various objects from the balcony and timing their descent with a sprinter’s watch.”
“Is that even possible?”
“It was for your mother.”
They were quiet for another moment, then Sofia turned and kissed the Count on the cheek.
When Sofia had gone off to meet a friend, the Count went to the Piazza and treated himself to a glass of wine with lunch—something that he had done on a daily basis in his thirties and had rarely done since. Given the morning’s revelations, it seemed only appropriate. In fact, when his plate had been cleared and he had dutifully declined dessert, he ordered a second glass.
As he leaned back with his wine in hand, he regarded the young man at the neighboring table, who was sketching in his sketchbook. The Count had noticed him in the lobby the day before with the book in his lap and a small tin of colored pencils at his side.
The Count leaned a little to his right.
“Landscape, portrait, or still life?”
The young man looked up with a touch of surprise.
“Excuse me?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you sketching away. I was just wondering if it was a landscape, a portrait, or a still life.”
“None of the above, I’m afraid,” the young man replied politely. “It is an interior.”
“Of the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“May I see?”
The young man hesitated then handed the Count his book.
As soon as the Count had it in hand, he regretted his reference to sketching. The word hardly did justice to the young man’s skills as an artist, for he had captured the Piazza perfectly. The guests at the tables were rendered with the short, bright strokes of Impressionism, adding to the sense that they were engaged in lively conversations; while the waiters moving deftly between the tables were rendered in something of a blur. But the suggestive style with which the young man had drawn the people was sharply contrasted by the level of detail with which he had drawn the room itself. The columns, the fountain, the arches were all realized in perfect perspective to perfect proportion, with every ornament in place.
“It’s a wonderful drawing,” said the Count. “But I must say, your sense of space is particularly exquisite.”
The stranger smiled a little wistfully.
“That’s because I’m an architect by training, not an artist.”
“Are you designing a hotel?”
The architect gave a laugh.
“The way things stand, I’d be happy to design a birdhouse.”
Given the Count’s expression of curiosity, the young man elaborated: “For the time being, there are a lot of buildings being built in Moscow, but little need for architects. So I have taken a job with Intourist. They’re putting together a brochure of the city’s finer hotels and I’m drawing the interiors.”*
“Ah,” said the Count. “Because a photograph cannot capture the feeling of a place!”
“Actually,” replied the architect, “because a photograph too readily captures the condition of a place.”
“Oh, I see,” said the Count, feeling a little insulted on the Piazza’s behalf. In its defense, he couldn’t help pointing out that while the restaurant had been celebrated for its elegance in its time, the room’s grandeur had never been defined by its furnishings or architectural details.
“By what then?” the young man asked.
“The citizenry.”
“How do you mean?”
The Count turned his chair so that he could better face his neighbor.
“In my day, I had the luxury of doing a good bit of travel. And I can tell you from personal experience that the majority of hotel restaurants—not simply in Russia, you understand, but across Europe—were designed for and have served the guests of the hotel. But this restaurant wasn’t and hasn’t. It was designed to be and has been a gathering place for the entire city of Moscow.”
The Count gestured toward the center of the room.
“For most of the last forty years, on a typical Saturday night you could find Russians cut from every cloth crowded around that fountain, stumbling into conversations with whosoever happened to be at the neighboring table. Naturally, this has led to impromptu romances and heartfelt debates on the merits of Pushkin over Petrarch. Why, I’ve watched cabbies rub elbows with commisars and bishops with black marketeers; and on at least one occasion, I have actually seen a young lady change an old man’s point of view.”
The Count pointed to a spot about twenty feet away.
“You see those two tables there? One afternoon in 1939 I watched as two strangers, finding each other vaguely familiar, spent their appetizer, entrée, and dessert going over their entire lives step by step in search of the moment when