A German matron with a scarlet sash across her hefty bosom lifted her chin. “The Swiss envoy was telling us how he saved some villagers caught in an avalanche.” She turned her attention back to Johann. “Please continue.”
Countess Cassini would not permit it. “The hors d’oeuvres are getting cold, and the evening is planned to begin on the back terrace. If you will all follow me.” Her smile was tight as she lifted her bangle-covered arm to gesture the guests toward the interior of the embassy.
Disapproval crackled in the air as the matrons and dignitaries followed the young hostess through the winding hallways until they arrived at the courtyard, where a splashing fountain sat amid potted trees and rosebushes. The evening air was fragrant with roses and wisteria. Tiny lights were strung through the trees, and uniformed footmen circulated with flutes of champagne. Most impressive was the collection of white doves nesting in the trees. Their wings must have been clipped to prevent them from flying off, but the effect was spectacular.
A handful of guests were already here, including the Russian orthodox bishop in full regalia. Bishop Raphael’s cassock robes were trimmed with gold, and a black veil trailed from his towering, tube-shaped hat. With his bushy black beard and piercing eyes, the bishop was striking, but Natalia’s attention was riveted by the older man chatting with the bishop.
“That’s Mark Twain,” she whispered, gesturing to the man with shaggy white hair and a full mustache. “I once sent you his novelHuckleberry Finn.Do you remember?”
“I remember.” How could he forget? It was a good story but far too American for his taste.
Before he could say more, both the bishop and Mr. Twain noticed him staring and began heading their way. Bishop Raphael cut an imposing figure as he closed the distance between them, his robes swaying majestically as he walked.
“Count Sokolov, you are to be commended for your bravery in the face of an inhuman ordeal,” the bishop said. “Your courage is a worthy example for us all.”
The bishop then provided an introduction for Mr. Twain. Apparently, Twain and the bishop were old friends, having toured Sevastopol and Yalta together many years earlier. The two men reminisced about searching the rocky shores of the seaside town for relics of the Crimean War. They found nothing but had a marvelous time. They seemed an odd pair. Mr. Twain constantly smiled, while the bishop listened with a gloomy air. Then again, Dimitri and Natalia were an odd pair too.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the bishop excused himself to speak with the Danish king on the far side of the courtyard. Mr. Twain launched into another rousing story of his travels in Russia. Any time a man as colorful as Mark Twain spun tales, he attracted a crowd, and soon the wives of the German diplomats congregated around them.
“I lost my passport somewhere along the way,” Mr. Twain said. “For the rest of the trip I lived in a state of trembling anxiety, worried I was about to be found out and condemned to join the nameless hordes destined for oblivion in Siberia.” Mr. Twain raised his glass to Dimitri. “And I would not have had the wily Count Sokolov to lead me out of perdition.”
Dimitri flushed with pleasure. He was vain enough to enjoy the praise of America’s leading novelist and was about to add some of his own insights about Siberia when Countess Cassini inserted herself, along with a footman carrying a tray of delicacies.
“Would anyone care for some vorschmack?” she offered.
Hannah Schreiber, the German matron wearing a scarletsash, looked with curiosity at the tiny crackers topped with a meat paste. “What is vorschmack?” she asked in her heavily accented voice.
Instead of answering, the countess glanced at the footman and spoke in Russian. “Frau Schreiber’s husband used to be an accountant, so perhaps her ignorance is to be expected. It’s a pity I didn’t ask the cook to prepare boiled cabbage.” Then she pasted an overly sweet smile on her face and reverted to English. “It is a delicacy made from minced lamb and caviar. It may not be to your taste.”
Dimitri glared at the countess, and even the footman looked embarrassed, but Frau Schreiber gamely sampled a bit of vorschmack. Apparently she didn’t appreciate the delicacy, because she excused herself to fetch a glass of water, and the countess soon left as well.
Mark Twain watched the interchange with ill-concealed delight. “What did the countess say?”
Dimitri thought carefully before responding. “She had some pointed observations about German cuisine.”
“Ha!” the older man exclaimed. “That fiendish girl will be the font of literary inspiration for decades. I came tonight specifically to watch the matrons of Washington cringe in her wake. She is too outrageously fabulous not to be immortalized on the page.”
Dimitri had no interest in that awful girl but wouldn’t mind discussing literature. “I had a chance to readThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. You are to be congratulated. The story was quite good, but I think it would have been better had the boy died in the end.”
Natalia choked on a cracker, but Mr. Twain seemed intrigued. “You think so?” he asked. “Tell me why.”
It ought to be obvious to any serious literary artist, but Dimitri explained anyway. “It would have solidified his heroism. He came through many challenges with wit and ingenuity, but in order to prove his heroic stature, he must be willing to die for a cause. This is true in all the great Russian stories.”
“I’m not Russian,” Mr. Twain said.
Dimitri raised his glass with a smile. “A pity. It is the only thing standing between you and literary greatness.”
Mr. Twain warmed to the challenge. “According to your logic, you should be dead by now. Allow me to rewrite the ending of your adventure. You would have staggered into Port Arthur and then, with the last of your strength, sent a desperate telegram to the rest of the world announcing your findings. A lovely Russian maiden would have noticed your suffering and taken you under her wing to heal you, but alas! You were too far gone. With your last bit of strength, you would have proclaimed love for the girl, then let death claim you as the sun rises on another Russian morning.”
“Ah, but my story isn’t finished yet,” Dimitri said. “I have yet to secure a full restoration of my honor from the czar, so perhaps all is not yet lost. I may still have the opportunity to enjoy a tragic fate.”
Mr. Twain’s laugh came from deep in his belly, and he asked to be seated opposite Dimitri and Natalia at dinner. It caused a ruckus with the seating arrangements, and the young countess fumed because the last-minute adjustment stuck her next to the grim Russian bishop.
The dinner lasted until midnight, followed by more drinks and conversation in the courtyard. Each course of the meal had been paired with its own wine, so like most of the other guests, Dimitri had sampled a Bordeaux from France, a fine German riesling that tasted like distilled sunlight, a hazelnut liqueur produced by Italian monks, and the finest Russian saperavi wine from the hills near the Black Sea. A haze of well-being enveloped him as he escorted Natalia to the courtyard. Goodwill and comradery abounded among the three dozen guests from across the world who gathered in this enchanted moonlit garden.
No wonder state dinners such as these were a staple of diplomacy. They were essential in building trust and friendship among the elites who ruled the nations of the world. The bonhomiewas alive and vibrant tonight. The king of Denmark prodded Mark Twain to compose extemporaneous poetry, the German diplomatic corps played with the countess’s French spaniels, and the Swiss delegation jested with the Canadians about when they would break free of the British Empire.
All Dimitri could see was Natalia, and his chest ached at the sight of her. Would this be all they had? A few fleeting weeks of joy before he returned home? Natalia was no country mouse, but perhaps she could find happiness at Mirosa. Without a doubt she had the ability to navigate the royal palaces of Saint Petersburg. Even now he enjoyed listening to her converse with guests on everything from Renaissance sculpture to the politics of the Suez Canal.
