“Yes, thank you,” said the Count to Mr. Webster. “A glass of whiskey might just hit the spot.”
And as it turned out, the Count’s instincts had been perfectly right, for the glass of whiskey hit the spot. As did the second.
So when he finally bid Mr. Webster goodnight (with a package of American cigarettes for Anna in one pocket and a chocolate bar for Sofia in the other), the Count headed homeward in an elevated frame of mind.
The fourth-floor hallway was empty and still. Behind the line of closed doors slept the practical and predictable, the cautious and comfortable. Tucked under their covers, they dreamt of breakfast, leaving the hallways of night to be walked by the likes of Samuel Spadsky and Philip Marlov and Alexander Ilyich Rostov. . . .
“Yes,” said the Count as he weaved down the hall: “I am the waiter.”
Then with the finely attuned senses of his brotherhood, the Count noticed something suggestive out of the corner of his eye. It was the door to room 428.
Boris Godunov was a production of three and a half hours. A post-theater supper would last an hour and a half. So, in all likelihood, the Italians would not return to the hotel for another thirty minutes. The Count knocked and waited; he knocked again to be sure; then retrieving the key from his vest, he unlocked the door and crossed the threshold clear-eyed, quick, and without compunction.
In a glance, he could see that the night service had already visited the suite, for everything was in its proper place: the chairs, the magazines, the carafe of water and glasses. In the bedroom, he found the corners of the bed turned down at an angle of forty-five degrees.
Opening the right closet door, he was about to take the newsboy’s cap off its hook when he noticed something he’d missed before. On the shelf above the clothes was a bundle wrapped in paper and tied with twine—a bundle about the size of a small statuette. . . .
Putting the newsboy’s cap on his head, the Count took the bundle off the shelf and laid it on the bed. He untied the string and carefully peeled back the paper—only to find a set of Russian nesting dolls. Painted in a simple if traditional style, available in a hundred Moscow shops, the matryoshka was just that sort of whimsical toy that two parents would bring home to their child from a trip to Russia.
And in which they could easily hide something . . .
Sitting on the bed, the Count opened the largest of the nesting dolls. Then he opened the second largest of the nesting dolls. Then he opened the third largest of the nesting dolls. And he was about to open the fourth, when he heard a key in the lock.
For a moment, the Man of Intent was a Man Who Didn’t Know What to Do. But at the sound of the hallway door opening and the two Italian voices, the Count swept up the halves of the dolls, slipped into the closet, and quietly closed the door.
The shelf that ran above the hanging bar must have been less than six feet off the ground, because in order to fit in the closet, the Count had to bend his head like a penitent. (Point taken.)
It took only a few moments for the couple to shed their coats and come into the bedroom. If they went into the bathroom to perform their nightly toilette together, thought the Count, he would have the perfect opportunity to escape. But room 428 had only a small bath, and rather than crowd each other at the sink, the husband and wife chose to take turns.
Listening closely, the Count could hear the brushing of respective teeth, the opening of drawers, and the donning of pajamas. He could hear the bedsheets being pulled back. He could hear some quiet conversation, the lifting of books, and the turning of pages. After fifteen minutes, or an eternity, there was an exchange of endearments, a delicate kiss, and the lights went out. By the grace of God, this fine-looking couple opted for rest over intimacy. . . .
But how long, the Count wondered, would it take for them to fall asleep? Being careful not to move a muscle, he listened to their breathing. He heard a cough; a sniff; a sigh. Then someone rolling on their side. He might have worried about falling asleep himself, if it weren’t for the crippling pain in his neck and the creeping realization that he would soon need a toilette of his own.
Well, there you have it, thought the Count: one more reason not to drink after midnight . . .
“Che cos ’era questo?! Tesoro, svegliati!”
“Cos’è?”
“C’è qualcuno nella stanza!”
. . .
[Bump]
“Chi è la?”
“Scusa.”
“Claudio! Accendi la luce!”
[Bam]
“Scusa.”
[Crash]
“Arrivederci!”
Adulthood
Are you ready?” asked Marina.
The Count and Anna, who were sitting side by side on the couch in the actress’s suite, answered in the affirmative.
With a fitting sense of ceremony, Marina opened the bedroom door to reveal Sofia.
The dress that the seamstress had fashioned for the concert was a long-sleeved gown in the trumpet style—fitted above the waist and flared below the knee. The blue of the fabric, which recalled the depths of the ocean, provided an otherworldly contrast to the fairness of Sofia’s skin and the blackness of her hair.
Anna let out a gasp.
Marina beamed.
And the Count?
Alexander Rostov was neither scientist nor sage; but at the age of sixty-four he was wise enough to know that life does not proceed by leaps and bounds. It unfolds. At any given moment, it is the manifestation of a thousand transitions. Our faculties wax and wane, our experiences accumulate, and our opinions evolve—if not glacially, then at least gradually. Such that the events of an average day are as likely to transform who we are as a pinch of pepper is to transform a stew. And yet, for the Count, when the doors to Anna’s bedroom opened and Sofia stepped forward in her gown, at that very moment she crossed the threshold into adulthood. On one side of that divide was a girl of five or ten or twenty with a quiet demeanor and a whimsical imagination who relied upon him for companionship and counsel; while on the other side was a young woman of discernment and grace who need rely on no one but herself.
“Well? What do you think?” asked Sofia shyly.
“I’m speechless,” said the Count with unabashed pride.
“You look magnificent,” said Anna.
“Doesn’t she, though?” said Marina.
Gay with the compliments and the sound of Anna’s applause, Sofia spun once on her feet.
And that is when the Count discovered, to his utter disbelief, that there was no back to the dress. The taffeta (which had been purchased by the bolt, mind you) fell away from her shoulders in a vertiginous parabola that reached its nadir at the base of Sofia’s spine.
The Count turned upon Anna.
“I suppose this was your doing!”
The actress stopped clapping.
“What was my doing?”
He waved his hand in Sofia’s direction.
“This dressless dress. No doubt it was drawn from one of your convenient magazines.”
Before Anna could respond, Marina stomped her foot.
“This was my doing!”
Startled by the seamstress’s tone, the Count saw with some trepidation that while one of her eyes had rolled toward the ceiling in exasperation, the other was bearing down on him like a cannonball.
“It is a dress of my design,” she said, “fashioned from my handiwork for my Sofia.”
Recognizing that he may have unintentionally insulted an artist, the Count adopted a more conciliatory tone.
“It is unquestionably a beautiful dress, Marina. One of the finest I have ever seen; and I have seen many fine dresses in my time.” Here the Count gave an awkward little laugh in the hopes of clearing the air and then continued in a tone of fellowship and common sense. “But after months of preparation, Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier. Wouldn’t it be a pity if, instead of listening to her play, the audience was staring at her back?”
“Perhaps we should drape her in sackcloth,” suggested the seamstress. “To ensure that the audience is not distracted.”