several came tromping down the stairs to see what all the fuss was about. At the forefront of this contingent was the American general—a no-nonsense figure who hailed from what is reportedly known as “The Great State of Texas.” Having quickly assessed the situation, the general grabbed one of the geese by the throat. The speed with which he captured the bird gave those assembled a boost of confidence. Several even cheered him on. That is, until he wrapped his second hand around the goose’s neck with the clear intention of snapping it. This elicited a scream from the young woman in the blue kimono, tears from the tenor’s daughter, and a stern reproach from the Swiss diplomat. Stymied at the very instant of decisive action, the general expressed his exasperation with the fecklessness of civilians, walked into the prelate’s apartment, and tossed the goose out the window.
Committed to restoring order, the general returned a moment later and deftly seized a second goose. But when he held up this bird to assure the assembly of his peaceful intent, the tie at his waist unraveled and his robe flew open, revealing a seasoned pair of olive green briefs, prompting the wife of the tenor to faint.
As the Count watched these proceedings from the landing, he became aware of a presence at his side. Turning, he found it was the general’s aide-de-camp, a gregarious fellow who had become something of a fixture in the Shalyapin. Taking in the scene at a glance, the aide-de-camp issued a sigh of satisfaction and then remarked to no one in particular:
“How I love this hotel.”
So, was the Count “aware” of what took place in the fourth-floor corridor at a quarter to eight? One might just as well ask if Noah was aware of the Flood, or Adam the Apple. Of course he was aware. No man on earth was more aware. But what aspect of his awareness could possibly warrant the interruption of a demitasse?
“I am familiar with this morning’s events,” confirmed the Count, “as I happened to be rounding the landing at the very moment they occurred.”
“So you witnessed the mayhem in person . . . ?”
“Yes. I saw the antics unfolding firsthand. Even so, I am not entirely certain as to why I am here.”
“You are in the dark, as it were.”
“In point of fact, I am flummoxed. Mystified.”
“Of course.”
Following a moment of silence, the Bishop offered his most ecclesiastical smile. Then, as if it were perfectly normal to wander about an office in the middle of a conversation, he rose and crossed to the wall, where he gingerly straightened the portrait of Mr. Marx, who, having slipped on his hook, was admittedly undermining the ideological authority of the room.
Turning back, the Bishop continued.
“I can see why in describing these unfortunate events you chose to discard mayhem in favor of antics. For antics do seem to suggest a certain childishness . . .”
The Count considered this for a moment.
“You don’t suspect the tenor’s boys?”
“Hardly. After all, the geese had been locked in a cage in the pantry of the Boyarsky.”
“Are you suggesting that Emile had something to do with it?”
The Bishop ignored the Count’s question and resumed his place behind the desk.
“The Metropol Hotel,” he informed the Count unnecessarily, “is host to some of the world’s most eminent statesmen and prominent artistes. When they pass through our doors, they have the right to expect unparalleled comfort, unsurpassed service, and mornings free of mayhem. Needless to say,” he concluded, reaching for his pen, “I shall get to the bottom of this.”
“Well,” replied the Count, rising from his chair, “if getting to the bottom is what is called for, I am sure there is no man better suited for the job.”
A certain childishness, muttered the Count as he exited the executive suite. Mornings of mayhem . . .
Did the Bishop think him a fool? Did he imagine for one second that the Count couldn’t see what he was angling at? What he was insinuating? That little Sofia was somehow involved?
Not only could the Count tell exactly what the Bishop was driving at, he could have countered with a few insinuations of his own—and in iambic pentameter, no less. But the notion of Sofia’s involvement was so unfounded, so preposterous, so outrageous, it did not deserve a response.
Now, the Count could not deny that Sofia had a certain playful streak, just as any child of thirteen should. But she was no gadabout. No gadfly. No ne’er-do-well. In