Osip slapped the table.
“At the greatest cost! But do you think the achievements of the Americans—envied the world over—came without a cost? Just ask their African brothers. And do you think the engineers who designed their illustrious skyscrapers or built their highways hesitated for one moment to level the lovely little neighborhoods that stood in their way? I guarantee you, Alexander, they laid the dynamite and pushed the plungers themselves. As I’ve said to you before, we and the Americans will lead the rest of this century because we are the only nations who have learned to brush the past aside instead of bowing before it. But where they have done so in service of their beloved individualism, we are attempting to do so in service of the common good.”
When he parted company with Osip at ten, rather than climbing the stairs to the sixth floor, the Count headed to the Shalyapin in the hopes of finding it empty. But as he entered the bar, he discovered a raucous group composed of journalists, members of the diplomatic corps, and two of the young hostesses in their little black dresses—and at the center of the commotion, for the third night in a row, was the American general’s aide-de-camp. Hunched over with his arms outstretched, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, he was relaying his tale like a wrestler on the mat.
“. . . Sidestepping the Monsignor, old Porterhouse slowly advanced upon the second goose, waiting for his prey to look him in the eye. That’s the secret, you see: the looking in the eye. That’s the moment Porterhouse lets his adversaries imagine for a second that they are his equals. Having taken two steps to the left, Porterhouse suddenly took three to the right. Thrown off balance, the goose met the old boy’s gaze—and that’s when Porterhouse leapt!”
The aide-de-camp leapt.
The two hostesses shrieked.
Then giggled.
When the aide-de-camp stood back to his full height, he was holding a pineapple. With one hand around its throat and the other under its tail, the captain displayed the fruit for all to see, just as the general had displayed the second goose.
“And it was at this fateful juncture that the good general’s sash unsashed and his robe disrobed, revealing a regulation pair of U.S. Army–issue briefs—at the sight of which, Madame Veloshki fainted.”
As the audience applauded, the aide-de-camp gave a bow. Then he set the pineapple gently on the bar and lifted his drink.
“Madame Veloshki’s response seems perfectly understandable,” said one of the journalists. “But what did you do when you saw the old man’s briefs?”
“What did I do?” exclaimed the aide-de-camp. “Why, I saluted them, of course.”
As the others laughed, he emptied his drink.
“Now, gentlemen, I suggest we head out into the night. I can tell you from personal experience that over at the National can be heard the sorriest samba in the Northern Hemisphere. The drummer, who is blind in one eye, can’t hit his cymbals. And the bandleader hasn’t the slightest sense of a Latin tempo. The closest he has come to South America is when he fell down a flight of mahogany stairs. But he has excellent intentions and a toupee that has descended from heaven.”
With that, the motley assembly stumbled into the night, leaving the Count to approach the bar in relative peace and quiet.
“Good evening, Audrius.”
“Good evening, Count Rostov. What is your pleasure?”
“A glass of Armagnac, perhaps.”
A moment later, as the Count gave the brandy in his snifter a swirl, he found himself smiling at the aide-de-camp’s portrayal—which in turn led him to reflect on the personality of Americans in general. In his persuasive fashion, Osip had argued that during the Depression, Hollywood had undermined the inevitable forces of revolution by means of its elaborate chicanery. But the Count wondered if Osip didn’t have his analysis upside down. Certainly, it seemed true that glittering musicals and slapstick comedies had flourished during the 1930s in America. But so too had jazz and skyscrapers. Were these also narcotics designed to put a restless nation to sleep? Or were they signs of a native spirit so irrepressible that even a Depression couldn’t squelch it?
As the Count gave another swirl of his brandy, a customer sat three stools to his left. To the Count’s surprise, it was the aide-de-camp.
Ever attentive, Audrius leaned with his forearm on the bar. “Welcome back, Captain.”
“Thank you, Audrius.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Same as before, I suppose.”
As Audrius turned away to prepare the drink, the captain drummed his hands on the bar and looked idly about. When he met the Count’s gaze, he gave a nod and a friendly smile.
“You’re not headed for the National?” the Count couldn’t help but ask.
“It seems my friends were in such a hurry to accompany me that they left me behind,” the American replied.
The Count gave a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“No. Please don’t be. I’m quite fond of being left behind. It always gives me a whole new perspective on wherever it was I thought I was leaving. Besides, I’m off first thing in the morning to head home for a spell, so it’s probably for the best.”
He extended his hand to the Count.
“Richard Vanderwhile.”
“Alexander Rostov.”
The captain gave another friendly nod and then, having looked away, suddenly looked back.
“Weren’t you my waiter last night at the Boyarsky?”
“Yes, I was.”
The captain let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. Otherwise, I would have had to cancel my drink.”
As if on cue, Audrius placed it on the bar. The captain took a sip and gave another sigh, this one of satisfaction. Then he studied the Count for a moment.
“Are you Russian?”
“To the core.”
“Well then, let me say at the outset that I am positively enamored with your country. I love your funny alphabet and those little pastries stuffed with meat. But your nation’s notion of a cocktail is rather unnerving. . . .”
“How so?”
The captain pointed discreetly down the bar to where a bushy-eyebrowed apparatchik was chatting with a young brunette. Both of them were holding drinks in a striking shade of magenta.
“I gather from Audrius that that concoction contains ten different ingredients. In addition to vodka, rum, brandy, and grenadine, it boasts an extraction of rose, a dash of bitters, and a melted lollipop. But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.”
“Just two?”
“Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda . . .” Shaking his head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “Excuse me for expounding.”
“That’s quite all right.”
The captain nodded in gratitude, but then after a moment inquired, “Do you mind if I make an observation? I mean of the personal sort.”
“Not at all,” said the Count.
The captain slid his drink down the bar and moved a stool closer.
“You seem like something is weighing on your mind. I mean, you set that brandy in motion about half an hour ago. If you’re not careful, the vortex you’ve created will drill a hole right through the floor and we’ll all end up in the basement.”
The Count set the snifter down with a laugh.
“I suppose you’re right. Something must be weighing on my mind.”
“Well then,” said Richard, gesturing to the empty bar, “you have come to the right place. Since days of old, well-mannered men have assembled in watering holes such as this one in order to unburden themselves in the company of sympathetic souls.”
“Or strangers?”
The captain raised a finger in the air.