Earlier that afternoon, the Boyarsky’s staff had been assembled by the assistant manager so that he could introduce new procedures for the taking, placing, and billing of orders.
Henceforth, he explained, when a waiter took an order, he would write it on a pad designed for this purpose. Leaving the table, he would bring the order to the bookkeeper, who, having made an entry in his ledger, would issue a cooking slip for the kitchen. In the kitchen, a corresponding entry would be made in the cooking log, at which point the cooking could commence. When the food was ready for consumption, a confirmation slip would be issued by the kitchen to the bookkeeper, who in turn would provide a stamped receipt to the waiter authorizing the retrieval of the food. Thus, a few minutes later, the waiter would be able to make the appropriate notation on his notepad confirming that that dish which had been ordered, logged, cooked, and retrieved was finally on the table. . . .
Now, in all of Russia, there was no greater admirer of the written word than Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov. In his time, he had seen a couplet of Pushkin’s sway a hesitant heart. He had watched as a single passage from Dostoevsky roused one man to action and another to indifference—in the very same hour. He certainly viewed it as providential that when Socrates held forth in the agora and Jesus on the Mount, someone in the audience had the presence of mind to set their words down for posterity. So let us agree that the Count’s concerns with this new regimen were not grounded in some distaste for pencils and paper.
Rather, it was a matter of context. For if one has chosen to dine at the Piazza, one should expect to have one’s waiter leaning over the table and scratching away on his little pad. But ever since the Count had become headwaiter of the Boyarsky, its customers could expect their server to look them in the eye, answer their questions, offer recommendations, and flawlessly record their preferences—without ever taking his hands from behind his back.
Sure enough, when the new regimen was put into practice that evening, the Boyarsky’s customers were shocked to find a clerk sitting at a little desk behind the ma?tre d’s podium. They were bemused to watch pieces of paper flitting about the room as if it were the floor of a stock exchange. But they were beside themselves to find their cutlets of veal and asparagus spears arriving at their table as cold as aspic.
Naturally, this would not do.
As luck would have it, in the middle of the second seating the Count noticed the Bishop stopping momentarily at the Boyarsky’s door. So, having been raised on the principle that civilized men should share their concerns and proceed in the spirit of collegial common sense, the Count crossed the dining room and followed the Bishop into the hall.
“Manager Leplevsky!”
“Headwaiter Rostov,” said the Bishop, showing a hint of surprise at being hailed by the Count. “What can I do for you . . . ?”
“It’s really such a small matter that I hardly wish to trouble you with it.”
“If the matter concerns the hotel, then it concerns me.”
“Just so,” agreed the Count. “Now, I assure you, Manager Leplevsky, that in all of Russia there is no greater admirer of the written word . . .” And having thus broached the subject, the Count went on to applaud the couplets of Pushkin, the paragraphs of Dostoevsky, and the transcriptions of Socrates and Jesus. Then he explained the threat that pencils and pads posed to the Boyarsky’s tradition of romantic elegance.
“Can you imagine,” concluded the Count with a glint in his eye, “if when you sought your wife’s hand, you had to issue your proposal with the stamp of a presiding agency, and were then required to take down her response on a little pad of paper in triplicate—so that you could give one copy to her, one to her father, and one to the family priest?”
But even as the Count was delivering this quip, he was reminded by the expression on the Bishop’s face that one should generally avoid quips in which a man’s marriage played a part. . . .
“I don’t see that my wife has anything to do with this,” said the Bishop.
“No,” agreed the Count. “That was poorly put. What I am trying to say is that Andrey, Emile, and I—”
“So you are bringing this grievance on behalf of Ma?tre d’ Duras and Chef Zhukovsky?”
“Well, no. I have hailed you of my own accord. And it is not a grievance per se. But the three of us are dedicated to ensuring the satisfaction of the Boyarsky’s customers.”
The Bishop smiled.
“Of course. And I am sure that all three of you have your own special concerns given your specific duties. But as manager of the Metropol, I am the one who must ensure that every aspect of the hotel meets a standard of perfection; and that requires a vigilant attention to the elimination of all discrepancies.”
The Count was confused.
“Discrepancies? What sort of discrepancies?”
“All kinds of discrepancies. One day, there may be a discrepancy between how many onions arrived in the kitchen and how many were served in the stew. On another, there may be a discrepancy between how many glasses of wine were ordered and how many poured.”
The Count grew cold.
“You are speaking of thievery.”
“Am I?”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, then the Bishop smiled narrowly.
“Given your shared dedication, please feel free to relate our conversation to Chef Zhukovsky and Ma?tre d’ Duras at your earliest convenience.”
The Count gritted his teeth.
“Rest assured, I shall do so word for word tomorrow at our daily meeting.”
The Bishop studied the Count.
“You have a daily meeting . . . ?”
Suffice it to say that at the Boyarsky’s second seating, the customers were shocked, bemused, and beside themselves once again as slips of paper flew about the dining room like pheasants at the crack of a rifle. And after enduring all of that, here was the Count sitting alone in his study counting the minutes.
After drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the Count rose and recommenced his pacing while humming Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in C major.
“Dum de dum de dum,” he hummed.
It was a delightful composition, you had to admit, and one quite well suited to his daughter’s personality. The first movement had the tempo of Sofia coming home from school at the age of ten with fifteen things to relate. Without taking the time to explain who was who or what was what, she would zip along, punctuating her report with and then, and then, and then, and then. In the second movement, the sonata transitioned to an andante tempo more in keeping with Sofia at seventeen, when she would welcome thunderstorms on Saturday afternoons so that she could sit in their study with a book in her lap or a recording on the phonograph. In the third movement, with its fleet pace and pointillist style, you could almost hear her at the age of thirteen, running down the hotel’s stairs, freezing on a landing momentarily to let someone pass, and then bolting brightly ahead.
Yes, it was a delightful composition. There was no debating that. But was it too delightful? Would it be viewed by the judges as insufficiently weighty for the times? When Sofia had selected the composition, the Count had attempted to signal his concerns diplomatically, by referring to the piece as “pleasant” and “quite diverting”; and then he had kept his peace. For it is the role of the parent to express his concerns and then take three steps back. Not one, mind you, not two, but three. Or maybe four. (But by no means five.) Yes, a parent should share his hesitations and then take three or four steps back, so that the child can make a decision by herself—even when that decision may lead to disappointment.
But wait!
What was that?
As the Count turned, the closet door swung open and Anna charged into the study, dragging Sofia behind her.
“She won!”
For the first time in twenty years, the Count let out a shout: “Ha-ha!”
He embraced Anna for delivering the news.
Then he embraced Sofia for winning.
Then he embraced Anna again.