“I think you’re worried that I would be scandalized in some way,” continued Sofia. “But Marina thinks it’s because—”
“Marina!” exclaimed the Count. “Marina has an opinion on why I would or wouldn’t invite this . . . this Anna Urbanova to dine with us?”
“Naturally, Papa.”
The Count leaned back in his chair.
“I see. So what is this opinion that Marina so naturally has?”
“She thinks it’s because you like to keep your buttons in their boxes.”
“My buttons in their boxes!”
“You know: your blue buttons in one box, your black buttons in another, your red buttons in a third. You have your relationships here, your relationships there, and you like to keep them distinct.”
“Is that so. I had no idea that I was known to treat people like buttons.”
“Not all people, Papa. Just your friends.”
“What a relief.”
“May I?”
It was Martyn, gesturing at the empty plates.
“Thank you,” snapped the Count.
Sensing that he had interrupted a heated exchange, Martyn quickly cleared the first course, returned with two servings of veal Pojarski, topped up the wine glasses, and disappeared without a word. The Count and Sofia both breathed in the woody fragrance of the mushrooms then began to eat in silence.
“Emile has outdone himself,” the Count said after a few bites.
“He has,” Sofia agreed.
The Count took a generous swallow of the Chateau d’Yquem, which was a 1921 and perfectly suited to the veal.
“Anna thinks it’s because you’re set in your ways.”
The Count commenced to cough into his napkin, as he had determined long ago that this was the most effective means of removing wine from his windpipe.
“Are you all right?” asked Sofia.
The Count put his napkin in his lap and waved a hand in the general direction of table seven.
“And how, may I ask, do you know what this Anna Urbanova thinks?”
“Because she told me so.”
“So the two of you are acquainted.”
“But, of course we are. We have known each other for years.”
“Well, that’s just perfect,” said the Count in a huff. “Why don’t you invite her to dinner. In fact, if I am such a button in a box, perhaps you, Marina, and Miss Urbanova should all have dinner on your own.”
“Why, that’s exactly what Andrey suggested!”
“How is everything tonight?”
“Speak of the devil!” shouted the Count as he dumped his napkin on his plate.
Taken aback, Andrey looked from the Count to Sofia with concern.
“Is something wrong?”
“The food at the Boyarsky is superior,” replied the Count, “and the service is excellent. But the gossip? It is truly unsurpassed.”
The Count stood.
“I think you have some piano practice to see to, young lady,” he said to Sofia. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I am expected upstairs.”
As the Count marched down the hallway, he could not help but observe to himself that there was a time, not long before, when a gentleman could expect a measure of privacy in his personal affairs. With reasonable confidence, he could place his correspondence in a desk drawer and leave his diary on a bedside table.
Although, on the other hand, since the beginning of time men in pursuit of wisdom had routinely retreated to mountaintops, caves, and cabins in the woods. So, perhaps that is where one must eventually head, if one has any hopes of achieving enlightenment without the interference of meddlers. Case in point: As the Count headed for the stairwell, who did he happen to bump into waiting for an elevator? None other than that renowned expert on human behavior, Anna Urbanova.
“Good evening, Your Excellency . . .” she said to the Count with a suggestive smile. But then her eyebrows rose in inquiry when she noted the expression on his face. “Is everything all right?”
“I can’t believe that you have been having clandestine conversations with Sofia,” the Count said in a hushed voice, though no one else was about.
“They weren’t clandestine,” Anna whispered back. “They just happened to be while you were at work.”
“And you think that is somehow appropriate? To foster a friendship with my daughter in my absence?”
“Well, you do like your buttons in their boxes, Sasha. . . .”
“So I gather!”
The Count turned to go, but then came back.
“And if, perchance, I do like my buttons in their boxes, is there anything wrong with that?”
“Certainly not.”
“Would the world be a better place if we kept all the buttons in a big glass jar? In such a world, whenever you tried to reach in for a button of a particular color, the tips of your fingers would inevitably push it down below the other buttons until you couldn’t see it. Eventually, in a state of exasperation, you would end up pouring all of the buttons on the floor—and then spend an hour and a half having to pick them back up.”
“Are we talking about actual buttons now?” asked Anna with genuine interest. “Or is this still an allegory?”
“What is not an allegory,” said the Count, “is my appointment with an eminent professor. Which, by the way, will necessitate the cancellation of any further appointments for the evening!”
Ten minutes later, the Count was knocking on that door which he had answered a thousand times, but upon which he had never knocked.
“Ah, here you are,” said the professor. “Please come in.”
The Count had not been in his old suite in over twenty-five years—not since that night in 1926 when he had stood at the parapet.
Still styled in the manner of a nineteenth-century French salon, the rooms remained elegant, if a little worse for wear. Only one of the two gilded mirrors now hung on the wall; the dark red curtains had faded; the matching couch and chairs needed to be reupholstered; and while his family’s clock still stood guard near the door, its hands were stopped at 4:22—having become an aspect of the room’s décor, rather than an essential instrument for the keeping of engagements. But if one no longer heard the gentle sound of time advancing in the suite, in its place were the strains of a waltz emanating from an electric radio on the dining room mantel.
Following the professor into the sitting room, the Count habitually glanced at the northwest corner with its privileged view of the Bolshoi—and there, framed by the window, was the silhouette of a man gazing out into the night. Tall, thin, with an aristocratic bearing, it could have been a shadow of the Count from another time. But then the shadow turned and crossed the room with its hand outstretched.
“Alexander!”
. . .
“Richard?”
It was none other. Dressed in a tailored suit, Richard Vanderwhile smiled and took hold of the Count’s hand.
“It’s good to see you! How long has it been? Almost two years?”
From the dining room, the strains of the waltz grew a little louder. The Count looked over just in time to see Professor Sirovich closing the doors to his bedroom and turning the brass latch. Richard gestured to one of the chairs by the coffee table, on which was an assortment of zakuski.
“Have a seat. I gather you’ve eaten, but you won’t mind if I dig in, will you? I’m absolutely starving.” Sitting on the couch, Richard put a slice of smoked salmon on a piece of bread and chewed it with relish even as he spread caviar on a blini. “I saw Sofia from across the lobby this afternoon and I couldn’t believe my eyes. What a beauty she’s become! You must have all the boys in Moscow knocking at your door.”
“Richard,” said the Count with a wave at the room, “what are we doing here?”
Richard nodded, brushing the crumbs from his hands.
“I apologize for the theatrics. Professor Sirovich is an old friend, and generous enough to loan me his sitting room on occasion. I’m only in town for a few days, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to speak with you in private, as I’m not exactly sure when I’ll be back.”
“Has something happened?” the Count asked with concern.