dedicated to ensuring the satisfaction of the Boyarsky’s customers.”
The Bishop smiled.
“Of course. And I am sure that all three of you have your own special concerns given your specific duties. But as manager of the Metropol, I am the one who must ensure that every aspect of the hotel meets a standard of perfection; and that requires a vigilant attention to the elimination of all discrepancies.”
The Count was confused.
“Discrepancies? What sort of discrepancies?”
“All kinds of discrepancies. One day, there may be a discrepancy between how many onions arrived in the kitchen and how many were served in the stew. On another, there may be a discrepancy between how many glasses of wine were ordered and how many poured.”
The Count grew cold.
“You are speaking of thievery.”
“Am I?”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, then the Bishop smiled narrowly.
“Given your shared dedication, please feel free to relate our conversation to Chef Zhukovsky and Maître d’ Duras at your earliest convenience.”
The Count gritted his teeth.
“Rest assured, I shall do so word for word tomorrow at our daily meeting.”
The Bishop studied the Count.
“You have a daily meeting . . . ?”
Suffice it to say that at the Boyarsky’s second seating, the customers were shocked, bemused, and beside themselves once again as slips of paper flew about the dining room like pheasants at the crack of a rifle. And after enduring all of that, here was the Count sitting alone in his study counting the minutes.
After drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, the Count rose and recommenced his pacing while humming Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in C major.
“Dum de dum de dum,” he hummed.
It was a delightful composition, you had to admit, and one quite well suited to his daughter’s personality. The first movement had the tempo of Sofia coming home from school at the age of ten with fifteen things to relate. Without taking the time to explain who was who or what was what, she would zip along, punctuating her report with and then, and then, and then, and then. In the second movement, the sonata transitioned to an andante tempo more in keeping with Sofia at seventeen, when she would welcome thunderstorms on Saturday afternoons so that she could sit in their study with a book in her lap or a recording on the phonograph. In the third movement, with its fleet pace and pointillist style, you could almost hear her at the age of thirteen, running down the hotel’s stairs, freezing on a landing momentarily to let someone pass, and then bolting brightly ahead.
Yes, it was a delightful composition. There was no debating that. But was it too delightful? Would it be viewed by the judges as insufficiently weighty for the times? When Sofia had selected the composition, the Count had attempted to signal his concerns diplomatically, by referring to the piece as “pleasant” and “quite diverting”; and then he had kept his peace. For it is the role of the parent to express his concerns and then take three steps back. Not one, mind you, not two, but three. Or maybe four. (But by no means five.) Yes, a parent should share his hesitations and then take three or four steps back, so that the child can make a decision by herself—even when that decision may lead to disappointment.
But wait!
What was that?
As the Count turned, the closet door swung open and Anna charged into the study, dragging Sofia behind her.
“She won!”
For the first time in twenty years, the Count let out a shout: “Ha-ha!”
He embraced Anna for delivering the news.
Then he embraced Sofia for winning.
Then he embraced Anna again.
“We’re sorry we’re so late,” said Anna breathlessly. “But they wouldn’t let her leave the reception.”
“Don’t think of it for a minute! I hadn’t even noticed the time. But sit, sit, sit, and tell me everything.”
Offering the ladies the high-back chairs, the Count perched himself on the edge of the Ambassador and trained his gaze on Sofia, expectantly. Smiling shyly, Sofia deferred to Anna.
“It was incredible,” said the actress. “There were five performers before Sofia. Two violinists, a cellist—”
“Where was it? Which venue?”
“In the Grand Hall.”
“I know it well. Designed by Zagorsky at the turn of the century. How crowded was it? Who was there?”
Anna furrowed her brow. Sofia laughed.
“Papa. Let her tell it.”
“All right, all right.”
So the Count did as he was instructed: He let Anna tell it. And she told how there were five performers before Sofia: two violinists, a cellist, a French-horn