“We needn’t worry. I know the spot well. A historic venue with fine acoustics—which also happens to be in the 8th. . .”
So, as Sofia packed her bags, the Count went down to the basement. Having found the second Paris Baedeker, he tore out the map, climbed the stairs, sat at the Grand Duke’s desk, and drew a new red line. Then when all the straps were tightened and the latches snapped, with a touch of ceremony the Count ushered Sofia through the closet door into the study, much as he had sixteen years before. And just as on that occasion, Sofia said: “Ooo.”
For since she had set out earlier that afternoon to attend her last rehearsal, their secret study had been transformed. On the bookcase a candelabra burned brightly. The two high-back chairs had been set at either end of the Countess’s oriental coffee table, which in turn had been draped with linen, decorated with a small arrangement of flowers, and set with the hotel’s finest silver.
“Your table awaits,” said the Count with a smile, pulling out Sofia’s chair.
“Okroshka?” she asked as she put her napkin in her lap.
“Absolutely,” said the Count, taking his seat. “Before one travels abroad, it is best to have a simple, heartwarming soup from home, so that one can recall it fondly should one ever happen to feel a little low.”
“I shall be sure to do so,” said Sofia with a smile, “the minute I become homesick.”
As they were finishing their soup, Sofia noticed that tucked beside the arrangement of flowers was a little silver lady in an eighteenth-century dress.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Why don’t you see for yourself.”
Sofia picked up the little lady and, hearing the hint of a jangle, waggled it back and forth. At the sound of the resulting chime, the door to the study swung open and in came Andrey pushing a Regency cart topped with a silver dome.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur! Bonsoir, Mademoiselle!”
Sofia laughed.
“I trust you enjoyed the soup,” he said.
“It was delicious.”
“Très bien.”
Andrey whisked the bowls from the table and stowed them on the bottom shelf of his cart as the Count and Sofia looked to the silver dome with anticipation. But when Andrey stood back up, instead of revealing what Chef Zhukovsky had in store for them, he produced a pad.
“Before I serve the next course,” he explained, “I will need you to confirm your satisfaction with the soup. Please sign here and here and here.”
The look of shock on the Count’s face prompted a burst of laughter from both Andrey and Sofia. Then with a flourish, the maître d’ raised the dome and presented Emile’s newest specialty: Goose à la Sofia. “In which,” he explained, “the goose is hoisted in a dumbwaiter, chased down a hall, and thrown from a window before being roasted.”
Andrey carved the bird, served the vegetables, and poured the Château Margaux all in a single motion of the hands. Then he wished the diners “Bon appétit” as he backed out the door.
While the two enjoyed Emile’s latest creation, the Count recalled for Sofia in some detail the commotion he had found on the fourth floor that morning in 1946—including the army-issue briefs that Richard Vanderwhile had saluted. And this somehow led to a retelling of the time that Anna Urbanova threw all her clothes out the window, only to gather them back up in the middle of the night. Which is to say, they shared those humorous little stories of which family lore is made.
Perhaps some will find this surprising, having supposed that the Count would reserve this particular dinner for an offering of Polonial advice or expressions of heartache. But the Count had quite intentionally chosen to see to all of that the night before, after their discussion of what was to be done.
Showing a sense of personal restraint that was almost out of character, the Count had restricted himself to two succinct pieces of parental advice. The first was that if one did not master one’s circumstances, one was bound to be mastered by them; and the second was Montaigne’s maxim that the surest sign of wisdom is constant cheerfulness. But when it came to expressing admissions of heartache, the Count had not held back. He told her exactly how sad he would be in her absence, and yet, how joyful he would feel at the slightest thought of her grand adventure.
Why was the Count so careful to ensure that all of this was covered on the night