Despite having announced that he would have no more time for appointments that evening, when the Count asked this question, he was in Anna Urbanova’s bed. . . .
“I know there is something quixotic in dreaming of the Former,” he continued, “but when all is said and done, if the Former is even a remote possibility, then how can one submit to the likelihood of the Latter? To do so would be contrary to the human spirit. So fundamental is our desire to catch a glimpse of another way of life, or to share a glimpse of our way of life with another, that even when the forces of the Latter have bolted the city’s doors, the forces of the Former will find a means to slip through the cracks.”
The Count reached over, borrowed Anna’s cigarette, and took a puff. Having thought for a moment, he waved the cigarette at the ceiling.
“In recent years, I have waited on Americans who have traveled all the way to Moscow to attend one performance at the Bolshoi. Meanwhile, our haphazard little trio in the Shalyapin will take a stab at any little bit of American music they’ve heard on the radio. These are unquestionably the forces of the Former on display.”
The Count took another puff.
“When Emile is in his kitchen, does he cook the Latter? Of course not. He simmers, sears, and serves the Former. A veal from Vienna, a pigeon from Paris, or a seafood stew from the south of France. Or consider the case of Viktor Stepanovich—”
“You’re not going to start in on the moths of Manchester again?”
“No,” said the Count peevishly. “I am making a different point entirely. When Viktor and Sofia sit down at the piano, do they play Mussorgsky, Mussorgsky, and Mussorgsky? No. They play Bach and Beethoven, Rossini and Puccini, while at Carnegie Hall the audience responds to Horowitz’s performance of Tchaikovsky with thunderous applause.”
The Count turned on his side to study the actress.
“You’re keeping unusually quiet,” he said, returning her cigarette. “Perhaps you don’t agree?”
Anna took a drag and slowly exhaled.
“It’s not that I disagree with you, Sasha. But I’m not so sure that one can simply dance away one’s life to the tune of the Former, as you call it. Certain realities must be faced wherever you live, and in Russia that may mean a bit of bending to the Latter. Take your beloved bouillabaisse, or that ovation in Carnegie Hall. It is no coincidence that the cities from which your examples spring are port cities: Marseille and New York. I daresay, you could find similar examples in Shanghai and Rotterdam. But Moscow is not a port, my love. At the center of all that is Russia—of its culture, its psychology, and perhaps, its destiny—stands the Kremlin, a walled fortress a thousand years old and four hundred miles from sea. Physically speaking, its walls are no longer high enough to fend off attack; and yet, they still cast a shadow across the entire country.”
The Count rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
“Sasha, I know you don’t want to accept the notion that Russia may be inherently inward looking, but do you think in America they are even having this conversation? Wondering if the gates of New York are about to be opened or closed? Wondering if the Former is more likely than the Latter? By all appearances, America was founded on the Former. They don’t even know what the Latter is.”
“You sound as if you dreamed of living in America.”
“Everyone dreams of living in America.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? Half of the inhabitants of Europe would move there tomorrow just for the conveniences.”
“Conveniences! What conveniences?”
Turning on her side, Anna tamped out her cigarette, opened the drawer in the bedside table, and produced a large American magazine, which, the Count noted, was rather presumptuously entitled LIFE. Flipping through the pages, Anna began pointing to various brightly colored photographs. Each one seemed to show the same woman in a different dress smiling before some newfangled contraption.
“Dishwashing machines. Clothes-washing machines. Vacuum cleaners. Toasters. Televisions. And look here, an automatic garage door.”
“What is an automatic garage door?”
“It is a garage door that opens and closes itself on your behalf. What do you think of that?”
“I think if I were a garage door, I should rather miss the old days.”
Anna lit another cigarette and handed it to the Count. He took a drag and watched the smoke spiral toward the ceiling where the Muses looked down from the clouds.