A Gentleman in Moscow

by Amor Towles

Thus, it is the opinion of this committee that you should be returned to that hotel of which you are so fond. But make no mistake: should you ever set foot outside of the Metropol again, you will be shot. Next matter.

The Premise Over the two decades that I was in the investment business, I travelled a good deal for my firm. Every year, I would spend a week at a time in the hotels of distant cities meeting with clients and prospects. In 2009, while arriving at my hotel in Geneva (for the eighth year in a row), I recognized some of the people lingering in the lobby from the year before. It was as if they had never left. Upstairs in my room, I began playing with the idea of a novel in which a man is stuck in a grand hotel. Thinking that he should be there by force, rather than by choice, my mind immediately leapt to Russia—where house arrest has existed since the time of the Tsars. In the next few days, I sketched out most of the key events of A Gentleman in Moscow; over the next few years, I built a detailed outline; then in 2013, I retired from my day job and began writing the book.

At half past six on the twenty-first of June 1922, when Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov was escorted through the gates of the Kremlin onto Red Square, it was glorious and cool.

Kazan Cathedral The first time I visited Russia was in the summer of 1998. I had travelled there with my high school English teacher, Richard Baker—the man with whom I first read Dostoevsky. While there, naturally we visited Red Square where the Kremlin, St. Basils Cathedral, and Kazan Cathedral are all located. I vividly remember standing together in the square and reading the history of Kazan Cathedral from our guidebooks. Built in 1636 to commemorate both the liberation of Moscow from interlopers and the beginning of the Romanov dynasty, Kazan was among Russia’s oldest and most revered cathedrals. In 1936, the Bolsheviks celebrated the 300th anniversary of its consecration by razing it to the ground. In part, they leveled the cathedral to clear Red Square for military parades, but also to punctuate the end of Christianity in Russia. When Peter Baranovsky, a prominent architect, was directed to oversee the dismantling of the cathedral, he initially refused on the grounds that the church was too important to destroy. But the powers that be made it clear that were to refuse to follow their instructions, he would put not only himself, but his family at risk. So Baranovsky did as he had been told. But before destroying the cathedral, he secretly drafted detailed architectural drawings of it and hid them away. More than fifty years later, when Communist rule came to its end, the Russians used Baranovsky’s drawings to rebuild the church stone for stone. I find every aspect of this history enthralling. The cathedral itself is a reminder of Russia’s heritage—ancient, proud, and devout. Through the holy landmark’s destruction we get a glimpse of how ruthless and unsentimental the Russian people can be generally, but specifically under Stalinism. While through the construction of its exact replica, we see their almost quixotic belief that through careful restoration, the actions of the past can effectively be erased. But most importantly, at the heart of this history is a Baranovsky—a lone individual who at great personal risk carefully documented what he was destroying in the unlikely chance that it might some day be rebuilt. The Soviet era abounds with sweeping cultural changes but also with stoic heroes who worked in isolation at odds with the momentum of history towards some hopeful future. While neither Kazan Cathedral nor Baranovsky play a role in A Gentleman in Moscow, their story influenced one of the novel’s central themes.

With eighty tables scattered around a marble fountain and a menu offering everything from cabbage piroghi to cutlets of veal, the Piazza was meant to be an extension of the city—of its gardens, markets, and thoroughfares. It was a place where Russians cut from every cloth could come to linger over coffee, happen upon friends, stumble into arguments, or drift into dalliances—and where the lone diner seated under the great glass ceiling could indulge himself in admiration, indignation, suspicion, and laughter without getting up from his chair.

The Metropol Opened in 1905, the Metropol Hotel is situated on Theatre Square in the historic heart of Moscow. Like the other grand hotels of the era (such as the Waldorf Astoria in New York and the Ritz in Paris), the Metropol set the standard in its city for luxury and service. It was the first hotel in Moscow to have hot water and telephones in the rooms, international cuisine in the restaurants, and an American bar off the lobby. Thus, within days of its opening, the Metropol became the preferred stomping ground not only for cosmopolitan travelers, but for glamorous and well-to-do Muscovites. But just twelve years later, the hotel found itself at the center of the Russian Revolution. For when the victorious Bolsheviks decided to move the capital of Russia back to Moscow (after 400 years in St. Petersburg), the city did not have the necessary infrastructure to house the new government. So, they seized the Metropol, threw out the guests, renamed it the Second House of the Soviets, and used it to house officials and various departments of the fledgling state. In fact, it was in Suite 217 of the Metropol that Yakov Sverdlov, the first chairman of the All-Russia Executive Committee, locked the constitutional drafting committee, vowing he wouldn’t turn the key until they’d finished their work. Within a measure of hours the committee reemerged with that document which officially heralded the victory of the Proletariat over the forces of privilege. Right then and there the Metropol’s existence as a grand hotel should have come to an end. But when the major European nations began restoring trade and diplomatic relations with Russia in the 1920s, the Bolsheviks realized that the hotels of Moscow were going to provide Western visitors with their first impression of the new nation. Should weary ambassadors or businessmen spend their visit in some austere hostel with shared bathrooms, humble furnishings, and limited services, they might draw the conclusion that Communism was failing! So, in order to signal success, the Bolsheviks found themselves kicking out the apparatchiks and restoring the Metropol to its original glory complete with uniformed bellhops in the lobby, silver service in the restaurants, and American jazz in the bar. Within a matter of years, “the Metropol was the new social center for the bourgeois colony,” recalled Eugene Lyons, the United Press’s Moscow correspondent in the early 1930s. “Its main restaurant was a Russian peasant’s dream of capitalist splendors—immense candelabra, oversized lights, heavy furniture, a jazz band of symphony orchestra proportions… The chief pride of the restaurant, its ultra-bourgeois touch, was a great circular pool where lights and rather proletarian-looking fishes played. On grand occasions, the chef in cap and apron emerged from his sanctum with a net over his shoulder and captured a fish for a special valuta [foreign currency] client. The dancing couples rotated around the pool, and sometimes an unsteady customer joined the fishes to the great delight of the assembled crowd…” Thus, during those initial decades of the Soviet Union, which were characterized for the citizenry by all manner of hardship, the Metropol earned a mystique of extravagance equal to that of the Waldorf or the Ritz—despite being around the corner from the Kremlin and a few blocks from the Lubyanka (the dreaded headquarters of the secret police). With its fine food, lavish entertainment, and liberal behavior, the hotel became something of an Oz in the popular imagination—a Technicolor paradise hidden in the midst of a black and white metropolis. Although, for this very reason, the hotel also became a popular trolling ground for the secret police who came in search of loose-lipped Westerners or compromised Russians.

The young man’s gaze drifted back and forth between these opposing hazards. But in a stroke of genius, he ordered the Latvian stew.

Latvian Stew In writing a novel, I work from an extensive outline that describes in detail the events of every chapter, the settings, and the psychological states of the characters. As a result, when I began composing the “Advent” chapter, I knew that the Count would visit the Piazza moved by memories of Christmases past; I knew that he would end up spying on a young man on a first date who, in choosing his entrée, risks appearing either unsophisticated or pretentious, yet makes an inspired selection; I knew that an inexperienced waiter would make an ill-advised wine recommendation and that the Count would intervene to save the day. I knew all of this as I started writing the chapter. What I didn’t know is what the young man was going to order. When I eventually got to the point when the young man is hesitating over his menu—on the verge of making his fateful decision—I turned to my own cooking for inspiration. What dish did I know that was situated between the Scylla of those lower-priced dishes (that might suggest a penny-pinching lack of flair) and the Charybdis of delicacies (that could empty one’s pockets while painting one as pretentious). After a few minutes of consideration, I knew it had to be the Latvian stew. In the twenty-four years that my wife and I have been together, we’ve split the cooking—each developing our own repertoire of family favorites. For my part, living in New York with a full time job in the investment field and two young children, I have always been on the lookout for a new stew to add to my roster. After all, a good stew has many advantages to the working family man: it’s a perfect winter comfort food, it generally doesn’t rely on seasonal ingredients, it can be made on Sunday afternoons, and served to the kids twice in a week without complaint! Irish stews, beef bourguignon, tajines, I’ve made them all with pleasure. But when I first ran across this recipe for a Latvian stew in Saveur magazine in 2005, I was pretty skeptical. In scanning over the ingredients, I saw that the dish included pork, onions, carrots, apricots, prunes, a little tomato paste and water—but that was it. How good could a stew be, I wondered, without any spices, wine, or stock? Putting my trust in Saveur, I marshaled on and discovered that the lack of spices, wine, and stock was part of the dish’s genius. The simplicity of the composition allows one to experience the surprisingly complex contribution of its quotidian elements. Or, as the Count observes: “The onions thoroughly caramelized, the pork slowly braised, and the apricots briefly stewed, the three ingredients come together in a sweet and smoky medley that simultaneously suggests the comfort of a snowed-in tavern and the jangle of a Gypsy tambourine.” Yes, the dish is unquestionably delicious, but I also prize it because it evokes for me the ingenuity of the country cook—who must make the most of what little remains in the larder in the depths of winter. While I design my narratives in great detail, there are always surprises that surface in the course of the writing. One good example is that in the outline of A Gentleman in Moscow I planned to have the Count observe this young couple order their stew and then head to the fine restaurant upstairs for a fancier meal. But as I was writing the scene, almost spontaneously, the Count decided to forgo herb-crusted lamb chops at the Boyarsky in favor of staying in the Piazza where he too could order a bowl of the Latvian stew. For those who venture to serve this wonderful dish, I’ll make three suggestions. First, make sure your pork shoulder or butt is reasonably fatty, so that you end up with fork tender meat. Make sure that you cook the onions until they are a deep golden brown (which means cooking them for much longer than you would normally cook onions in a stew), so that you get that smoky essence. And finally, despite the Count’s assurance that a Georgian wine is perfect for this meal, do not scramble about looking for one. Any good table wine will suit this dish to a T. You can find the recipe for the dish here: https://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Pork-Stew-with-Dried-Apricots-and-Prunes/

One night, returning from a party, the very thought of the Count’s precious little gesture was so infuriating that when she undressed she not only threw her red silk gown on the floor, she instructed her staff that it was not to be touched. Each night that followed, she dumped another outfit on the floor. Dresses and blouses of velvet and silk from London and Paris, the more expensive the better. Dumped here on the bathroom floor and there by the dustbin. In a word, wherever it suited her.

Anna Urbanova This scene, in which the tempestuous Anna Urbanova refuses to pick up her clothes, throws them out the window into the street, and then sheepishly sneaks out in the middle of the night to retrieve them, is drawn from events that played out between my parents shortly after their marriage. Although in their case, it was my mother who wouldn’t pick up her clothes and my father who threw them out the window. I’ll leave it to you to guess who went out in the middle of the night to pick them back up.

Let us concede that the early thirties in Russia were unkind.

Structure As you may have noted, A Gentleman in Moscow has a somewhat unusual structure. From the day of the Count’s house arrest, the chapters advance by a doubling principal: describing the events that occur one day later, then two days later, five days later, ten days, three weeks, six weeks, three months, six months, one year, two years, four years, eight years, and sixteen years to the day after his arrest. At this midpoint which occurs in 1938, a halving principal is initiated with the narrative leaping to eight years ahead, then four years, two years, one year, six months, three months, six weeks, three weeks, ten days, five days, two days, one day until the book’s conclusion. While somewhat unusual, I believe this accordion structure suits the story well, as readers get a very granular description of the early days of confinement; then they get to leap across time through eras defined by career, parenthood, and changes in the political landscape; and finally, readers get a reversion to urgent granularity as they approach the denouement. As an aside, I think this is very true to life, in that we remember so many events of a single year in our early adulthood, but then suddenly remember an entire decade as a phase of our career or of our lives as parents.

“Would you like to play a game?” he asked.

The Thimble Game and Zut! The thimble game that the Count plays with the young Sofia at Marina’s suggestion in the 1938 section of the book springs from my childhood. My great grandmother was a Boston Brahmin who lived until she was a hundred in a stately house in Brookline. When my cousins and I visited (in our little blue blazers), she would welcome us into her sitting room. After the appropriate amount of polite conversation, she would inform us that she had hidden several thimbles in the room and that whoever found one would receive a dollar—prompting a good deal of scurrying about to her satisfaction. In the 1952 section of the book, when Sofia is a young woman, the Count and she customarily play a very different game—the game of Zut! which they play while waiting for their dinner to be served in the Boyarsky. This is also a family game, but one that my wife and I invented to play with our young children under circumstances that were similar to the Count’s and Sofia’s. Which is to say, while waiting for dinner to be served. When my son was eight and my daughter five, their favorite restaurant in New York City was a small family-owned Italian spot called Paul & Jimmy’s. (It’s still one of their favorites). Once our order was placed, we would launch into a few rounds of Zut!, guaranteeing that the children remained glued to their seats as dinner was being prepared.

In the minutes that followed, once again the services of Sam Spade were enlisted by the alluring, if somewhat mysterious, Miss Wonderly. Once again, Spade’s partner was gunned down in an alley just hours before Floyd Thursby met a similar fate. And once again Joel Cairo, the Fat Man, and Brigid O’Shaughnessy, having surreptitiously joined forces, drugged Spade’s whiskey and headed for the wharf, their elusive quest finally within reach. But even as Spade was nursing his head, a stranger in a black coat and hat stumbled into his office, dropped a bundle to the floor, and collapsed dead on the couch!

Casablanca When I was in my early teens, there was a movie theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts which would show a different double feature every day. One day it would be two Marx Brothers movies, then two James Bonds, then two westerns, or two Hitchcocks, or two Audrey Hepburn films. For a period of years, I would often go there with my father to see one or both of the films, then we would eat knockwurst and red cabbage at a German restaurant around the corner called the Wurst Haus (long since gone). But out of all the double features, my father was particularly fond of the Bogart days when you could see some pairing of The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, To Have and to Have Not, Dark Passage, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and Casablanca. My father admired Bogart so much, that we had a large black and white framed poster of him at a café table hanging in our house. One of the biggest benefits of being a novelist is that you get to incorporate into your books various things that you like. (And why wouldn’t you?!) So, when I had the notion that Osip and the Count would study the West by watching and analyzing American films together, I immediately leapt to the films of Bogart as Osip’s favored course of study. In early drafts of the book, the most important film they watched together was The Maltese Falcon. Pages and pages were written in which they discussed the meanings of the film. But the pages simply weren’t working. Then like a flash, I realized that the movie they should be focused on was Casablanca. Of course, it was! For like the Metropol in the Soviet era, Rick’s café was an oasis in the middle in which an international crowd gathered to drink, listen to music, and forget their troubles. What’s more, in Casablanca Rick wears a white dinner jacket, just like the Count does when he’s waiting tables at the Boyarsky. As soon as I had the idea of shifting to Casablanca, I saw the potential for the critical role the movie might play in the book’s concluding pages…

On the sixth, Harrison Salisbury, the new Moscow bureau chief of The New York Times, stood in the Count’s old rooms (now occupied by the Mexican chargé d’affaires), to watch as members of the Presidium arrived in a cavalcade of ZIM limousines and as Soso’s coffin, taken from a bright blue ambulance, was borne ceremoniously inside.

Harrison Salisbury When I was a boy of ten, I threw a bottle with a note into the Atlantic Ocean near summer’s end. When we got home a few weeks later there was a letter waiting for me on New York Times stationery. It turned out that my bottle had been found by Harrison Salisbury, a managing editor of the Times and the creator of its Op-Ed page. He and I ended up corresponding for many years, and I eventually met him on my first visit to New York when I was seventeen. It so happens that Salisbury was the Moscow bureau chief for the Times from 1949 to 1954. A few colorful details in A Gentleman in Moscow spring from his memoirs; but he also makes a cameo at this point in the novel, and it is his fedora and trench coat that the Count steals to mask his escape.

AFTERWORD

My latest novel, The Lincoln Highway, will be out on 10/5: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/57109107-the-lincoln-highway