“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Alexander Rostov?”
The Count and Sofia both looked up in surprise. Standing before them was the eminent professor from table six.
“Yes,” said the Count, rising from the table. “I am Alexander Rostov. This is my daughter, Sofia.”
“I am Professor Matej Sirovich from Leningrad State University.”
“Of course you are,” said the Count.
The professor gave a quick bow of the head in gratitude.
“Like so many others,” he continued, “I am an admirer of your verse. Perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for a glass of cognac after your meal?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“I am in suite 317.”
“I will be there within the hour.”
“Please, don’t rush.”
The professor smiled and gently backed away from the table.
Resuming his seat, the Count casually placed his napkin in his lap. “Matej Sirovich,” he informed Sofia, “is one of our most revered professors of literature; and apparently, he would like to discuss poetry with me over a glass of cognac. What do you think of that?”
“I think your time is up.”
The Count lowered his eyebrows.
“Yes. Well. I had an answer sitting right on the tip of my tongue. I should have expressed it in another moment, if we hadn’t been interrupted. . . .”
Sofia nodded, in the friendly manner of one who has no intention of considering the merits of an appeal.
“All right,” conceded the Count. “One round apiece.”
The Count took a kopek from the ticket pocket of his vest and laid it on his thumbnail so that they could determine by toss who would get to choose the tie-breaking category. But before he could flip the coin, Martyn appeared with their first course: Emile’s interpretation of the Olivier salad for Sofia and goose-liver pâté for the Count.
Since they never played while they ate, the two turned their attention to an enjoyable discussion of the day’s events. It was while the Count was spreading the last of his pâté on a corner of toast that Sofia observed, rather casually, that Anna Urbanova was in the restaurant.
“What’s that?” asked the Count.
“Anna Urbanova, the actress. She’s seated over there at table seven.”
“Is she?”
The Count raised his head to look across the dining room with the curiosity of the idle; then returned to his spreading.
“Why don’t you ever invite her to join us for dinner?”
The Count looked up with an expression of mild shock.
“Invite her to dinner! Shall I invite Charlie Chaplin as well?” The Count gave a laugh and a shake of the head: “It is customary to be acquainted with someone before you invite them to dinner, my dear.” Then he finished off the pâté, just as he had finished off the conversation.
“I think you’re worried that I would be scandalized in some way,” continued Sofia. “But Marina thinks it’s because—”
“Marina!” exclaimed the Count. “Marina has an opinion on why I would or wouldn’t invite this . . . this Anna Urbanova to dine with us?”
“Naturally, Papa.”
The Count leaned back in his chair.
“I see. So what is this opinion that Marina so naturally has?”
“She thinks it’s because you like to keep your buttons in their boxes.”
“My buttons in their boxes!”
“You know: your blue buttons in one box, your black buttons in another, your red buttons in a third. You have your relationships here, your relationships there, and you like to keep them distinct.”
“Is that so. I had no idea that I was known to treat people like buttons.”
“Not all people, Papa. Just your friends.”
“What a relief.”
“May I?”
It was Martyn, gesturing at the empty plates.
“Thank you,” snapped the Count.
Sensing that he had interrupted a heated exchange, Martyn quickly cleared the first course, returned with two servings of veal Pojarski, topped up the wine glasses, and disappeared without a word. The Count and Sofia both breathed in the woody fragrance of the mushrooms then began to eat in silence.
“Emile has outdone himself,” the Count said after a few bites.
“He has,” Sofia agreed.
The Count took a generous swallow of the Château d’Yquem, which was a 1921 and perfectly suited to the veal.
“Anna thinks it’s because you’re set in your ways.”
The Count commenced to cough into his napkin, as he had determined long ago that this was the most effective means of removing wine from his windpipe.
“Are you all right?” asked Sofia.
The Count put his napkin in his lap and waved a hand in the general direction of table seven.
“And how, may I ask, do you know what this Anna Urbanova thinks?”