“We’re sorry we’re so late,” said Anna breathlessly. “But they wouldn’t let her leave the reception.”
“Don’t think of it for a minute! I hadn’t even noticed the time. But sit, sit, sit, and tell me everything.”
Offering the ladies the high-back chairs, the Count perched himself on the edge of the Ambassador and trained his gaze on Sofia, expectantly. Smiling shyly, Sofia deferred to Anna.
“It was incredible,” said the actress. “There were five performers before Sofia. Two violinists, a cellist—”
“Where was it? Which venue?”
“In the Grand Hall.”
“I know it well. Designed by Zagorsky at the turn of the century. How crowded was it? Who was there?”
Anna furrowed her brow. Sofia laughed.
“Papa. Let her tell it.”
“All right, all right.”
So the Count did as he was instructed: He let Anna tell it. And she told how there were five performers before Sofia: two violinists, a cellist, a French-horn player, and another pianist. All five had done the Conservatory proud, comporting themselves professionally and playing their instruments with precision. Two pieces by Tchaikovsky, two by Rimsky-Korsakov, and something by Borodin. But then it was Sofia’s turn.
“I tell you, Sasha, there was an audible gasp when she appeared. She crossed the stage to the piano without the slightest rustle of her dress. It was as if she were floating.”
“You taught me that, Aunt Anna.”
“No, no, Sofia. The manner in which you entered is unteachable.”
“Without a doubt,” agreed the Count.
“Well. When the director announced that Sofia would be playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 1, there was some muttering and a shifting of chairs. But the moment she began to play, they were overcome.”
“I knew it. Didn’t I say so? Didn’t I say that a little Mozart is never out of step?”
“Papa . . .”
“She played with such tenderness,” Anna continued, “such joy, that the audience was won over from the start. There was a smile on every face in every row, I tell you. And the applause when she finished! If only you could have heard it, Sasha. It shook the dust from the chandeliers.”
The Count clapped his own hands and rubbed them together.
“How many musicians performed after Sofia?”
“It didn’t matter. The competition was over and everyone knew it. The poor boy who was up next practically had to be dragged onstage. And then, she was the belle of the reception, being toasted from every corner.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Count, leaping to his feet. “I nearly forgot!”
He shoved aside the Ambassador and produced the bucket with the champagne.
“Voilà!”
As his hand dipped in the water, the Count could tell the temperature had climbed to 53?, but what did that matter. With a single twist of the fingers he spun the foil off the bottle, then to the ceiling with the cork! The champagne flowed over his hands and they all laughed. He filled two flutes for the ladies and a wine glass for himself.
“To Sofia,” he said. “Let tonight mark the beginning of a grand adventure—one that is sure to take her far and wide.”
“Papa,” she said with a blush. “It was just a school competition.”
“Just a school competition! It is one of the intrinsic limitations of being young, my dear, that you can never tell when a grand adventure has just begun. But as a man of experience, you may take my word that—”
Suddenly Anna silenced the Count by holding up her hand. She looked to the closet door.
“Did you hear that?”
The three stood motionless. Sure enough, though muffled, they could hear the sound of a voice. Someone must have been at the bedroom door.
“I’ll find out who it is,” whispered the Count.
Setting down his glass, he slipped between his jackets, opened the closet door, and stepped into his bedroom only to discover—Andrey and Emile at the foot of the bed in the midst of a hushed debate. Emile was holding a ten-layered cake in the shape of a piano, and Andrey must have just suggested they leave it on the bed with a note, because Emile was replying that one does not “dump a Dobos torte on a bedcover”—when the closet door opened and out popped the Count.
Andrey let out a gasp.
The Count drew in a breath.
Emile dropped the cake.
And the evening might have come to an end right then and there, but for Andrey’s instinctive inability to let an object fall to the floor. With the lightest of steps and his fingers outstretched, the onetime juggler caught the torte in midair.
As Andrey breathed a sigh of relief and Emile stared with his mouth open, the Count attempted to act matter-of-factly.
“Why, Andrey, Emile, what a pleasant surprise. . . .”
Taking his cue from the Count, Andrey acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “Emile made a little something for Sofia in anticipation of her victory,” he said. “Please give her our heartfelt congratulations.” Then placing the cake gently on the Grand Duke’s desk, Andrey turned to the door.
But Emile didn’t budge.
“Alexander Ilyich,” he demanded: “What in the name of Ivan were you doing in the closet?”
“In the closet?” asked the Count. “Why, I . . . I was . . .” His voice trailed off diminuendo.
Andrey offered a sympathetic smile and then made a little sweeping motion with his hands, as if to say: The world is wide, and wondrous are the ways of men. . . .
But Emile furrowed his brow at Andrey, as if to say: Nonsense.
The Count looked from one member of the Triumvirate to the other.
“Where are my manners?” he said at last. “Sofia will be delighted to see you both. Please. Come this way.” Then he gestured with a welcoming hand to the closet.
Emile looked at the Count as if he’d lost his mind. But Andrey, who could never hesitate before a well-mannered invitation, picked up the cake and took a step toward the closet door.
Emile let out a grunt of exasperation. “If we’re going in,” he said to Andrey, “then you’d better watch out for the frosting on the sleeves.” So the ma?tre d’ passed Emile the cake and carefully parted the Count’s jackets with his delicate hands.
Emerging on the other side, Andrey’s surprise at seeing the Count’s study for the first time was immediately displaced by the sight of Sofia. “Notre champion!” he said, taking her by the arms and kissing her on both cheeks. For Emile, however, the surprise at seeing the Count’s study was displaced by the even greater surprise of finding the film star Anna Urbanova standing inside it. For unbeknownst to the Triumvirate, the chef had seen every single one of her movies, and generally from the second row.
Noting Emile’s starstruck expression, Andrey took a quick step forward and put his hands under the cake. But Emile did not lose his grip this time. Rather, he suddenly thrust the cake toward Anna, as if he had baked it for her.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “But isn’t that for Sofia?”
Emile blushed from his shoulders to the top of his balding head and turned to Sofia.
“I made your favorite,” he said. “A Dobos torte with chocolate cream.”
“Thank you, Uncle Emile.”
“It is in the shape of a piano,” he added.
As Emile produced his chopper from his apron string and proceeded to slice the cake, the Count took two more glasses from the Ambassador and filled them with champagne. The story of Sofia’s victory was told again and the perfection of her performance was compared by Anna to the perfection of Emile’s cake. As the chef began explaining to the actress the intricate process by which one makes such a torte, Andrey was recalling for Sofia’s benefit the night many years ago when he and several others had toasted the Count’s arrival on the sixth floor.
“Do you remember, Alexander?”