“Ah, Andrey. It’s about your new man. I’m quite familiar with him from his work downstairs. And in that venue I suppose a certain lack of experience is to be tolerated, or even expected. But here at the Boyarsky . . .”
The Count opened both hands to gesture toward the hallowed room and then looked to the maître d’ with an expectation of understanding.
No one who knew Andrey in the slightest would ever describe his demeanor as gay. He was not some barker at a carnival, or an impresario of light entertainments. His position as the maître d’ of the Boyarsky called for judiciousness, tact, decorum. So the Count was quite accustomed to Andrey having a solemn expression. But in all his years of dining at the Boyarsky, he had never seen Andrey appear this solemn.
“He was promoted at the instruction of Mr. Halecki,” explained the maître d’ quietly.
“But why?”
“I am not certain. I presume he has a friend.”
“A friend?”
Uncharacteristically, Andrey shrugged.
“A friend with influence. Someone within the Table Servers Union, perhaps; or at the Commissariat of Labor; or in the upper echelons of the Party. These days, who can tell?”
“My sympathies,” said the Count.
Andrey bowed in gratitude.
“Well, you certainly can’t be held accountable if they foist the fellow upon you; and I will adjust my expectations accordingly. But before you go, can you do me a small service? For some incomprehensible reason, he will not let me order my wine. I was just hoping to get a bottle of the San Lorenzo Barolo to accompany the osso buco.”
If such a thing could be imagined, Andrey’s expression grew even more solemn.
“Perhaps you should come with me. . . .”
Having followed Andrey across the dining room, through the kitchen, and down a long, winding stair, the Count found himself in a place that even Nina had never been: the wine cellar of the Metropol.
With its archways of brick and its cool, dark climate, the Metropol’s wine cellar recalled the somber beauty of a catacomb. Only, instead of sarcophagi bearing the likenesses of saints, receding into the far reaches of the chamber were rows of racks laden with bottles of wine. Here was assembled a staggering collection of Cabernets and Chardonnays, Rieslings and Syrahs, ports and Madeiras—a century of vintages from across the continent of Europe.
All told, there were almost ten thousand cases. More than a hundred thousand bottles. And every one of them without a label.
“What has happened!” gasped the Count.
Andrey nodded in grim acknowledgment.
“A complaint was filed with comrade Teodorov, the Commissar of Food, claiming that the existence of our wine list runs counter to the ideals of the Revolution. That it is a monument to the privilege of the nobility, the effeteness of the intelligentsia, and the predatory pricing of speculators.”
“But that’s preposterous.”
For the second time in an hour, the unshrugging Andrey shrugged.
“A meeting was held, a vote was taken, an order was handed down. . . . Henceforth, the Boyarsky shall sell only red and white wine with every bottle at a single price.”
With a hand that was never meant to serve such a purpose, Andrey gestured to the corner, where beside five barrels of water a confusion of labels lay on the floor. “It took ten men ten days to complete the task,” he said sadly.
“But who on earth would file such a complaint?”
“I am not certain; though I have been told it may have originated with your friend. . . .”
“My friend?”
“Your waiter from downstairs.”
The Count looked at Andrey in amazement. But then a memory presented itself—a memory of a Christmas past when the Count had leaned from his chair to correct a certain waiter’s recommendation of a Rioja to accompany a Latvian stew. How smugly the Count had observed at the time that there was no substitute for experience.
Well, thought the Count, here is your substitute.
With Andrey a few paces behind him, the Count began walking the cellar’s center aisle, much as a commander and his lieutenant might walk through a field hospital in the aftermath of battle. Near the end of the aisle, the Count turned down one of the rows. With a quick accounting of columns and shelves, the Count determined that in this row alone, there were over a thousand bottles—a thousand bottles virtually identical in shape and weight.
Picking up one at random, he reflected how perfectly the curve of the glass fit in the palm of the hand, how perfectly its volume weighed upon the arm. But inside?