at a very interesting juncture. We have had open diplomatic relations with the French and British for seven years, and there is talk that we will soon have them with the Americans. Since the time of Peter the Great, we have acted the poor cousin of the West—admiring their ideas as much as we admired their clothes. But we are about to assume a very different role. Within a matter of years, we will be exporting more grain and manufacturing more steel than any other country in Europe. And we are leaps ahead of them all in ideology. As a result, for the first time, we are on the verge of taking our rightful place on the world stage. And when we do so, it will behoove us to listen with care and speak with clarity.”
“You would like to learn French and English.”
Osip raised his glass in confirmation.
“Yes, sir. But I don’t simply want to learn the languages. I want to understand those who speak them. And most especially, I would like to understand their privileged classes—for that’s who remains at the helm. I would like to understand how they view the world; what they are likely to count as a moral imperative; what they would be prone to value and what to disdain. It’s a matter of developing certain diplomatic skills, if you will. But for a man in my position, it is best to foster one’s skills . . . discreetly.”
“How do you propose that I help?”
“Simple. Dine with me once a month in this very room. Speak with me in French and English. Share with me your impressions of Western societies. And in exchange . . .”
Glebnikov let his sentence trail off, not to imply the paucity of what he could do for the Count, but rather to suggest the abundance.
But the Count raised a hand to stay any talk of exchanges.
“If you are a customer of the Boyarsky, Osip Ivanovich, then I am already at your service.”
Absinthe
As the Count approached the Shalyapin at 12:15, what emanated from this onetime chapel of prayer and reflection was a sound that would have been unthinkable ten years before. It was a sound characterized by fits of laughter, a mélange of languages, the bleat of a trumpet, and the clinking of glasses—in other words, the sound of gay abandon.
What development could have brought about such a transformation? In the case of the Shalyapin, there were three. The first was the rather breathless return of the American musical form known as jazz. Having squelched the craze on the grounds of its intrinsic decadence, in the mid-1920s the Bolsheviks had begun to countenance it again. This was presumably so that they could study more closely how a single idea can sweep the globe. Whatever the cause, here it was zipping and zinging and rat-a-tat-tatting on its little stage at the back of the room.
The second development was the return of foreign correspondents. In the aftermath of the Revolution, the Bolsheviks had ushered them straight to the door (along with divinities, doubts, and all the other troublemakers). But correspondents are a wily bunch. Having stashed their typewriters, crossed the border, changed their clothes, and counted to ten, they began slipping back into the country one by one. So in 1928, the Foreign Press Office was opened anew on the top floor of a six-story walk-up conveniently located halfway between the Kremlin and the offices of the secret police—a spot that just happened to be across the street from the Metropol. Thus, on any given night you could now find fifteen members of the international press in the Shalyapin ready to bend your ear. And when there were no listeners to be found, they lined up at the bar like gulls on the rocks and squawked all at once.
And then there was that extraordinary development of 1929. In April of that year, the Shalyapin suddenly had not one, not two, but three hostesses—all young, beautiful, and wearing black dresses hemmed above the knee. With what charm and elegance they moved among the patrons of the bar, gracing the air with their slender silhouettes, delicate laughter, and hints of perfume. If the correspondents at the bar were inclined to talk more than they listened, in an instance of perfect symbiosis the hostesses were inclined to listen more than they talked. In part, of course, this was because their jobs depended upon it. For once a week, they were required to visit a little gray building