moment: a saltimbocca fashioned from necessity. In place of a cutlet of veal, Emile had pounded flat a breast of chicken. In place of prosciutto de Parma, he had shaved a Ukrainian ham. And in place of sage, that delicate leaf that binds the flavors together? He had opted for an herb that was as soft and aromatic as sage, but more bitter to the taste. . . . It wasn’t basil or oregano, of that the Count was certain, but he had definitely encountered it somewhere before. . . .
“How is everything this evening, Your Excellency?”
“Ah, Andrey. As usual, everything is perfect.”
“And the saltimbocca?”
“Inspired. But I do have one question: The herb that Emile has tucked under the ham—I know it isn’t sage. By any chance, is it nettle?”
“Nettle? I don’t believe so. But I will inquire.”
Then with a bow, the maître d’ excused himself.
Without a doubt Emile Zhukovsky was a genius, reflected the Count, but the man who secured the Boyarsky’s reputation for excellence by ensuring that all within its walls ran smoothly was Andrey Duras.
Born in the south of France, Andrey was handsome, tall, and graying at the temples, but his most distinguishing feature was not his looks, his height, or his hair. It was his hands. Pale and well manicured, his fingers were half an inch longer than the fingers of most men his height. Had he been a pianist, Andrey could easily have straddled a twelfth. Had he been a puppeteer, he could have performed the sword fight between Macbeth and Macduff as all three witches looked on. But Andrey was neither a pianist nor a puppeteer—or at least not in the traditional sense. He was the captain of the Boyarsky, and one watched in wonder as his hands fulfilled their purpose at every turn.
Having just led a group of women to their table, for instance, Andrey seemed to pull back their chairs all at once. When one of the ladies produced a cigarette, he had a lighter in one hand and was guarding the flame with the other (as if a draft had ever been felt within the walls of the Boyarsky!). And when the woman holding the wine list asked for a recommendation, he didn’t point to the 1900 Bordeaux—at least not in the Teutonic sense. Rather, he slightly extended his index finger in a manner reminiscent of that gesture on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling with which the Prime Mover transmitted the spark of life. Then, excusing himself with a bow, he crossed the room and went through the kitchen door.
But before a minute could pass, the door swung open again—and there was Emile.
Five foot five and two hundred pounds, the chef glanced quickly about the room then marched toward the Count with Andrey trailing behind. As he crossed the dining room, the chef knocked into a customer’s chair and nearly toppled a busboy with his tray. Coming to an abrupt stop at the Count’s table, he looked him up and down as one might measure an opponent before challenging him to a duel.
“Bravo, monsieur,” he said in a tone of indignation. “Bravo!”
Then he turned on his heels and disappeared back into his kitchen.
Andrey, a little breathless, bowed to express both apologies and congratulations.
“Nettle it was, Your Excellency. Your palate remains unsurpassed.”
Though the Count was not a man to gloat, he could not repress a smile of satisfaction.
Knowing that the Count had a sweet tooth, Andrey gestured toward the dessert cart.
“May I bring you a slice of plum tart with our compliments . . . ?”
“Thank you for the thought, Andrey. Normally, I would leap at the chance. But tonight, I am otherwise committed.”
Having acknowledged that a man must master his circumstances or otherwise be mastered by them, the Count thought it worth considering how one was most likely to achieve this aim when one had been sentenced to a life of confinement.
For Edmond Dantès in the Château d’If, it was thoughts of revenge that kept him clear minded. Unjustly imprisoned, he sustained himself by plotting the systematic undoing of his personal agents of villainy. For Cervantes, enslaved by pirates in Algiers, it was the promise of pages as yet unwritten that spurred him on. While for Napoleon on Elba, strolling among chickens, fending off flies, and sidestepping puddles of mud, it was visions of a triumphal return to Paris that galvanized his will to persevere.
But the Count hadn’t the temperament for revenge; he hadn’t the imagination for epics; and he certainly hadn’t