had been served, he simply banged on the table and stood on his chair.
In the interests of realism, Mishka tried to stand on the banquette, nearly knocking over his beer. He settled for a seated oration with a finger in the air:
Suddenly—I
shone in all my might,
and morning rang its round.
Always to shine,
to shine everywhere,
to the very depths of the last days,
to shine—
and to hell with everything else!
That is my motto—
and the sun’s!
Naturally, Mayakovsky’s poem prompted unrestrained applause and the smashing of glasses. But then, just as everyone had settled down and was preparing to slice into their chicken, some fellow named Zelinsky was up on his chair.
“For, of course, we must hear from Zelinsky,” muttered Mishka. “As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with Mayakovsky. As if he stands shoulder to shoulder with a bottle of milk.”
Mishka took another sip.
“You remember Zelinsky. No? The one who was a few years behind us at the university? The one who wore a monocle in ’16 and a sailor’s cap the following year? Well, anyway, you know the sort, Sasha—the type who must always have their hands on the wheel. At the end of dinner, say two of you are lingering in your chairs to continue a discussion from earlier in the day—well, there is Zelinsky proclaiming that he knows just the place to carry on the conversation. Next thing you know, there are ten of you being crowded around a table in some basement café. When you go to take a seat, he has a hand on your shoulder, steering you to this end of the table or that. And when someone calls for bread, he has a better idea. They have the best zavitushki in Moscow, he says. And before you know it, he’s snapping his fingers in the air.”
Here Mishka snapped his fingers three times so emphatically that the Count had to wave off the ever-attentive Audrius, who was already halfway across the room.
“And his ideas!” Mishka continued in disdain. “On and on he goes with his declarations, as if he is in a position to enlighten anyone on matters of verse. And what does he have to say to the impressionable young student at his side? That all poets must eventually bow before the haiku. Bow before the haiku! Can you imagine.”
“For my part,” contributed the Count, “I am glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan.”
Mishka stared at the Count for a moment then burst out laughing.
“Yes,” he said, slapping the table and wiping a tear from his eye. “Glad that Homer wasn’t born in Japan. I shall have to remember to tell that one to Katerina.”
Mishka smiled in apparent anticipation of telling that one to Katerina.
“Katerina . . . ?” asked the Count.
Mishka casually reached for his beer.
“Katerina Litvinova. Have I not mentioned her before? She’s a talented young poet from Kiev—in her second year at the university. We sit on a committee together.”
Mishka leaned back in order to drink from his glass. The Count leaned back in order to smile at his companion—as the entire picture came into focus.
A new jacket and a well-groomed beard . . .
A discussion after dinner continued from earlier in the day . . .
And a Zelinsky who, having dragged everyone to his favorite little nightspot, steers an impressionable young poet to one end of the table and a Mishka to the other. . . .
As Mishka continued with his description of the previous evening, the irony of the situation did not escape the Count: that during all those years they had lived above the cobbler’s, it was Mishka who had stayed put and the Count who, having apologized that he couldn’t join his friend for dinner, had returned hours later with tales of lively toasts and tête-à-têtes and impromptu outings to candlelit cafés.
Did the Count take some pleasure in hearing about Mishka’s late-night skirmishes? Of course he did. Particularly when he learned that at the end of the evening, as the group was about to climb into three different cabs, Mishka reminded Zelinsky that he had forgotten his hat; and when Zelinsky dashed back inside to retrieve it, Katerina from Kiev leaned from her cab to call: Here, Mikhail Fyodorovich, why don’t you ride with us. . . .
Yes, the Count took pleasure in his old friend’s romantic skirmish; but that is not to suggest that he didn’t feel the sting of envy.
Half an hour later, after the Count had sent Mishka off to a discussion on the future of meter