives as pinpoints of blackness, like the inverse of stars.
It was nearly two in the morning when the Count bid Abram goodnight and returned to his bedroom. Taking the gold coin from his pocket, he placed it back on the stack inside the leg of his godfather’s desk—where it would remain untouched for another twenty-eight years. And the following evening at six, when the Boyarsky opened, the Count was the first one through its doors.
“Andrey,” he said to the ma?tre d’. “Can you spare a moment . . . ?”
BOOK THREE
1930
Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov stirred at half past eight to the sound of rain on the eaves. With a half-opened eye, he pulled back his covers and climbed from bed. He donned his robe and slipped on his slippers. He took up the tin from the bureau, spooned a spoonful of beans into the Apparatus, and began to crank the crank.
Even as he turned the little handle round and round, the room remained under the tenuous authority of sleep. As yet unchallenged, somnolence continued to cast its shadow over sights and sensations, over forms and formulations, over what has been said and what must be done, lending each the insubstantiality of its domain. But when the Count opened the small wooden drawer of the grinder, the world and all it contained were transformed by that envy of the alchemists—the aroma of freshly ground coffee.
In that instant, darkness was separated from light, the waters from the lands, and the heavens from the earth. The trees bore fruit and the woods rustled with the movement of birds and beasts and all manner of creeping things. While closer at hand, a patient pigeon scuffed its feet on the flashing.
Easing the little drawer from the Apparatus, the Count poured its contents into the pot (which he had mindfully primed with water the night before). He lit the burner and shook out the match. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he did thirty squats and thirty stretches and took thirty deep breaths. From the little cupboard in the corner, he took a small pitcher of cream, a pair of English biscuits, and a piece of fruit (today an apple). Then having poured the coffee, he began to enjoy the morning’s sensations to their fullest:
The crisp tartness of the apple . . .
The hot bitterness of the coffee . . .
The savory sweetness of the biscuit with its hint of spoiled butter . . .