the Count, who in turn reached for his glass of wine.
“Alexander . . . You have read the book. . . .”
“Of course I have read the book,” confirmed the Count, putting down his glass.
“I mean, you have read both volumes—to the very last page.”
“Osip, my friend, it is a fundamental rule of academic study that whether a student has read every word of a work matters less than whether he has established a reasonable familiarity with its essential material.”
“And to which page does your reasonable familiarity extend in this particular work?”
“Ahem,” said the Count, opening to the table of contents. “Let me see now. . . . Yes, yes, yes.” He looked up at Osip. “Eighty-seven?”
Osip considered the Count for a moment. Then he picked up de Tocqueville and hurled him across the room. The French historian crashed headfirst into a framed photograph of Lenin leaning over a podium—shattering the glass and falling to the floor with a thud. The door to the Yellow Room flew open and the Goliath leapt inside with his firearm drawn.
“Gadzooks!” exclaimed the Count, raising his hands above his head.
Osip, on the verge of commanding his bodyguard to shoot his tutor, took a deep breath, then simply shook his head.
“It’s all right, Vladimir.”
Vladimir nodded once and returned to his station in the hall.
Osip folded his hands on the table and looked at the Count, waiting for an explanation.
“I am so sorry,” the Count said in genuine embarrassment. “I meant to finish it, Osip. In fact, I had cleared my calendar today in order to read the rest, when . . . circumstances intervened.”
“Circumstances.”
“Unexpected circumstances.”
“What sort of unexpected circumstances?”
“A young lady.”
“A young lady!”
“The daughter of an old friend. She appeared out of the blue, and will be staying with me for a spell.”
Osip looked at the Count as if dumbfounded, then let out a laugh.
“Well, well, well. Alexander Ilyich. A young lady staying with you. Why didn’t you say so. You are utterly absolved, you old fox. Or at least, mostly so. We shall have our de Tocqueville, mind you; and you shall read every last page. But for now, don’t let me keep you another second. It’s not too late for some caviar in the Shalyapin. Then you can whisk her to the Piazza for a little dancing.”
“Actually . . . she’s a very young lady.”
. . .
“How young a lady?”
“Five or six?”
“Five or six!”
“I’d say almost certainly six.”
“You are hosting an almost certainly six-year-old.”
“Yes . . .”
“In your room.”
“Precisely.”
“For how long?”
“A few weeks. Maybe a month. But no more than two . . .”
Osip smiled and nodded his head.
“I see.”
“To be perfectly honest,” the Count admitted, “so far her visit has been a little disruptive to the daily routine. But that’s to be expected, I suppose, given that she has only just arrived. Once we’ve made some minor adjustments and she has had a chance to acclimatize, then everything should go back to running without a hitch.”
“Without a doubt,” agreed Osip. “In the meantime, don’t let me keep you.”
Promising to read his de Tocqueville by their very next meeting, the Count excused himself and slipped out the door while Osip picked up the claret. Finding the bottle empty, he reached across the table for the Count’s unfinished glass and poured it into his.
Did he remember those days when his children were almost certainly six? When there was a pitter-pat in the hallways an hour before dawn? When every object smaller than an apple was nowhere to be found, until it was right underfoot? When books went unread, letters unanswered, and every train of thought was left incomplete? He remembered them as if they were yesterday.
“Without a doubt,” he said again with a smile on his face: “Once they have made some minor adjustments, everything should go back to running without a hitch . . .”
The Count was generally of a mind that grown men should not run in hallways. But when he left Osip it was nearly eleven, and he had already taken ample advantage of Marina’s good nature. So, making an exception just this once, he sprinted down the hall, around the corner, and ran smack into some fellow with a ragged beard who was pacing at the top of the stairs.
“Mishka!”
“Ah. There you are, Sasha.”
The instant the Count recognized his old friend, his first thought was that he would have to send him on his way. What else was he to do? There were no two ways about it.