A certain childishness, muttered the Count as he exited the executive suite. Mornings of mayhem . . .
Did the Bishop think him a fool? Did he imagine for one second that the Count couldn’t see what he was angling at? What he was insinuating? That little Sofia was somehow involved?
Not only could the Count tell exactly what the Bishop was driving at, he could have countered with a few insinuations of his own—and in iambic pentameter, no less. But the notion of Sofia’s involvement was so unfounded, so preposterous, so outrageous, it did not deserve a response.
Now, the Count could not deny that Sofia had a certain playful streak, just as any child of thirteen should. But she was no gadabout. No gadfly. No ne’er-do-well. In fact, as the Count was returning from the manager’s office, there she was sitting in the lobby bent over some weighty textbook. It was a tableau familiar to any member of the Metropol staff. For hours on end she sat in that very chair memorizing capitals, conjugating verbs, and solving for x or y. With an equal sense of dedication she studied her sewing with Marina and her sauces with Emile. Why, ask anyone who knew Sofia to describe her and they would tell you that she was studious, shy, and well behaved; or in a word, demure.
As he mounted the stairs to the upper floors, the Count enumerated the relevant facts like a jurist: In eight years, Sofia had not thrown a single tantrum; every day she had brushed her teeth and headed off to school without a fuss; and whether it was time to bundle up, buckle down, or eat her peas, she had done so without complaint. Even that little game of her own invention, which she had grown so fond of playing, was founded on a quality of poise that was beyond her years.
Here is how it was played:
The two of them would be sitting somewhere in the hotel—say, reading in their study on a Sunday morning. At the stroke of twelve, the Count would set his book down and excuse himself to pay his weekly visit to the barber. After descending one flight in the belfry and traversing the hall to the main stair, he would continue his journey down five flights to the subfloor, where, having passed the flower shop and newsstand, he would enter the barbershop only to discover—Sofia reading quietly on the bench by the wall.
Naturally, this resulted in the calling of the Lord’s name in vain and the dropping of whatever happened to be in one’s hand (three books and a glass of wine so far this year).
Setting aside the fact that such a game could prove fatal to a man approaching his sixties, one had to marvel at the young lady’s expertise. She could seemingly transport herself from one end of the hotel to the other in the blink of an eye. Over the years, she must have mastered all of the hotel’s hidden hallways, back passages, and connecting doors, while developing an uncanny sense of timing. But what was particularly impressive was her otherworldly repose upon discovery. For no matter how far or how fast she had traveled, there was not a hint of exertion about her. Not a patter of the heart, not a panting of the breath, not a drop of perspiration on her brow. Nor would she emit a giggle or exhibit the slightest smirk. On the contrary. With an expression that was studious, shy, and well behaved, she would acknowledge the Count with a friendly nod, and looking back at her book, turn the page, demurely.
The notion that a child so composed would conspire to the releasing of geese was simply preposterous. One might as well accuse her of toppling the Tower of Babel or knocking the nose off the Sphinx.
True, she had been in the kitchen eating her supper when the chef du cuisine first received word that a certain Swiss diplomat, who had ordered the roast goose, had questioned the freshness of the poultry. And admittedly, she was devoted to her Uncle Emile. Even so, how was a thirteen-year-old girl to spirit three adult fowl to the fourth floor of an international hotel at seven in the morning without detection? The very idea, concluded the Count as he opened the door to his rooms, confounded one’s reason, offended the laws of nature, and flew in the face of common— “Iesu Christi!”
Sofia, who the moment before had been in the lobby, was seated at the Grand Duke’s desk, leaning diligently over her tome.
“Oh, hello, Papa,” she said without looking up.
. . .
“Apparently, it is no longer considered polite to look up from one’s work when a gentleman enters a room.”
Sofia turned in her chair.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I was immersed in my reading.”
“Hmm. And what might that be?”
“It is an essay on cannibalism.”
“An essay on cannibalism!”
“By Michel de Montaigne.”
“Ah. Yes. Well. That’s time well spent, I’m sure,” conceded the Count.
But as he headed toward the study, he thought, Michel de Montaigne . . . ? Then he shot a glance at the base of their bureau.
. . .
“Is that Anna Karenina?”
Sofia followed his gaze.
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“But what is she doing down there?”
“She was the closest in thickness to Montaigne.”
“The closest in thickness!”
“Is something wrong?”
. . .
“All I can say is that Anna Karenina would never have put you under a bureau just because you happened to be as thick as Montaigne.”
“The very idea is preposterous,” the Count was saying. “How is a thirteen-year-old girl to spirit three fully grown geese up two flights of stairs without the slightest detection? Besides, I ask you: Is such behavior even in her character?”
“Certainly not,” said Emile.
“No, not in the least,” agreed Andrey.
The three men shook their heads in shared indignation.
One of the advantages of working together for many years is that the daily rigmarole can be dispensed with quickly, leaving ample time for discussions of weightier concerns—such as rheumatism, the inadequacy of public transit, and the petty behavior of the inexplicably promoted. After two decades, the members of the Triumvirate knew a thing or two about the small-minded men who sat behind stacks of paper, and the so-called gourmands from Geneva who couldn’t tell a goose from a grouse.
“It’s outrageous,” said the Count.
“Unquestionably.”
“And to summon me half an hour before our daily meeting, at which there is never a shortage of important matters to discuss.”
“Quite so,” agreed Andrey. “Which reminds me, Alexander . . .”
“Yes?”
“Before we open tonight, could you have someone sweep out the dumbwaiter?”
“Certainly. Is it a mess?”
“I’m afraid so. It has somehow become littered with feathers. . . .”
In saying this, Andrey used one of his legendary fingers to scratch his upper lip while Emile pretended to sip at his tea. And the Count? He opened his mouth with every intention of making the perfect rejoinder—the sort of remark that having cut one man to the quick would be quoted by others for years to come.
But there was a knock at the door, and young Ilya entered with his wooden spoon.
Over the course of the Great Patriotic War, Emile had lost the seasoned members of his crew one by one, even the whistling Stanislav. With every able-bodied man eventually in the army, he had been forced to staff his kitchen with adolescents. Thus, Ilya, who had been hired in 1943, had been promoted on the basis of seniority to sous-chef in 1945, at the ripe old age of nineteen. As a reflection of qualified confidence, Emile had bestowed upon him a spoon in place of a knife.
“Well?” said Emile, looking up with impatience.
In response, Ilya hesitated.
Emile looked to the other members of the Triumvirate and rolled his eyes, as much as to say: You see what I must put up with? Then he turned back to his apprentice.