“Ah, well. I’m afraid that it’s locked.”
But Nina looked left and looked right.
The Count followed suit.
Then she raised her hands under her hair and unhooked the delicate chain that she wore around her neck. Dangling at the bottom of the golden parabola was the pendant the Count had first observed at the Piazza, but it was neither a lucky charm nor locket. It was a passkey for the hotel!
Nina slid the key from its chain and handed it to the Count so that he could do the honors. Slipping it through the skull-shaped hole in the escutcheon, the Count turned gently and listened as the tumblers fell into place with a satisfying click. Then he opened the door and Nina gasped, for inside there was a treasure trove.
Quite literally.
On shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling was the hotel’s silver service, shimmering as if it had been polished that very morning.
“What is it all for?” she asked in amazement.
“For banquets,” replied the Count.
Alongside the stacks of Sèvres plates bearing the hotel’s insignia were samovars that stood two feet tall and soup tureens that looked like the goblets of the gods. There were coffeepots and gravy boats. There was an assortment of utensils, each of which had been designed with the greatest care to serve a single culinary purpose. From among them, Nina picked up what looked like a delicate spade with a plunger and an ivory handle. Depressing the lever, Nina watched as the two opposing blades opened and shut, then she looked to the Count in wonder.
“An asparagus server,” he explained.
“Does a banquet really need an asparagus server?”
“Does an orchestra need a bassoon?”
As Nina returned it gently to the shelf, the Count wondered how many times he had been served by that implement? How many times had he eaten off these plates? The bicentennial of St. Petersburg had been celebrated in the Metropol’s ballroom, as had the centennial of Pushkin’s birth and the annual dinner of the Backgammon Club. And then there were the more intimate gatherings that took place in the two private dining rooms adjacent to the Boyarsky: the Yellow and Red Rooms. In their heyday, these retreats were so conducive to frank expressions of sentiment that if one were to eavesdrop at their tables for a month, one would be able to anticipate all of the bankruptcies, weddings, and wars of the year to come.
The Count let his eyes wander over the shelves, then shook his head to express a sense of mystification.
“Surely, the Bolsheviks have discovered this windfall. I wonder why it wasn’t carted off?”
Nina responded with the unclouded judgment of a child.
“Perhaps they need it here.”
Yes, thought the Count. That is it precisely.
For however decisive the Bolsheviks’ victory had been over the privileged classes on behalf of the Proletariat, they would be having banquets soon enough. Perhaps there would not be as many as there had been under the Romanovs—no autumn dances or diamond jubilees—but they were bound to celebrate something, whether the centennial of Das Kapital or the silver anniversary of Lenin’s beard. Guest lists would be drawn up and shortened. Invitations would be engraved and delivered. Then, having gathered around a grand circle of tables, the new statesmen would nod their heads in order to indicate to a waiter (without interrupting the long-winded fellow on his feet) that, yes, they would have a few more spears of asparagus.
For pomp is a tenacious force. And a wily one too.
How humbly it bows its head as the emperor is dragged down the steps and tossed in the street. But then, having quietly bided its time, while helping the newly appointed leader on with his jacket, it compliments his appearance and suggests the wearing of a medal or two. Or, having served him at a formal dinner, it wonders aloud if a taller chair might not have been more fitting for a man with such responsibilities. The soldiers of the common man may toss the banners of the old regime on the victory pyre, but soon enough trumpets will blare and pomp will take its place at the side of the throne, having once again secured its dominion over history and kings.
Nina was running her fingers over the various serving implements with a blend of admiration and awe. Then she came to a stop.
“What is that?”
On the shelf behind a candelabra stood a three-inch-tall woman fashioned from silver with the hooped skirt and towering hair of a Marie Antoinette.
“It’s a summoner,” said the Count.
“A summoner?”
“To be placed on the table beside the hostess.”
The Count picked up the little lady by her bouffant and when he waggled her to and fro, out from under her skirt came that delightful jangle (at a high C) that had prompted the end of a thousand courses and the clearing of fifty thousand plates.
In the days that followed, Nina presented her curriculum systematically, leading her student from room to room. At the onset, the Count had assumed that all their classes would be held on the hotel’s lower levels, where its services were housed. But having visited the basement, the mail room, the switchboard, and all the other nooks of the first floor, one afternoon they proceeded up the staircase to the suites.
Now, admittedly, the exploration of private apartments represents something of a break with decorum, but Nina’s interest in visiting the rooms was not thievery. Nor was it snooping per se. It was the views.
Each of the rooms of the Metropol offered an entirely different perspective—one that was shaped not only by altitude and orientation, but by season and time of day. Thus, if by chance one cared to watch the battalions marching toward Red Square on the Seventh of November, one should go no further than room 322. But when one wished to drop snowballs on unsuspecting strollers, this was best accomplished from the deep-ledged windows of 405. Even room 244, a rather depressing little spot overlooking the alley behind the hotel, had its allure: for from there, if one leaned far enough out of the window, one could watch the fruit sellers gather at the kitchen door and catch the occasional apple tossed from below.
But if one wished to watch the arrival of guests at the Bolshoi on a summer night, the best vantage point, without question, was the northwest window of 317. And so . . .
On the twelfth of July at seven o’clock, as the Count was crossing the lobby, Nina caught his eye and gave him the signal. Two minutes later, having joined her on the stairs, he was trailing her past rooms 313, 314, and 315, toward the door of his old suite. And when Nina turned the key and slipped inside, the Count dutifully followed—but with a palpable sense of foreboding.
In a glance the Count reacquainted himself with every inch of the room. The couch and chairs upholstered in red remained, as did the grandfather clock and the large Chinese urns from Idlehour. On the French coffee table (that had been supplied to replace his grandmother’s) was a folded copy of Pravda, a silver service, and an unfinished cup of tea.
“Quick,” she said again, as she padded across the room to the window at the northwest corner.
Across Theatre Square the Bolshoi was lit from portico to pediment. The Bolsheviks who, as usual, were dressed like the cast of La Bohème, were taking advantage of the warm night air by mingling among the columns. Suddenly, the lights in the lobby flickered. Scuffing out their cigarettes, the men took their ladies by the elbow. But just as the last of the attendees was disappearing through the doors, a taxi pulled to the curb, the door flung open, and a woman in red dashed up the stairs with the hem of her dress in her hands.
Leaning forward, Nina cupped her palms against the glass and squinted.
“If only I were there and she were here,” she sighed.
And there, thought the Count, was a suitable plaint for all mankind.