“Thank you, comrade Frinovsky,” said the Count. “That’s very gracious of you.”
Looking from Anna to the Count and back again, Frinovsky said, “I am so sorry that we have inconvenienced you at such an unsuitable hour.” Then he placed his hat on his head and hurried to the belfry with the Bishop hot on his heels.
When the Count had quietly closed the door, he turned to Anna, whose expression was unusually grave.
“When did the Minister of Culture start taking a personal interest in Sofia?” he asked.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she replied. “At the latest.”
If those gathered in the Count’s study had good cause to celebrate before the Bishop’s visit, they had even more cause to do so after his departure. In fact, as the Count opened a bottle of brandy, Anna found an American jazz record that Richard had slipped among the classical recordings, and cued it on the phonograph. In the minutes that followed, the brandy was poured liberally, Emile’s cake was eaten in its entirety, the jazz record was played repeatedly, and each of the gentlemen had his turn scuffing the parquet with the ladies in attendance.
When the last of the brandy was dispensed, Emile—who given the hour was nearly in a state of ecstasy—suggested they all head downstairs for another round, a little more dancing, and to bring the festivities to Viktor Stepanovich, who was still on the bandstand in the Piazza.
Emile’s motion was immediately seconded and passed by unanimous vote.
“But before we go,” said Sofia, who was a little flushed, “I would like to make a toast: To my guardian angel, my father, and my friend, Count Alexander Rostov. A man inclined to see the best in all of us.”
“Hear! Hear!”
“And you needn’t worry, Papa,” Sofia continued. “For no matter who comes knocking at our door, I have no intention of ever leaving the Metropol.”
After joining in a cheer, the members of the gathering emptied their glasses, stumbled through the closet, and exited into the hall. Opening the door to the belfry, the Count gave a slight bow and gestured for everyone to proceed. But just as the Count was about to follow the others into the stairwell, a woman in late middle age with a satchel on her shoulder and a kerchief in her hair stepped from the shadows at the end of the hall. Though the Count had never seen her before, it was clear from her demeanor that she had been waiting to speak with him alone.
“Andrey,” the Count called into the belfry, “I’ve forgotten something in the room. You all go ahead. I’ll be down in a moment. . . .”
Only when the last sound of voices had receded down the stairs did the woman approach. In the light, the Count could see that she had an almost severe beauty about her—like one for whom there would be no half measures in matters of the heart.
“I’m Katerina Litvinova,” she said without a smile.
It took a moment for the Count to realize that this was none other than Mishka’s Katerina, the poet from Kiev whom he had lived with back in the 1920s.
“Katerina Litvinova! How extraordinary. To what do I owe—”
“Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Why, yes . . . Of course . . .”
The Count led Katerina into the bedroom and then, after a moment’s hesitation, took her through the jackets into the study. Apparently, he needn’t have hesitated, for she looked around the room as one who had heard descriptions of it before, nodding lightly to herself as her gaze shifted from the bookcase to the coffee table to the Ambassador. Taking her satchel from her shoulder, she suddenly appeared tired.
“Here,” said the Count, offering a chair.
She sat down, putting the satchel in her lap. Then passing a hand over her head, she removed her kerchief, revealing light brown hair cut as short as a man’s.
“It’s Mishka, isn’t it . . . ,” the Count said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A week ago today.”
The Count nodded, as one who had been expecting the news for some time. He didn’t ask Katerina how his old friend had died, and she didn’t offer to tell him. It was plain enough that he had been betrayed by his times.
“Were you with him?” asked the Count.
“Yes.”
“In Yavas?”
“Yes.”
. . .
“I was under the impression that . . .”
“I lost my husband some time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Do you have children . . . ?”
“No.”
She said it curtly, as if in response to a foolish question; but then she continued more softly. “I received word from Mikhail in January. I went to him in Yavas. We have been together these last six months.” After a moment, she added: “He spoke of you often.”
“He was a loyal friend,” said the Count.
“He was a man of devotions,” corrected Katerina.
The Count had been about to remark on Mishka’s propensity for getting into scrapes and his love of pacing, but she had just described his old friend better than he ever had. Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich was a man of devotions.
“And a fine poet,” the Count added, almost to himself.
“One of two.”
The Count looked to Katerina as if he didn’t understand. Then he offered a wistful smile.
“I’ve never written a poem in my life,” he said.
Now, it was Katerina who didn’t understand.
“What do you mean? What about Where Is It Now?”
“It was Mishka who wrote that poem. In the south parlor at Idlehour . . . In the summer of 1913 . . .”
As Katerina still looked confused, the Count elaborated.
“What with the revolt of 1905 and the repressions that followed, when we graduated it was still a dangerous time for writing poems of political impatience. Given Mishka’s background, the Okhrana would have swept him up with a broom. So one night—after polishing off a particularly good bottle of Margaux—we decided to publish the poem under my name.”
“But why yours?”
“What were they going to do to Count Alexander Rostov—member of the Jockey Club and godson of a counselor to the Tsar?” The Count shook his head. “The irony, of course, is that the life which ended up being saved was mine, not his. But for that poem, they would have shot me back in 1922.”
Katerina, who had listened to this story intently, was suddenly holding back tears.
“Ah, but there you have him,” she said.
They were both silent as she regained her composure.
“I want you to know,” said the Count, “how much I appreciate your coming to tell me in person.” But Katerina dismissed his gratitude.
“I came at Mikhail’s request. He asked me to bring you something.”
From her satchel she took out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.
Taking the package in hand, the Count could tell from its weight that it was a book.
“It is his project,” said the Count with a smile.
“Yes,” she said. Then she added with pointed emphasis: “He slaved over it.”
The Count nodded to express his understanding and to assure Katerina that he did not take the bestowal lightly.
Katerina looked once more around the room with a light shake of the head as if it somehow exemplified the mystery of outcomes; then she said that she should go.
The Count rose to his feet with her, setting Mishka’s project on the chair.
“Are you going back to Yavas?” he asked.
“No.”
“Will you be staying in Moscow?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Does it matter?”
She turned to go.
“Katerina . . .”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
Katerina looked surprised at first by the Count’s offer, then ready to dismiss it. But after a moment, she said: “Remember him.”
Then she went out the door.