closet door, he was about to take the newsboy’s cap off its hook when he noticed something he’d missed before. On the shelf above the clothes was a bundle wrapped in paper and tied with twine—a bundle about the size of a small statuette. . . .
Putting the newsboy’s cap on his head, the Count took the bundle off the shelf and laid it on the bed. He untied the string and carefully peeled back the paper—only to find a set of Russian nesting dolls. Painted in a simple if traditional style, available in a hundred Moscow shops, the matryoshka was just that sort of whimsical toy that two parents would bring home to their child from a trip to Russia.
And in which they could easily hide something . . .
Sitting on the bed, the Count opened the largest of the nesting dolls. Then he opened the second largest of the nesting dolls. Then he opened the third largest of the nesting dolls. And he was about to open the fourth, when he heard a key in the lock.
For a moment, the Man of Intent was a Man Who Didn’t Know What to Do. But at the sound of the hallway door opening and the two Italian voices, the Count swept up the halves of the dolls, slipped into the closet, and quietly closed the door.
The shelf that ran above the hanging bar must have been less than six feet off the ground, because in order to fit in the closet, the Count had to bend his head like a penitent. (Point taken.)
It took only a few moments for the couple to shed their coats and come into the bedroom. If they went into the bathroom to perform their nightly toilette together, thought the Count, he would have the perfect opportunity to escape. But room 428 had only a small bath, and rather than crowd each other at the sink, the husband and wife chose to take turns.
Listening closely, the Count could hear the brushing of respective teeth, the opening of drawers, and the donning of pajamas. He could hear the bedsheets being pulled back. He could hear some quiet conversation, the lifting of books, and the turning of pages. After fifteen minutes, or an eternity, there was an exchange of endearments, a delicate kiss, and the lights went out. By the grace of God, this fine-looking couple opted for rest over intimacy. . . .
But how long, the Count wondered, would it take for them to fall asleep? Being careful not to move a muscle, he listened to their breathing. He heard a cough; a sniff; a sigh. Then someone rolling on their side. He might have worried about falling asleep himself, if it weren’t for the crippling pain in his neck and the creeping realization that he would soon need a toilette of his own.
Well, there you have it, thought the Count: one more reason not to drink after midnight . . .
“Che cos ’era questo?! Tesoro, svegliati!”
“Cos’è?”
“C’è qualcuno nella stanza!”
. . .
[Bump]
“Chi è la?”
“Scusa.”
“Claudio! Accendi la luce!”
[Bam]
“Scusa.”
[Crash]
“Arrivederci!”
Adulthood
Are you ready?” asked Marina.
The Count and Anna, who were sitting side by side on the couch in the actress’s suite, answered in the affirmative.
With a fitting sense of ceremony, Marina opened the bedroom door to reveal Sofia.
The dress that the seamstress had fashioned for the concert was a long-sleeved gown in the trumpet style—fitted above the waist and flared below the knee. The blue of the fabric, which recalled the depths of the ocean, provided an otherworldly contrast to the fairness of Sofia’s skin and the blackness of her hair.
Anna let out a gasp.
Marina beamed.
And the Count?
Alexander Rostov was neither scientist nor sage; but at the age of sixty-four he was wise enough to know that life does not proceed by leaps and bounds. It unfolds. At any given moment, it is the manifestation of a thousand transitions. Our faculties wax and wane, our experiences accumulate, and our opinions evolve—if not glacially, then at least gradually. Such that the events of an average day are as likely to transform who we are as a pinch of pepper is to transform a stew. And yet, for the Count, when the doors to Anna’s bedroom opened and Sofia stepped forward in her gown, at that very moment she crossed the threshold into adulthood. On one side of that divide was a girl of five or ten or twenty with a quiet demeanor and a whimsical imagination who relied upon him for companionship