A Gentleman in Moscow Read Online Free

a seat as close as possible to the little table in the corner where young ladies of fashion met each morning to review the previous evening’s intrigues. Mindful of their surroundings, the three damsels would initially speak in the hushedvoices of gentility; but swept away by the currents of their own emotions, their voices would inevitably rise, such that by 11:15, even the most discreet enjoyer of a pastry would have no choice but to eavesdrop on the thousand-layered complications of their hearts.
    By 11:45, having cleaned his plate and brushed the crumbs from his moustaches, having waved a thanks to the girl behind the counter and tipped his hat to the three young ladies with whom he had briefly chatted, he would step back onto Tverskaya Street and pause to consider:
What next?
Perhaps he would stop by Galerie Bertrand to see the latest canvases from Paris, or slip into the hall of the Conservatory where some youthful quartet was trying to master a bit of Beethoven; perhaps he would simply circle back to the Alexander Gardens, where he could find a bench and admire the lilacs as a pigeon cooed and shuffled its feet on the copper flashing of the sill.
    On the copper flashing of the sill . . .
    â€œAh, yes,” acknowledged the Count. “I suppose there’s to be none of that.”
    If the Count were to close his eyes and roll to the wall, was it possible that he could return to his bench just in time to remark,
What a lovely coincidence
, when the three young ladies from Filippov’s happened by?
    Without a doubt. But imagining what might happen if one’s circumstances were different was the only sure route to madness.
    Sitting upright, the Count put the soles of his feet squarely on the uncarpeted floor and gave the compass points of his moustaches a twist.
    On the Grand Duke’s desk stood a champagne flute and a brandy snifter. With the lean uprightness of the former looking down upon the squat rotundity of the latter, one could not help but think of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza on the plains of the Sierra Morena. Or of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck in the shadows of Sherwood Forest. Or of Prince Hal and Falstaff before the gates of—
    But there was a knock at the door.
    The Count stood and hit his head against the ceiling.
    â€œOne moment,” he called, rubbing his crown and rummaging through his trunk for a robe. Once suitably attired, he opened the door to find an industrious young fellow standing in the hall with the Count’s daily breakfast—a pot of coffee, two biscuits, and a piece of fruit (today a plum).
    â€œWell done, Yuri! Come in, come in. Set it there, set it there.”
    As Yuri arranged the breakfast on top of the trunk, the Count sat at the Grand Duke’s desk and penned a quick note to one Konstantin Konstantinovich of Durnovksi Street.
    â€œWould you be so kind as to have this delivered, my boy?”
    Never one to shirk, Yuri happily took the note, promised to relay it by hand, and accepted a tip with a bow. Then at the threshold he paused.
    â€œShall I . . . leave the door ajar?”
    It was a reasonable question. For the room was rather stuffy, and on the sixth floor there was hardly much risk of one’s privacy being compromised.
    â€œPlease do.”
    As Yuri’s steps sounded down the belfry, the Count placed his napkin in his lap, poured a cup of coffee, and graced it with a few drops of cream. Taking his first sip, he noted with satisfaction that young Yuri must have sprinted up the extra three flights of stairs because the coffee was not one degree colder than usual.
    But while he was liberating a wedge of the plum from its pit with his paring knife, the Count happened to note a silvery shadow, as seemingly insubstantial as a puff of smoke, slipping behind his trunk. Leaning to his side in order to peer around a high-back chair, the Count discovered that this will-o’-the-wisp was none other than the Metropol’s