And it’s so pleasant hearing that, those words, as if Filin were a sultan and they truly were princes, Galya in her inexpensive coat and Yura in his jacket and knit cap.
And they floated in, the royal pair, chosen for one evening, into the warmth and light, the sweet piano trills, and proceeded to the table where the hothouse roses refuse to acknowledge the frost, wind, darkness that have besieged Filin’s impregnable tower, powerless to penetrate.
Something elusive is different in the apartment… ah, they see: the glass case with the beaded trifles has been moved, the candelabra has moved to the other wall, the arch leading to the back room is curtained, and moving that curtain aside… Alisa, the allegedly charming creature, comes out and offers her hand.
“Allochka.”
“Well, yes, she is Allochka, but we will call her Alisa, isn’t that right? Please, sit down,” said Filin. “Well, I recommend the pàté. A rarity. You know, pàtés like this…”
“I see you got it downstairs,” Yura said happily. “We go down. From the conquered heights. Even the gods descended’—isn’t that how it goes?”
Filin smiled thinly and twitched an eyebrow—to say maybe I got it downstairs and maybe I didn’t. You have to know everything, don’t you? Galya mentally kicked her husband for his tactlessness.
“Appreciate the tartlets,” Filin started anew. “I’m afraid that you are the last people to have them on this sinful earth.”
Tonight he called the pirozhki “tartlets” for some reason— probably because of Alisa.
“Why, what happened, have they stopped selling flour? On a global scale?” Yura was in good humor, rubbing his hands, his bony nose red in the heat. The tea gurgled.
“Nothing of the kind. What is flour?” Filin’s beard nodded.
“Some sugar, Galya…. What is flour? The secret is lost, my friends. The last person to know the ancient recipe is dying—I just got a call. Ninety-eight, a stroke. Try them, Alisa; may I pour you tea in my favorite cup?”
Filin’s gaze grew misty, as if hinting at the possibilities of special closeness that could result from such intimate contact with his beloved dishes. The charming Alisa smiled. What was so charming about her? Her black hair shone as if it were greased, a hook nose, mustache. Simple dress, knit, the color of a pickle. Big deal. Better women than she have sat here, and where were they now?
“And just think,” Filin was saying. “Just two days ago I ordered the tartlets from this Ignaty Kirillych. Just yesterday he baked them. Just this morning I got them, each wrapped in tissue paper. And now, a stroke. They called me from Sklifosovsky hospital.” Filin bit into a puff pastry bomb, raised his handsome brows, and sighed. “When still a lad, Ignaty worked at the Yar, and the old pastry chef Kuzma gave him the secret of these pastries on his deathbed. Just try them.” Filin wiped his beard. “And Kuzma had worked in Petersburg in his day at Wolf and Beranger—the famous pastry shop. They say that before his fatal duel, Pushkin dropped by Wolf’s and asked for tartlets. That day Kuzma was sleeping off a binge and hadn’t baked any. Well, the manager said, we don’t have any. These people are like that, Alexander Sergeyevich. Wouldn’t you like a bouchée? Or a cream horn? Pushkin got upset, waved his hat, and left. Well, you know what happened later. Kuzma overslept, and Pushkin is in his grave.”
“Oh, my god,” said Galya.
“Oh, yes. And do you know it had repercussions on everyone? Wolf shot himself. Beranger converted to Russian Orthodoxy, the manager donated thirty thousand to a religious institution, and Kuzma simply lost his mind. He kept muttering, ‘Oh, Alexander Sergeyevich…. You didn’t have my tartlets… If only you had waited a bit…’”
Filin tossed another pirozhok in his mouth and crunched. “However, that Kuzma lived to our day. He passed on the recipe to his students with shaking hands. Ignaty got the dough; someone else, the filling. Well, then came the revolution, the civil war. The one who knew the filling joined the Social Revolutionaries. Ignaty lost track of him. A few years later— Ignaty was still with the restaurant—something prompted him, he came out of the kitchen, and there at a table is that man with a lady. He’s got a monocle, a mustache—unrecognizable. Ignaty runs over to him as is, covered with flour. ‘Come with me, comrade.’ The man had no choice. White as a sheet, into the kitchen he went. ‘Bastard, tell me the meat filling.’ What could he do, his past could cause him trouble. He told. ‘Tell me the cabbage filling.’ He trembled, but he did it. And now the fish.’ That was absolutely top secret. He said nothing. Ignaty: ‘The fish!’ And he picked up his rolling pin. The man said nothing. Then suddenly he screamed and ran out. They chased him, tied him up, and looked at him—he’d lost his mind, he was rolling his eyes and foaming at the mouth. So the fish remained a secret. Yes… That Ignaty Kirillych was an interesting old man, so fastidious. How he felt puff pastry, what a feel for it!… He baked at home. He’d draw the curtains, double lock the door. I would say, ‘Ignaty Kirillych, dear man, share your secret, what’s it to you?’ but he wouldn’t budge. He kept waiting for a worthy recipient. And now the stroke… Try one.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the charming Alisa said. “How can I eat them now? I’m always so sorry for the last of anything…. My mother had a brooch before the war….”
“The last one, an accidental one!” sighed Filin and took another pirozhok.
“The last storm cloud,” Galya entered the game.
“The last of the Mohicans,” added Yura.
“No, my mother had this pearl brooch before the war….”
“Everything is transitory, dear Alisa,” Filin said, chewing in satisfaction. “Everything ages—dogs, women, pearls. Let us sigh over the fleeting nature of existence and thank the creator for giving us a chance to taste this and that at the feast of life. Eat and wipe your tears.”
“Perhaps he’ll regain consciousness, that Ignaty?”
“He can’t,” the host assured them. “Forget about it.”
They chewed. Music sang overhead. It was good.
“What new pleasures do you have?” Yura asked.
“Ah… I’m glad you reminded me. Wedgwood—cups and saucers. Creamer. See, blue on the shelf. Why I’ll just… Here…”
“Ah…” Galya touched the cup carefully with her finger— white carefree dances on a blue foggy meadow.
“Do you like it, Alisa?”
“Nice… Now before the war my mother had…”
“Do you know where I got it? Guess… From a partisan.”
“In what sense?”
“Just listen. It’s a curious story.” Filin made a tent with his fingers and looked lovingly at the shelf where the captive service sat cautiously, afraid of falling. “I was wandering around villages this fall with a rifle. I stopped by one hut. A man brought out some fresh milk for me. In a cup. I look—it’s real Wedgwood. How could it be? Well, we got to talking, his name is Uncle Sasha, I have the address somewhere… well, it doesn’t matter. Here’s what I learned. During the war he was a partisan in the woods. Early morning. German plane flying over. Bzzzzzzz,” Filin added an imitation. “Uncle Sasha looked up just when the pilot spat—right in his face. An accident, of course. But Uncle Sasha’s temper flared, naturally, he went bang with his gun—and hit the German. Also accidentally. The plane fell, they looked inside—five crates of cocoa, and the sixth had these dishes. He must have been delivering breakfast. I bought the set. The creamer is cracked, but that’s all right. Considering the circumstances.”
“Your partisan is a liar.” Yura was delighted, he looked around and slapped his thigh. “What a great liar. Fantastic!”
“Nothing of the sort.” Filin was not pleased. “Of course, I can’t rule out that he’s no partisan at all but just a vulgar little thief, but you know… somehow I prefer to believe.”