(at which Katerina from Kiev would presumably be in attendance), he headed to the Boyarsky, apparently destined to dine on duck alone. But just as he was leaving, Audrius beckoned.
Sliding a folded piece of paper across the bar, Audrius explained under his breath: “I was instructed to relay this to you.”
“To me? From whom?”
“Miss Urbanova.”
“Miss Urbanova?”
“Anna Urbanova. The movie star.”
Since the Count still showed no sign of understanding, the bartender explained a little more loudly: “The one who was sitting at that table across from you.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you.”
As Audrius returned to his work, the Count unfolded the piece of paper, which bore the following request in a willowy script:
Please allow me a second chance
at a first impression
in suite 208
When the Count knocked on the door of suite 208, it was opened by an older woman who regarded him with impatience.
“Yes?”
“I am Alexander Rostov. . . .”
“You’re expected. Come in. Miss Urbanova will be a moment.”
Instinctively, the Count prepared to offer the woman a witty remark about the weather, but when he stepped inside she stepped out and closed the door, leaving him alone in the entryway.
Decorated in the style of a Venetian palazzo, suite 208 was one of the finest accommodations on the floor and looked no worse for wear now that the tireless typers of directives had finally moved to the Kremlin. With a bedroom and drawing room on either side of a grand salon, its ceilings were painted with allegorical figures gazing down from the heavens. On an ornate side table stood two towering arrangements of flowers—one of calla lilies and the other of long-stemmed roses. The fact that the two arrangements matched each other in extravagance while clashing in color suggested they were from competing admirers. One could only imagine what a third admirer would feel obliged to send. . . .
“I’ll be right out,” called a voice from the bedroom.
“Take your time,” called back the Count.
At the sound of his voice, there was a light clacking of nails on the floor as the borzois appeared from the drawing room.
“Hello, boys,” he said, giving them another scratch behind the ears.
Having paid their respects, the dogs trotted to the windows overlooking Theatre Square and rested their forepaws on the sills in order to watch the movement of the cars below.
“Count Rostov!”
Turning, the Count found the actress dressed in her third outfit of the day: black pants and an ivory blouse. With the smile of an old acquaintance and her hand extended, she approached.
“I’m so pleased you could come.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Urbanova.”
“I doubt that. But please, call me Anna.”
Before the Count could reply, there was a knock at the door.
“Ah,” she said. “Here we are.”
Swinging the door open, she stepped aside to let Oleg from room service pass. When Oleg caught sight of the Count, he nearly ran his dinner cart into the competing arrangements of flowers.
“Perhaps over there by the window,” suggested the actress.
“Yes, Miss Urbanova,” said Oleg, who, having regained his composure, set a table for two, lit a candle, and backed out the door.
The actress turned to the Count.
“Have you eaten? I’ve been in two restaurants and a bar today and haven’t had a bite. I’m absolutely starving. Won’t you join me?”
“Certainly.”
The Count pulled back a chair for his hostess and, as he took his seat on the opposite side of the candle, the borzois looked back from their windows. Presumably, here was a scene that neither of the dogs could have anticipated earlier that day. But having long since lost interest in the fickle course of human affairs, they dropped to the floor and trotted back to the drawing room without a second glance.
The actress watched them retire a little wistfully.
“I confess that I am not a dog lover.”
“Then why do you have them?”
“They were . . . a gift.”
“Ah. From an admirer.”
She responded with a wry smile. “I would have settled for a necklace.”
The Count returned the smile.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Removing the silver dome from the serving plate, the actress revealed one of Emile’s signature dishes: whole bass roasted with black olives, fennel, and lemon.
“Lovely,” she said.
And the Count could not agree more. For by setting his oven to 450˚, Emile ensured that the flesh of the fish was tender, the fennel aromatic, and the lemon slices blackened and crisp.
“So, two restaurants and a bar without having a bite to eat . . .”
Thus began the Count, with the natural intention of letting the actress recount her