A Gentleman in Moscow

by Amor Towles

  If the kitchen of the Boyarsky is an orchestra and Emile its conductor, then his chopping knife is the baton. With a blade two inches wide at the base and ten inches long to the tip, it is rarely out of his hand and never far from reach. Though the kitchen is outfitted with paring knives, boning knives, carving knives, and cleavers, Emile can complete any of the various tasks for which those knives were designed with his ten-inch chopper. With it he can skin a rabbit. He can zest a lemon. He can peel and quarter a grape. He can use it to flip a pancake or stir a soup, and with the stabbing end he can measure out a teaspoon of sugar or a dash of salt. But most of all, he uses it for pointing.

  “You,” he says to the saucier, waving the point of his chopper. “Are you going to boil that to nothing? What are you going to use it for, eh? To pave roads? To paint icons?

  “You,” he says to the conscientious new apprentice at the end of the counter. “What are you doing there? It took less time for that parsley to grow than for you to mince it!”

  And on the last day of spring? It is Stanislav who receives the tip of the knife. For in the midst of trimming the fat from racks of lamb, Emile suddenly stops and glares across the table.

  “You!” he says, pointing the chopper at Stanislav’s nose. “What is that?”

  Stanislav, a lanky Estonian who has dutifully studied his master’s every move, looks up from his pigeons with startled eyes.

  “What is what, sir?”

  “What is that you’re whistling?”

  Admittedly, there has been a melody playing in Stanislav’s head—a little something that he had heard the night before while passing the entrance of the hotel’s bar—but he had not been conscious of whistling it. And now that he faces the chopper, he cannot for the life of him remember what the melody was.

  “I am not certain,” he confesses.

  “Not certain! Were you whistling or weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. It was I who must have been whistling. But I assure you it was just a ditty.”

  “Just a ditty?”

  “A little song.”

  “I know what a ditty is! But under what authority are you whistling one? Eh? Has the Central Committee made you Commissar of Ditty Whistling? Is that the Grand Order of Dittyness I see pinned to your chest?”

  Without looking down, Emile slams his chopper to the counter, splitting a lamb chop from its rack as if he were severing the melody from Stanislav’s memory once and for all. The chef raises his chopper again and points its tip, but before he can elaborate, that door which separates Emile’s kitchen from the rest of the world swings open. It is Andrey, as prompt as ever, with his Book in hand and a pair of spectacles resting on the top of his head. Like a brigand after a skirmish, Emile slips his chopper under the tie of his apron and then looks expectantly at the door, which a moment later swings again.

  With the slightest turn of the wrist the shards of glass tumble into a new arrangement. The blue cap of the bellhop is handed from one boy to the next, a dress as yellow as a canary is stowed in a trunk, a little red guidebook is updated with the new names of streets, and through Emile’s swinging door walks Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov—with the white dinner jacket of the Boyarsky draped across his arm.

  One minute later, sitting at the table in the little office overlooking the kitchen were Emile, Andrey, and the Count—that Triumvirate which met each day at 2:15 to decide the fate of the restaurant’s staff, its customers, its chickens and tomatoes.

  As was customary, Andrey convened the meeting by resting his reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opening the Book.

  “There are no parties in the private rooms tonight,” he began, “but every table in the dining room is reserved for two seatings.”

  “Ah,” said Emile with the grim smile of the commander who prefers to be outnumbered. “But you’re not going to rush them, eh?”

  “Absolutely not,” assured the Count. “We’ll simply see to it that their menus are delivered promptly and their orders taken directly.”

  Emile nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Are there any complications?” asked the Count of the maître d’.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Andrey spun the Book so that his headwaiter could see for himself.

  The Count ran a finger down the list of reservations. As Andrey had said, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The Commissar of Transport loathed American journalists; the German ambassador loathed the Commissar of Transport; and the deputy head of the OGPU was loathed by all.* The most delicate matter was that two different members of the Politburo were hosting tables during the second seating. As both were relatively new to their positions, it was not essential that either have the best tables in the house. What was essential was that their treatment be identical in every respect. They must be served with equal attention at tables of equal size equidistant from the kitchen door. And ideally, they would be on opposite sides of the centerpiece (tonight an arrangement of irises).

  “What do you think?” asked Andrey, with his pen in hand.

  As the Count made his suggestions of who should sit where, there came a delicate knock on the door. Stanislav entered, carrying a serving bowl and platter.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” the sous-chef said to Andrey and the Count with a friendly smile. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Emile with a scowl. “We know, we know.”

  Stanislav apologetically placed the bowl and platter on the table, even as Emile waved him from the room. Once he was gone, the chef gestured at the offering. “In addition to our normal fare, tonight we have cucumber soup and rack of lamb with a red wine reduction.”

  On the table were three teacups. Emile ladled the soup into two of the cups and waited for his colleagues to sample it.

  “Excellent,” said Andrey.

  Emile nodded and then turned to the Count with his eyebrows raised.

  A puree of peeled cucumber, thought the Count. Yogurt, of course. A bit of salt. Not as much dill as one might expect. In fact, something else entirely . . . Something that speaks just as eloquently of summer’s approach, but with a little more flair . . .

  “Mint?” he asked.

  The chef responded with the smile of the bested.

  “Bravo, monsieur.”

  “. . . To anticipate the lamb,” the Count added with appreciation.

  Emile bowed his head once and then, slipping the chopper from his waist, he carved four chops from the rack and stacked two on each of his colleagues’ plates.

  The lamb, which had been encrusted with rosemary and breadcrumbs, was savory and tender. Both maître d’ and headwaiter sighed in appreciation.

  Thanks to a member of the Central Committee, who had tried unsuccessfully to order a bottle of Bordeaux for the new French ambassador in 1927, wines with labels could once again be found in the Metropol’s cellar (after all, despite its considerable size, the neck of a dragon has been known to whip about like that of an asp). So, turning to the Count, Andrey asked what he thought they should recommend with the lamb.

  “For those who can afford it, the Château Latour ’99.”

  The chef and maître d’ nodded.

  “And for those who cannot?”

  The Count considered.

  “Perhaps a Côtes du Rhône.”

  “Excellent,” said Andrey.

  Picking up his chopper, Emile pointed at the rest of the rack and cautioned the Count: “Tell your boys that my lamb is served rare. If someone wants it medium, they can go to a canteen.”

  The Count expressed his comprehension and willingness to comply. Then Andrey closed the Book and Emile wiped his chopper. But as they began pushing back their chairs, the Count remained where he was.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Just one more thing before we adjou
rn. . . .”

  Given the expression on the Count’s face, the chef and the maître d’ pulled their chairs back to the table.

  The Count looked through the window into the kitchen to confirm that the staff were consumed with their work. Then from his jacket pocket he took the envelope that had been slipped under his door. When he tipped it over Emile’s unused teacup, out poured filaments of a red and golden hue.

  The three men were silent for a moment.

  Emile sat back.

  “Bravo,” he said again.

  “May I?” asked Andrey.

  “Certainly.”

  Andrey picked up the teacup and tipped it back and forth. Then he replaced it so gently on its saucer that the porcelain didn’t make a sound.

  “Is it enough?”

  Having watched the filaments spill from the envelope, the chef didn’t need a second look.

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Do we still have the fennel?”

  “There are a few bulbs at the back of the larder. We’ll have to discard the outer leaves, but otherwise they’re fine.”

  “Did you hear back about the oranges?” asked the Count.

  With a somber look, the chef shook his head.

  “How many would we need?” asked Andrey.

  “Two. Maybe three.”

  “I think I know where some can be found. . . .”

  “Can they be found today?” asked the chef.

  Andrey pulled the pocket watch from his vest and consulted it in the palm of his hand.

  “With any luck.”

  Where would Andrey be able to acquire three oranges on such short notice? Another restaurant? One of the special stores for hard currencies? A patron in the upper echelons of the Party? Well, for that matter, where did the Count acquire an ounce and a half of saffron? Such questions had stopped being asked years ago. Suffice it to say, the saffron was in hand and the oranges within reach.

  The three conspirators exchanged satisfied glances and then pushed back their chairs. Andrey put his glasses back on his head as Emile turned to the Count.

  “You’ll get the menus in their hands directly and their orders taken promptly, eh? No malingering?”

  “No malingering.”

  “Well then,” concluded the chef. “We meet at half past twelve.”

  When the Count left the Boyarsky with his white jacket draped across his arm, there was a smile on his lips and a jauntiness to his step. In fact, there was a brightness in his whole demeanor.

  “Greetings, Grisha,” he said as he passed the bellhop (who was on his way up the stairs with a vase of tiger lilies two feet tall).

  “Guten tag,” he said to the lovely young Fraulein in the lavender blouse (who was waiting by the elevator door).

  The Count’s good humor was due in part, no doubt, to the reading on the thermometer. Over the previous three weeks, the temperature had climbed four and a half degrees, setting in motion that course of natural and human events which culminates in hints of mint in cucumber soups, lavender blouses at elevator doors, and midday deliveries of tiger lilies two feet tall. Also lightening his step were the promises of an afternoon assignation and a midnight rendezvous. But the factor that most directly contributed to the Count’s good humor was the double bravo from Emile. This was something that had occurred only once or twice in four years.

  Passing through the lobby, the Count returned the friendly wave from the new fellow at the mail window and hailed Vasily, who was hanging up his phone (having undoubtedly secured another two tickets for some sold-out performance).

  “Good afternoon, my friend. Hard at work I see.”

  In acknowledgment, the concierge gestured to the lobby, which bustled almost as much as it had in its prewar prime. As if on cue, the telephone on his desk began to ring, the bellhop’s bell triple-chimed, and someone called out, “Comrade! Comrade!”

  Ah, comrade, thought the Count. Now, there was a word for the ages. . . .

  When the Count was a boy in St. Petersburg, one rarely bumped into it. It was always prowling at the back of a mill or under the table in a tavern, occasionally leaving its paw marks on the freshly printed pamphlets that were drying on a basement floor. Now, thirty years later, it was the most commonly heard word in the Russian language.

  A wonder of semantic efficiency, comrade could be used as a greeting, or a word of parting. As a congratulations, or a caution. As a call to action, or a remonstrance. Or it could simply be the means of securing someone’s attention in the crowded lobby of a grand hotel. And thanks to the word’s versatility, the Russian people had finally been able to dispense with tired formalities, antiquated titles, bothersome idioms—even names! Where else in all of Europe could one shout a single word to hail any of one’s countrymen be they male or female, young or old, friend or foe?

  “Comrade!” someone called again—this time with a little more urgency. And then he tugged on the Count’s sleeve.

  Startled, the Count turned to find the new fellow from the mail window at his elbow.

  “Well, hello there. How can I be of service to you, young man?”

  The fellow looked perplexed at the Count’s question, having assumed that it was his position to be of service to someone else.

  “There is a letter for you,” he explained.

  “For me?”

  “Yes, comrade. It came yesterday.”

  The young fellow pointed back toward the window to indicate where the letter remained.

  “Well, in that case, after you,” said the Count.

  Civil servant and customer proceeded to their appropriate stations on either side of that small window which separates the written from the read.

  “Here it is,” he said, after a moment of sorting.

  “Thank you, my good man.”

  Taking the envelope in hand, the Count was half expecting to find it addressed to Comrade, but there (under two postage stamps bearing the likeness of Lenin) was the Count’s full name—written in an indifferently groomed, relatively reclusive, occasionally argumentative script.

  When the Count had come down to the lobby from the Boyarsky, he had been on his way to the office of the shy delight, where he hoped to secure a length of white thread for a button that had been compromised on his jacket. But he had not seen Mishka in almost half a year; and at the very moment that he recognized his old friend’s script, a lady with a lapdog rose from his favorite chair between the potted palms. Ever respectful of Fate, the Count postponed his visit to the seamstress, claimed his seat, and opened the letter.

  Leningrad

  June 14, 1930

  Dear Sasha,

  At four this morning, unable to sleep, I ventured out into the old city. As the revelers of the white nights had already stumbled home and the tram conductors had yet to don their caps, I strolled along Nevsky Prospekt through a stillness of spring that seemed stolen from another province, if not another time.

  Nevsky, like the city itself, bears a new name: October 25th Prospekt—a worthy day staking its claim on a storied street. But at this hour, it was just as you remember it, my friend. And with no destination in mind, I crossed the Moika and Fontanka Canals, I passed the shops, and the rose-hued facades of the grand old homes until, at last, I reached Tikhvin Cemetery, where the bodies of Dostoevsky and Tchaikovsky slumber a few feet apart. (Do you remember how late into the night we would debate the genius of the one over the other?)

  And suddenly it struck me that walking the length of Nevsky Prospekt was like walking the length of Russian literature. Right there at the beginning—just off the avenue on the Moika embankment—is the house where Pushkin ended his years. A few paces on are the rooms where Gogol began Dead Souls. Then the National Library, where Tolstoy scoured the archives. And here, behind the cemetery walls, lies brother Fyodor, our restless witness of th
e human soul entombed beneath the cherry trees.

  As I was standing lost in thought, the sun rose above the cemetery walls, shining its light down the Prospekt and, nearly overcome, I recalled that great affirmation, that proclamation, that promise:

  Always to shine,

  to shine everywhere,

  to the very depths of the last days . . .

  Before turning to the second page of his old friend’s letter, the Count found himself looking up, deeply moved.

  It was not the memories of St. Petersburg that affected him so—not some nostalgia for his youth among the rose-hued facades, or for his years with Mishka in the apartment above the cobbler’s. Nor was it Mishka’s sentimental reminders of Russia’s literary greatness. What moved the Count was the thought of his old friend venturing out into this stolen spring barely aware of where he was headed. For from the letter’s first line, the Count had known exactly where Mishka was headed.

  It had been four years since Mishka had moved to Kiev with Katerina; it had been one year since she had left him for another man; and six months since he had returned to St. Petersburg to barricade himself once again behind his books. Then one spring night at four in the morning, unable to sleep, he finds himself on Nevsky Prospekt following the very same route that he had walked with Katerina on the day that she had first taken his hand. And there, as the sun begins to rise, he is overcome with thoughts of an affirmation, a proclamation, a promise—a promise to shine everywhere and always to very depths of the last days—which, after all, is all that anyone has ever asked of love.

  As these thoughts passed through the Count’s mind, was he concerned that Mishka still pined for Katerina? Was he concerned that his old friend was morbidly retracing the footsteps of a lapsed romance?

  Concerned? Mishka would pine for Katerina the rest of his life! Never again would he walk Nevsky Prospekt, however they chose to rename it, without feeling an unbearable sense of loss. And that is just how it should be. That sense of loss is exactly what we must anticipate, prepare for, and cherish to the last of our days; for it is only our heartbreak that finally refutes all that is ephemeral in love.