In accordance with Bolshevik custom, the tables in the Red Room had been laid out in the shape of a long U with chairs arranged on the outer perimeter—such that all the men seated could watch the head of the table without craning their necks. Satisfied that the settings were in order, the Count turned his attention to the envelopes that Andrey had given him. Unsealing the smaller of the two, he removed the seating chart, which had presumably been prepared in some office in the Kremlin. Then he opened the larger envelope, spilled out the place cards, and began positioning them accordingly. Having circled the table a second time in order to double-check the precision of his own execution, the Count stuffed the two envelopes into the pocket of his pants—only to discover another envelope. . . .
Removing the third envelope, the Count considered it with a furrowed brow. That is, until he turned it over and saw the willowy script.
“Great Scott!”
According to the clock on the wall, it was already 3:15.
The Count dashed out of the Red Room, down the hall, and up a flight of stairs. Finding the door to suite 311 ajar, he slipped inside, closed the door, and crossed the grand salon. In the bedroom, a silhouette turned from the window as her dress fell to the floor with a delicate whoosh.
The Count replied with a slight cough.
“Anna, my love . . .”
Noting the expression on the Count’s face, the actress pulled her dress back up toward her shoulders.
“I’m terribly sorry, but due to a confluence of unexpected events, I am not going to be able to keep our appointment today. In fact, for related reasons, I may need to ask a small favor. . . .”
In the fifteen years that they had known each other, the Count had only asked Anna for one favor, and that had weighed less than two ounces.
“Of course, Alexander,” she replied. “What is it?”
“How many suitcases do you travel with?”
A few minutes later, the Count was hurrying down the staff stairwell—two Parisian traveling cases in hand. With renewed respect, he thought of Grisha and Genya and all their predecessors. For though Anna’s cases had been fashioned from the finest materials, they seemed to have been designed without the slightest consideration for having to be carried. The little leather handles were so small one could barely slip two fingers through them; and the cases’ dimensions were so generous that at every step they banged from the banister into one’s knee. How could the bellhops possibly manage to carry these things around so effortlessly? And often with a hatbox thrown in for good measure!
Arriving at the subfloor, the Count pushed his way through the staff doors into the laundry. In the first suitcase, he stowed two sheets, a bedcover, and a towel. In the second, he packed a pair of pillows. Then back up six flights he went, banging his knees at every turn of the belfry stairs. In his room, he unloaded the linens and then went down the hall to get a second mattress from one of the abandoned rooms.
This had seemed an excellent idea to the Count when it had struck him, but the mattress was decidedly against it. When he bent over to lift the mattress from the bedsprings, it crossed its arms, held its breadth, and refused to budge. When he managed to get it upright, it immediately flopped over his head, nearly knocking him off his feet. And when he’d finally dragged it down the hall and flumped it in his room, it spread out its limbs, claiming every spare inch of the floor.
This will not do, thought the Count with his hands on his hips. If he left the mattress there, how were they to move about? And he certainly wasn’t going to drag it in and out of the room on a daily basis. But in a flash of inspiration, the Count was reminded of that morning sixteen years before, when he had consoled himself that living in this room would provide the satisfactions of traveling by train.
Yes, he thought. That is it, exactly.
Lifting the mattress onto its edge, he leaned it against the wall and warned it to stay put, if it knew what was good for it. Then he took Anna’s suitcases and ran down four flights to the pantry of the Boyarsky, where the canned tomatoes were stored. With an approximate height of eight inches and a diameter of six, they were perfectly suited to the task. So having lugged them back upstairs (with a healthy measure of huffing and puffing), he stacked, hoisted, pulled, and perched until the room was ready. Then, having returned Anna’s cases, he dashed down the stairs.
When the Count arrived at Marina’s office (more than an hour late), he was relieved to find the seamstress and Sofia seated on the floor in close consultation. Bounding up, Sofia held out her doll, which was now in a royal blue dress with little black buttons down the front.
“Do you see what we made for Dolly, Uncle Alexander?”
“How lovely!”
“She is quite a seamstress,” said Marina.
Sofia hugged Marina and then skipped into the hall with her newly attired companion. The Count began to follow his charge, but Marina called him back.
“Alexander: What arrangements have you made for Sofia while you are at work tonight . . . ?”
The Count bit his lip.
“All right,” she said. “I will stay with her this evening. But tomorrow, you need to find someone else. You should speak with one of the younger chambermaids. Perhaps Natasha. She is unmarried and would be good with children. But you have to pay her a reasonable wage.”
“Natasha,” confirmed the Count with gratitude. “I’ll speak to her first thing tomorrow. And a reasonable wage, absolutely. Thank you so much, Marina. I’ll send you and Sofia dinner from the Boyarsky around seven; and if last night is any indication, she will be sound asleep by nine.”
The Count turned to go, then turned back again.
“And, I’m sorry about earlier. . . .”
“It’s all right, Alexander. You were anxious because you haven’t spent time with children before. But I am certain that you are up to the challenge. If you are ever in doubt, just remember that unlike adults, children want to be happy. So they still have the ability to take the greatest pleasure in the simplest things.” By way of example, the seamstress placed something small and seemingly insignificant in the Count’s hand with an assurance and a few words of instruction.
As a result, when the Count and Sofia had climbed the five flights back to their rooms and she had turned her deep blue gaze of expectation upon him, the Count was ready.
“Would you like to play a game?” he asked.
“I would,” she said.
“Then come this way.”
With a touch of ceremony, the Count ushered Sofia through the closet door into the study.
“Ooo,” she said as she emerged on the other side. “Is this your secret room?”
“It is our secret room,” the Count replied.
Sofia nodded gravely to show that she understood.
But then children understand the purpose of secret rooms better than they understand the purpose of congresses, courtrooms, and banks.
Somewhat shyly, Sofia pointed at the painting.
“Is that your sister?”
“Yes. Helena.”
“I like peaches too.” She ran a hand along the coffee table. “Is this where your grandma had tea?”
“Exactly.”
Sofia nodded gravely again.
“I am ready for the game.”
“All right then. Here’s how we play. You will go back into the bedroom and count to two hundred. I shall remain in order to hide this within the boundaries of the study.” Then, as if from thin air, the Count produced the silver thimble that Marina had given him. “Sofia, you do know how to count to two hundred?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can count to one hundred twice.”
“Well done.”
Sofia exited through the closet, pulling the door shut behind her.