and they will wrap themselves in cotton, sleep in tents, and travel on the backs of camels; settle them in the Arctic and they will wrap themselves in sealskin, sleep in igloos, and travel by dog-drawn sled. And if you settle them in a Soviet climate? They will learn to make friendly conversation with strangers while waiting in line; they will learn to neatly stack their clothing in their half of the bureau drawer; and they will learn to draw imaginary buildings in their sketchbooks. That is, they will adapt. But certainly one aspect of adaptation for those Russians who had seen Paris before the Revolution was the acceptance that they would never, ever see Paris again. . . .
“Here he is now,” said Emile as the Count came through the door. “Ask him yourself.”
Having taken his seat, the Count confirmed that six months hence, on the twenty-first of June, Sofia would be in Paris, France. And when asked how this could possibly have come about, with a shrug the Count responded: “VOKS.” That is, the All-Union Society for Cultural Relations with Foreign Countries.
It was now Emile’s turn to express disbelief: “Do we have cultural relations with foreign countries?”
“Apparently, we are now sending our artists all around the world. In April we are sending the ballet to New York; in May we are sending a dramatic ensemble to London; and in June we are sending the orchestra of the Moscow Conservatory to Minsk, Prague, and Paris—where Sofia will be performing Rachmaninov at the Palais Garnier.”
“It’s incredible,” said Andrey.
“Fantastical,” said Emile.
“I know.”
The three men laughed, until Emile pointed his chopper at his colleagues:
“But well deserved.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Without a doubt.”
The three were quiet, each lost for a moment in their respective memories of the City of Light.
“Do you think it has changed?” wondered Andrey.
“Yes,” said Emile. “As much as the pyramids.”
And here, the three members of the Triumvirate might have waded into the rose-colored past, but for the fact that the door to Emile’s office swung open and in walked the newest member of the Boyarsky’s daily meeting: the Bishop.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. There was business at the front desk that demanded my immediate attention. In the future, please don’t feel the need to congregate until I have arrived.”
Emile grunted, semiaudibly.
Ignoring the chef, the Bishop turned to the Count.
“Headwaiter Rostov, isn’t this your day of rest? You shouldn’t feel the need to be in attendance at the daily meeting when you are not scheduled to work.”
“Well informed is well prepared,” said the Count.
“Of course.”
Some years before, the Bishop had helpfully explained to the Count that while the Metropol’s employees each had their narrow little tasks, the manager alone had to ensure a standard of excellence for the entire hotel. And to be fair, the Bishop’s personality made him perfectly suited to the task. For whether in the guest rooms, the lobby, or the linen closet on the second floor, no detail was too small, no flaw too immaterial, no moment too inopportune to receive the benefit of the Bishop’s precious, persnickety, and mildly dismissive interference. And that was certainly the case within the walls of the Boyarsky.
The daily meeting commenced with a detailed description of the evening’s special offerings. Naturally, the Bishop had dispensed with the tradition of tasting the specials, on the grounds that the chef knew perfectly well what his food tasted like, and to prepare samples for the staff was both indiscriminate and wasteful. Instead, Emile was instructed to write out a description of the specials by hand.
With another grunt, the chef slid his menu across the table. After inscribing a series of circles, arrows, and x’s, the Bishop’s pencil paused.
“I should think that beets would accompany the pork quite as well as apples,” he reflected. “And if I am not mistaken, Chef Zhukovsky, you still have a bushel of beets in the pantry.”
As the Bishop inserted this improvement into Emile’s menu, the chef cast a furious glance across the table at the man he now referred to as Count Blabbermouth.
Handing the corrected menu back to the chef, the Bishop now turned his attention to the maître d’, who slid the Book across the table. Despite the fact that it was one of the last days of 1953, the Bishop opened the Book to the first page and turned through the weeks of the year one by one. Finally arriving at the present, he scrutinized the evening’s reservations with the tip of his pencil. Then