finding it empty. But as he entered the bar, he discovered a raucous group composed of journalists, members of the diplomatic corps, and two of the young hostesses in their little black dresses—and at the center of the commotion, for the third night in a row, was the American general’s aide-de-camp. Hunched over with his arms outstretched, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, he was relaying his tale like a wrestler on the mat.
“. . . Sidestepping the Monsignor, old Porterhouse slowly advanced upon the second goose, waiting for his prey to look him in the eye. That’s the secret, you see: the looking in the eye. That’s the moment Porterhouse lets his adversaries imagine for a second that they are his equals. Having taken two steps to the left, Porterhouse suddenly took three to the right. Thrown off balance, the goose met the old boy’s gaze—and that’s when Porterhouse leapt!”
The aide-de-camp leapt.
The two hostesses shrieked.
Then giggled.
When the aide-de-camp stood back to his full height, he was holding a pineapple. With one hand around its throat and the other under its tail, the captain displayed the fruit for all to see, just as the general had displayed the second goose.
“And it was at this fateful juncture that the good general’s sash unsashed and his robe disrobed, revealing a regulation pair of U.S. Army–issue briefs—at the sight of which, Madame Veloshki fainted.”
As the audience applauded, the aide-de-camp gave a bow. Then he set the pineapple gently on the bar and lifted his drink.
“Madame Veloshki’s response seems perfectly understandable,” said one of the journalists. “But what did you do when you saw the old man’s briefs?”
“What did I do?” exclaimed the aide-de-camp. “Why, I saluted them, of course.”
As the others laughed, he emptied his drink.
“Now, gentlemen, I suggest we head out into the night. I can tell you from personal experience that over at the National can be heard the sorriest samba in the Northern Hemisphere. The drummer, who is blind in one eye, can’t hit his cymbals. And the bandleader hasn’t the slightest sense of a Latin tempo. The closest he has come to South America is when he fell down a flight of mahogany stairs. But he has excellent intentions and a toupee that has descended from heaven.”
With that, the motley assembly stumbled into the night, leaving the Count to approach the bar in relative peace and quiet.
“Good evening, Audrius.”
“Good evening, Count Rostov. What is your pleasure?”
“A glass of Armagnac, perhaps.”
A moment later, as the Count gave the brandy in his snifter a swirl, he found himself smiling at the aide-de-camp’s portrayal—which in turn led him to reflect on the personality of Americans in general. In his persuasive fashion, Osip had argued that during the Depression, Hollywood had undermined the inevitable forces of revolution by means of its elaborate chicanery. But the Count wondered if Osip didn’t have his analysis upside down. Certainly, it seemed true that glittering musicals and slapstick comedies had flourished during the 1930s in America. But so too had jazz and skyscrapers. Were these also narcotics designed to put a restless nation to sleep? Or were they signs of a native spirit so irrepressible that even a Depression couldn’t squelch it?
As the Count gave another swirl of his brandy, a customer sat three stools to his left. To the Count’s surprise, it was the aide-de-camp.
Ever attentive, Audrius leaned with his forearm on the bar. “Welcome back, Captain.”
“Thank you, Audrius.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Same as before, I suppose.”
As Audrius turned away to prepare the drink, the captain drummed his hands on the bar and looked idly about. When he met the Count’s gaze, he gave a nod and a friendly smile.
“You’re not headed for the National?” the Count couldn’t help but ask.
“It seems my friends were in such a hurry to accompany me that they left me behind,” the American replied.
The Count gave a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“No. Please don’t be. I’m quite fond of being left behind. It always gives me a whole new perspective on wherever it was I thought I was leaving. Besides, I’m off first thing in the morning to head home for a spell, so it’s probably for the best.”
He extended his hand to the Count.
“Richard Vanderwhile.”
“Alexander Rostov.”
The captain gave another friendly nod and then, having looked away, suddenly looked back.
“Weren’t you my waiter last night at the Boyarsky?”