the ranks of the invisible. So, as he tiptoed into the Finns’ bedroom, he called upon Venus to veil him in a mist—just as she had for her son, Aeneas, when he wandered the streets of Carthage—so that his footfalls would be silent, his heartbeat still, and his presence in the room no more notable than a breath of air.
As it was late in June, the Finns had drawn their curtains to block out the glow of the white nights, but a sliver of light remained where the two drapes met. By this narrow illumination, the Count approached the foot of the bed and took in the sleeping forms of the travelers. Thanks be to God, they were about forty years old. Fifteen years younger, they would not have been asleep. Having stumbled back from a late dinner in the Arbat at which they had ordered two bottles of wine, they would now be in each other’s arms. Fifteen years older, they would be tossing and turning, getting up twice a night to visit the loo. But at forty? They had enough appetite to eat well, enough temperance to drink in moderation, and enough wisdom to celebrate the absence of their children by getting a good night’s sleep.
Within a matter of minutes the Count had secured the gentleman’s passport and 150 Finnish marks from the bureau, tiptoed through the sitting room, and slipped back into the hallway, which was empty.
In fact, it was so empty that even his shoes weren’t in it.
“Confound it,” said the Count to himself. “They must have been picked up by the night service for shining.”
After issuing a litany of self-recriminations, the Count took comfort that in all likelihood on the following morning his shoes would simply be returned by the Finns to the main desk, where they would be cast into the hotel’s collection of unidentifiable misplaced possessions. As he climbed the stairs of the belfry he took additional comfort that all else had gone according to plan. By this time tomorrow night . . . , he was thinking as he opened his bedroom door—only to discover the Bishop, sitting at the Grand Duke’s desk.
Naturally enough, the Count’s first instinct at the sight was a feeling of indignation. Not only had this accountant of discrepancies, this stripper of wine labels entered the Count’s quarters without invitation, he had actually rested his elbows on that dimpled surface where once had been written persuasive arguments to statesmen and exquisite counsel to friends. The Count was just opening his mouth to demand an explanation, when he saw that a drawer had been opened, and that a sheet of paper was in the Bishop’s hand.
The letters, the Count realized with a feeling of dread.
Oh, if it had only been the letters. . . .
Carefully written expressions of fondness and fellowship may not have been common between colleagues, but they were hardly suspicious in and of themselves. A man has every right—and some responsibility—to communicate his good feelings to his friends. But it was not one of the recently written letters that the Bishop was holding. It was the first of the Baedeker maps—the one on which the Count had drawn the bright red line connecting the Palais Garnier to the American Embassy by way of the Avenue George V.
Then again, perhaps whether it was a letter or a map mattered not. For when the Bishop had turned at the sound of the door, he had witnessed the transition in the Count’s expression from indignation to horror—a transition that confirmed a state of guilt even before an accusation had been made.
“Headwaiter Rostov,” said the Bishop, as if surprised to see the Count in his own room. “You truly are a man of many interests: Wine . . . Cuisine . . . The streets of Paris . . .”
“Yes,” said the Count while attempting to compose himself. “I have been reading a bit of Proust lately, and thus have been reacquainting myself with the arrangement of the city’s arrondissements.”
“Of course,” said the Bishop.
Cruelty knows that it has no need of histrionics. It can be as calm and quiet as it likes. It can sigh, or lightly shake its head in disbelief, or offer a sympathetic apology for whatever it must do. It can move slowly, methodically, inevitably. Thus, the Bishop, having gently laid the map on the dimpled surface of the Grand Duke’s desk, now rose from the chair, walked across the room, and slipped past the Count without