The Count led Katerina into the bedroom and then, after a moment’s hesitation, took her through the jackets into the study. Apparently, he needn’t have hesitated, for she looked around the room as one who had heard descriptions of it before, nodding lightly to herself as her gaze shifted from the bookcase to the coffee table to the Ambassador. Taking her satchel from her shoulder, she suddenly appeared tired.
“Here,” said the Count, offering a chair.
She sat down, putting the satchel in her lap. Then passing a hand over her head, she removed her kerchief, revealing light brown hair cut as short as a man’s.
“It’s Mishka, isn’t it . . . ,” the Count said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A week ago today.”
The Count nodded, as one who had been expecting the news for some time. He didn’t ask Katerina how his old friend had died, and she didn’t offer to tell him. It was plain enough that he had been betrayed by his times.
“Were you with him?” asked the Count.
“Yes.”
“In Yavas?”
“Yes.”
. . .
“I was under the impression that . . .”
“I lost my husband some time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Do you have children . . . ?”
“No.”
She said it curtly, as if in response to a foolish question; but then she continued more softly. “I received word from Mikhail in January. I went to him in Yavas. We have been together these last six months.” After a moment, she added: “He spoke of you often.”
“He was a loyal friend,” said the Count.
“He was a man of devotions,” corrected Katerina.
The Count had been about to remark on Mishka’s propensity for getting into scrapes and his love of pacing, but she had just described his old friend better than he ever had. Mikhail Fyodorovich Mindich was a man of devotions.
“And a fine poet,” the Count added, almost to himself.
“One of two.”
The Count looked to Katerina as if he didn’t understand. Then he offered a wistful smile.
“I’ve never written a poem in my life,” he said.
Now, it was Katerina who didn’t understand.
“What do you mean? What about Where Is It Now?”
“It was Mishka who wrote that poem. In the south parlor at Idlehour . . . In the summer of 1913 . . .”
As Katerina still looked confused, the Count elaborated.
“What with the revolt of 1905 and the repressions that followed, when we graduated it was still a dangerous time for writing poems of political impatience. Given Mishka’s background, the Okhrana would have swept him up with a broom. So one night—after polishing off a particularly good bottle of Margaux—we decided to publish the poem under my name.”
“But why yours?”
“What were they going to do to Count Alexander Rostov—member of the Jockey Club and godson of a counselor to the Tsar?” The Count shook his head. “The irony, of course, is that the life which ended up being saved was mine, not his. But for that poem, they would have shot me back in 1922.”
Katerina, who had listened to this story intently, was suddenly holding back tears.
“Ah, but there you have him,” she said.
They were both silent as she regained her composure.
“I want you to know,” said the Count, “how much I appreciate your coming to tell me in person.” But Katerina dismissed his gratitude.
“I came at Mikhail’s request. He asked me to bring you something.”
From her satchel she took out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.
Taking the package in hand, the Count could tell from its weight that it was a book.
“It is his project,” said the Count with a smile.
“Yes,” she said. Then she added with pointed emphasis: “He slaved over it.”
The Count nodded to express his understanding and to assure Katerina that he did not take the bestowal lightly.
Katerina looked once more around the room with a light shake of the head as if it somehow exemplified the mystery of outcomes; then she said that she should go.
The Count rose to his feet with her, setting Mishka’s project on the chair.
“Are you going back to Yavas?” he asked.
“No.”
“Will you be staying in Moscow?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Does it matter?”
She turned to go.
“Katerina . . .”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
Katerina looked surprised at first by the Count’s offer, then ready to dismiss it. But after a moment, she said: “Remember him.”
Then she went out the door.
Returning to his chair, the Count sat in silence. After a few minutes, he took up Mishka’s legacy, untied the twine,