“All I can say is that Anna Karenina would never have put you under a bureau just because you happened to be as thick as Montaigne.”
“The very idea is preposterous,” the Count was saying. “How is a thirteen-year-old girl to spirit three fully grown geese up two flights of stairs without the slightest detection? Besides, I ask you: Is such behavior even in her character?”
“Certainly not,” said Emile.
“No, not in the least,” agreed Andrey.
The three men shook their heads in shared indignation.
One of the advantages of working together for many years is that the daily rigmarole can be dispensed with quickly, leaving ample time for discussions of weightier concerns—such as rheumatism, the inadequacy of public transit, and the petty behavior of the inexplicably promoted. After two decades, the members of the Triumvirate knew a thing or two about the small-minded men who sat behind stacks of paper, and the so-called gourmands from Geneva who couldn’t tell a goose from a grouse.
“It’s outrageous,” said the Count.
“Unquestionably.”
“And to summon me half an hour before our daily meeting, at which there is never a shortage of important matters to discuss.”
“Before we open tonight, could you have someone sweep out the dumbwaiter?”
“Certainly. Is it a mess?”
“I’m afraid so. It has somehow become littered with feathers. . . .”
In saying this, Andrey used one of his legendary fingers to scratch his upper lip while Emile pretended to sip at his tea. And the Count? He opened his mouth with every intention of making the perfect rejoinder—the sort of remark that having cut one man to the quick would be quoted by others for years to come.
But there was a knock at the door, and young Ilya entered with his wooden spoon.
Over the course of the Great Patriotic War, Emile had lost the seasoned members of his crew one by one, even the whistling Stanislav. With every able-bodied man eventually in the army, he had been forced to staff his kitchen with adolescents. Thus, Ilya, who had been hired in 1943, had been promoted on the basis of seniority to sous-chef in 1945, at the ripe old age of nineteen. As a reflection of qualified confidence, Emile had bestowed upon him a spoon in place of a knife.
“Well?” said Emile, looking up with impatience.
In response, Ilya hesitated.
Emile looked to the other members of the Triumvirate and rolled his eyes, as much as to say: You see what I must put up with? Then he turned back to his apprentice.
“As anyone can see, we are men with business to attend to. But apparently, you have something of such importance that you feel the need to interrupt. Well then, out with it—before we expire from anticipation.”
The young man opened his mouth, but then rather than explain himself, he simply pointed his spoon toward the kitchen. Following the direction of the utensil, the members of the Triumvirate looked through the office window and there, near the door to the back stair, stood an unfortunate-looking soul in a ragged winter coat. At the sight of him, Emile grew crimson.
“Who let him in here?”
“I did, sir.”
Emile stood so abruptly he nearly knocked over his chair. Then, just as a commander will tear the epaulettes from the shoulders of an errant officer, Emile grabbed the spoon from Ilya’s hand.
“So, you’re the Commissar of Nincompoops now, is that it? Eh? When I had my back turned, you were promoted to the General Secretary of Bunglers?”
The young man took a step back.
“No, sir. I have not been promoted.”
Emile smacked the table with the spoon, nearly cracking it in two.
“Of course you haven’t! How often have I told you not to let beggars in the kitchen? Don’t you see that if you give him a crust of bread today, there will be five of his friends here tomorrow, and fifty the day after that?”
“Yes, sir, but . . . but . . .”
“But but but what?”
“He didn’t ask for food.”
“Eh?”
The young man pointed to the Count.
“He asked for Alexander Ilyich.”
Andrey and Emile both looked to their colleague in surprise. The Count in turn looked through the window at the beggar. Then without saying a word, he rose from his chair, exited the office, and embraced this boon companion whom he had not seen in eight long years.
Though Andrey and Emile had never met the stranger, as soon as they heard his name they knew