“Absinthe Robette,” said Audrius, tilting the bottle so that the Count could read the label. “But I’m afraid there’s only an ounce or two left.”
“It will have to do.”
The bartender emptied the bottle into a cordial glass.
“Thank you, Audrius. Please add it to my account.”
“No need. It is on Mr. Lyons.”
As the Count turned to go, an American who had commandeered the piano began performing a jaunty little number that celebrated a lack of bananas, a lack of bananas today. A moment later, all the journalists were singing along. On another night, the Count might have lingered to observe the festivities, but he had his own celebration to attend to. So with his precious cargo in hand, he navigated through the crowd of elbows, being careful not to spill a drop.
Yes, thought the Count as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, this evening the Triumvirate has its own cause for celebration. . . .
The Plan had been hatched almost three years before, springing from a wistful comment of Andrey’s, which had been echoed by Emile.
“Sadly, it’s impossible,” the maître d’ had lamented.
“Yes,” the chef had conceded with a shake of the head.
But was it?
All told, there were fifteen ingredients. Six of them could be plucked from the pantry of the Boyarsky at any time of year. Another five were readily available in season. The nut of the problem was that, despite the overall improvement in the general availability of goods, the last four ingredients remained relatively rare.
From the outset, it was agreed that there would be no skimping—no shortcuts or substitutions. It was the symphony or silence. So the Triumvirate would have to be patient and watchful. They would have to be willing to beg, barter, collude, and if necessary, resort to chicanery. Three times the dream had been within their grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment by unforeseen circumstances (once by mishap, once by mold, and once by mice).
But earlier that week, it seemed that the stars were wheeling into alignment once again. With nine elements already in Emile’s kitchen, four whole haddock and a basket of mussels meant for the National Hotel had been delivered to the Metropol by mistake. That was ten and eleven in a single stroke. The Triumvirate convened and conferred. A favor could be called in by Andrey, a swap negotiated by Emile, and Audrius approached by the Count. Thus, the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth ingredients. But the fifteenth? This would require access to a store with the rarest of luxuries—that is, one which served the highest members of the Party. A discreet inquiry was made by the Count of a certain actress with certain connections. And mirabile dictu, an unsigned envelope had been slipped under his door. With all fifteen ingredients now at hand, the Triumvirate’s patience was on the verge of being rewarded. Within the hour, they would once again experience that intricacy of flavors, that divine distillation, that impression as rich and elusive as—
“Good evening, comrade.”
The Count stopped in his tracks.
For a moment he hesitated. Then he slowly turned around—as from the shadows of an alcove the hotel’s assistant manager emerged.
Like his counterpart on the chessboard, the Bishop of the Metropol never moved along the rank or file. With him it was always on the bias: slipping diagonally from corner to corner, skirting past a potted plant, sliding through a crack in the door. One caught sight of him at the periphery of one’s vision, if one caught sight of him at all.
“Good evening,” replied the Count.
The two men took each other in from heel to hair—both practiced at confirming in a glance their worst suspicions of each other. Leaning a little to his right, the Bishop adopted an expression of idle curiosity.
“What do we have here . . . ?”
“What do we have where?”
“Why, there. Behind your back.”
“Behind my back?”
The Count slowly brought his hands in front of him and turned his palms upright to show that they were empty. The right upper corner of the Bishop’s smile twitched, turning it ever so briefly into a smirk. The Count reciprocated in kind and with a polite bow of the head turned to walk away.
“Headed to the Boyarsky . . . ?”
The Count stopped and turned back.
“Yes. That’s right. The Boyarsky.”
“Isn’t it closed . . . ?”
“It is. But I think I may have left my pen in Emile’s office.”
“Ah. The man of letters has lost his pen. Where is it now .