to say: Nonsense.
The Count looked from one member of the Triumvirate to the other.
“Where are my manners?” he said at last. “Sofia will be delighted to see you both. Please. Come this way.” Then he gestured with a welcoming hand to the closet.
Emile looked at the Count as if he’d lost his mind. But Andrey, who could never hesitate before a well-mannered invitation, picked up the cake and took a step toward the closet door.
Emile let out a grunt of exasperation. “If we’re going in,” he said to Andrey, “then you’d better watch out for the frosting on the sleeves.” So the maître d’ passed Emile the cake and carefully parted the Count’s jackets with his delicate hands.
Emerging on the other side, Andrey’s surprise at seeing the Count’s study for the first time was immediately displaced by the sight of Sofia. “Notre champion!” he said, taking her by the arms and kissing her on both cheeks. For Emile, however, the surprise at seeing the Count’s study was displaced by the even greater surprise of finding the film star Anna Urbanova standing inside it. For unbeknownst to the Triumvirate, the chef had seen every single one of her movies, and generally from the second row.
Noting Emile’s starstruck expression, Andrey took a quick step forward and put his hands under the cake. But Emile did not lose his grip this time. Rather, he suddenly thrust the cake toward Anna, as if he had baked it for her.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “But isn’t that for Sofia?”
Emile blushed from his shoulders to the top of his balding head and turned to Sofia.
“I made your favorite,” he said. “A Dobos torte with chocolate cream.”
“Thank you, Uncle Emile.”
“It is in the shape of a piano,” he added.
As Emile produced his chopper from his apron string and proceeded to slice the cake, the Count took two more glasses from the Ambassador and filled them with champagne. The story of Sofia’s victory was told again and the perfection of her performance was compared by Anna to the perfection of Emile’s cake. As the chef began explaining to the actress the intricate process by which one makes such a torte, Andrey was recalling for Sofia’s benefit the night many years ago when he and several others had toasted the Count’s arrival on the sixth floor.
“Do you remember, Alexander?”
“As if it were yesterday,” replied the Count with a smile. “You did the honors with the brandy that night, my friend; and Marina was here along with Vasily. . . .”
As if by an act of magic, at the very instant the Count said Vasily’s name, the concierge stepped through the closet door. In military fashion, he clicked his heels and greeted those assembled in rapid succession without showing the slightest indication of surprise as to their whereabouts:
“Miss Urbanova. Sofia. Andrey. Emile.” Then turning to the Count, he said: “Alexander Ilyich, may I have a word . . . ?”
From the manner in which Vasily asked the question, it was clear that he wished to take the Count aside. But as the Count’s study was but a hundred foot square, they could only step about three feet away from the others in order to secure their privacy—an action that was immediately rendered inconsequential when the other four members of the party moved a similar distance in a similar direction.
“I wish to inform you,” said Vasily (in a manner sort of entre nous), “that the hotel’s manager is on his way.”
It was the Count’s turn to express surprise.
“On his way where?”
“On his way here. Or rather . . . there,” said Vasily, pointing back toward the Count’s bedroom.
“But for what possible reason?”
Vasily explained that as he was reviewing the next night’s reservations, he happened to notice the Bishop lingering in the lobby. When a few minutes later a rather petit gentleman wearing a brimmed hat approached the front desk and asked for the Count by name, the Bishop introduced himself, indicated that he had been expecting the visitor, and offered to show him personally to the Count’s room.
“When was this?”
“They were just entering the elevator when I took to the stairs; but they were accompanied by Mr. Harriman from suite 215 and the Tarkovs from room 426. Accounting for the stops at the second and fourth floors, I suspect they should be here any second.”
“Good God!”
The members of the party looked to one another.
“No one make a sound,” said the Count. Entering the closet, he closed the study door behind