Within minutes he had reviewed all the reservations in January and February. He paused at one event scheduled for the Yellow Room in March and at another scheduled for the Red Room in April, but neither would do. As he moved further into the future, the pages of the Book became increasingly bare. Whole weeks passed without a single entry. The Count began flipping the pages with a quicker pace, and even a hint of desperation—that is, until he landed on the eleventh of June. Having studied the marginal notes written in Andrey’s delicate script, the Count tapped the entry twice. A combined dinner of the Presidium and the Council of Ministers—two of the most powerful bodies in the Soviet Union.
Returning the Book to its drawer, the Count climbed the stairs to his bedroom, pushed his chair aside, sat on the floor, and for the first time in almost thirty years opened one of the hidden doors in the legs of the Grand Duke’s desk. For while the Count may have resolved to take action on the night of Katerina’s visit six months before, it was only with news of the Conservatory’s goodwill tour that the clock had begun to tick.
When the Count arrived at the Shalyapin at six o’clock that night, the denizens of the bar were celebrating the misadventures of “Pudgy” Webster, a gregarious if somewhat hapless American who had recently arrived in the capital. Twenty-nine years old and still suffering from that affliction for which he had been nicknamed as a boy, Pudgy had been sent to Russia by his father—the owner of the American Vending Machine Company of Montclair, New Jersey—with strict instructions that he not come home until he had sold a thousand machines. After three weeks, he had finally secured his first meeting with a Party official (the assistant to the manager of the skating rink in Gorky Park), and had thus been convinced by several journalists to sponsor a round of champagne.
Taking a stool at the other end of the bar, the Count accepted a flute from Audrius with a grateful nod and the smile of one who has his own cause for celebration. The designs of men are notoriously subservient to happenstance, hesitation, and haste; but had the Count been given the power to engineer an optimal course of events, he could not have done a better job than Fate was doing on its own. So with a smile on his lips, he raised his glass.
But to toast Fate is to tempt Fate; and sure enough, even as the Count set his flute down on the bar, a gust of frozen air brushed against the nape of his neck, followed by an urgent whisper.
“Your Excellency!”
Turning on his stool, the Count was surprised to find Viktor Stepanovich standing behind him with frost on his shoulders and snow on his cap. A few months before, Viktor had joined a chamber orchestra and thus was rarely at the hotel in the evening. What’s more, he was panting as if he had just sprinted across the city.
“Viktor!” exclaimed the Count. “What is it? You look in a state.”
Viktor ignored the remark and began to speak with uncharacteristic impatience.
“I know that you are protective of your daughter, Your Excellency, and rightfully so. Such is the prerogative of any parent, and the duty of one who is raising a tender heart. But with all due respect, I think you are making a terrible mistake. She will be graduating in six months, and her chances of receiving a worthy position will only be hampered by your decision.”
“Viktor,” said the Count, rising from his stool. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Viktor studied the Count.
“You did not instruct Sofia to withdraw her name?”
“Withdraw her name from what?”
“I just received a call from Director Vavilov. He informed me that she has declined the invitation to travel with the Conservatory’s orchestra.”
“Declined the invitation! I assure you, my friend, that I had no idea. In fact, I agree with you hares, hounds, and horses that the brightness of her future depends upon her performing on that tour.”
The two men looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“She must have acted of her own accord,” said the Count after a moment.
“But to what end?”
He shook his head.
“I fear it may be my fault, Viktor. Yesterday afternoon, when we received the news, I made so much of it: The chance to play Rachmaninov before an audience of thousands in the Palais Garnier! I must have triggered feelings of trepidation. She has a tender heart, as you say; but she also has spunk. She is bound to come around in the weeks ahead.”
Viktor took the Count by the sleeve.
“But there are no weeks ahead. On Friday, a public announcement will be made describing the orchestra’s itinerary and the musical program. The director will need to have all of his performers in place before the announcement. Assuming that the decision to withdraw Sofia was yours, I gained his assurance that he would wait twenty-four hours before making a new appointment—so that I could try to persuade you. If she has made this decision on her own, then you must speak to her tonight and change her mind. She must come to the defense of her own talent!”
One hour later at table ten of the Boyarsky, with menus perused and orders placed, Sofia looked to the Count expectantly—as it was his turn to play first in Zut. But, despite the fact that he had prepared a promising category (common uses for wax),* the Count opted instead to summon an untold story from the past.
“Have I ever told you about Ribbon Day at the academy?” he began.
“Yes,” Sofia said. “You have.”
Furrowing his brow, the Count reviewed all of the conversations that he had ever had with his daughter in chronological order and could find no evidence of having told her the tale before.
“I may have mentioned something about Ribbon Day once or twice,” he conceded, to be polite, “but I am quite sure that I have never told you this particular story. You see, as a boy I had a certain aptitude for marksmanship. And one spring—when I was about your age—there was a Ribbon Day at the academy in which we were all chosen to compete in different events—”
“Weren’t you closer to thirteen?”
“What’s that?”
“Weren’t you thirteen when this happened?”
The Count’s eyes went back and forth as he completed certain calculations.
“Well, yes,” he continued somewhat impatiently, “I suppose I was something like thirteen. The important point is that given my marksmanship, I was generally regarded throughout the school as the favorite in the archery competition, and I looked forward to the event with great anticipation. But the closer we got to Ribbon Day, the worse my marksmanship became. Well known for piercing grapes at fifty paces, I suddenly couldn’t hit the hide of an elephant at fifteen feet. Just the sight of my bow made my hands shake and my eyes water. Suddenly, I—a Rostov—found myself flirting with the notion of inventing an illness and checking into the infirmary—”
“But you didn’t.”
“That’s right. I didn’t.”
The Count took a sip of wine and paused for dramatic effect.
“At last the dreaded day arrived; and with all the spectators assembled on the sporting fields, the time came for the archery event. Even as I faced the target, I could anticipate the humiliation that was sure to follow when—despite my reputation—my arrow would shoot wide of its mark. But as with trembling hands I drew back my bow, from the corner of my eye I happened to see old Professor Tartakov trip over his walking stick and topple into a pile of manure. Well, the sight filled me with such joy that my fingers released the bow of their own accord—”
“And having sailed through the air, your arrow landed in the center of the target.”
“Well, yes. That’s right. The very center. So perhaps I have told you this story before. But did you know that ever since that day, when I have been anxious about my aim, I have thought of old Professor Tartakov tumbling into the manure and have reliably hit my mark.”
The Count turned his hand in the air in a concluding flourish.
Sofia smiled but with a perplexed expression, as if she wasn’t quite sure why the renowned marksman had chosen to relay this particular tale at this particular time. So, the Count elaborated.
“In life, it is the same for all of us. We are bound to face moments of trepidation whether we venture onto the floor of the senate, the field of athletics, or . . . the stage of a concert hall.”
Sofia stared at the Count, for a moment then let out a bright laugh.
“The stage of a concert hall.”
“Yes,” said the Count, a little offended. “The stage of a concert hall.”
“Someone has told you about my conversation with Director Vavilov.”